Copyright © 2024 Max Robbins

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Library of Congress Control Number: 1-13752837161

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. Life on the Farm

2. Nils

3. Lincoln County

4. Divine Rituals

5. Max follows instructions

6. Nils and the Bant

7. Max on Anubidia

8. Departure

9. The Noble Flower

10. Belated Rendezvous

11. Emissary to the Void

12. A Talk with God

13. New Surroundings

14. Friends and foes

15. Only the good die young

16. Escape and Pursuit

17. Capture and rescue

18. Romance and Revelations

19. Perspective

20. Extraction

21. Anubia Trois

22. Choices

Appendix A

Appendix B

Appendix C

About the Author

For my Mom: Jeri Robbins.

Who taught me books could take you anywhere.

Naked is the expensive part of a singularity.

Any hack can crush shit together fast enough to break gravity

but getting it done clean takes a pro

and getting it done with quantum symmetry

well that requires a god

- NILS VERIN

I reckon I’ve got about ninety seconds to live. Some might call this a predicament. Me? I call it Thursday.

I’ve got a laundry list of absurdly complex things to pull off, and I’ve got to do them fast. Now that I’m nestled in the access control center for the Grav Capacitor, time isn’t just money—it’s relative. What’s that story about a pretty girl and a hot stove again?

Never mind, Nils, focus.

This Grav Capacitor? It’s akin to memory, the type that can cram the computational might of several galaxies between the nooks and crannies of negative space.

The Grav control center looms around me, a labyrinth of circuits and shadows. It took a year of stolen moments and fractured sleep to breach this fortress—more time than I could afford. And now, with everything crumbling, I have seconds to act. Odds? They’ve never been in my favor.

Breezing through the physical security was child’s play. I had to clone myself into a quantum unit that was benched for maintenance. A hijacked upgrade code was my golden ticket into the maintenance bay. This hack, it spoofed the network address, tricking the device into loading my code—complete with my quantum DNA signature—instead of the scheduled update.

With my essence safely encased, the quantum unit resumed its duties within the Grav complex’s innards.

From there, it was just a matter of gathering the materials needed to construct a new me.

That little endeavor ate up the first year.

Soul? Technology’s got a pretty firm grasp on that now.

Sentience? It emerges from complexity. Ramp up the complexity, and voilà, consciousness.

My consciousness, it’s got a quantum signature, unique as a fingerprint. Only one unique instance can exist at any given point in time because the universe—or, our interpretation of it—only acknowledges a single instance of any given signature.

Instantiating a new me while axing the old one, or as I prefer to frame it, orchestrating my own demise at a precise nanosecond, hinging on a cascade of remote events to align quicker than the blink of an eye.

Finally there is chaos mechanics, the universe’s final jest. Perfect timing be damned, there’s always a slim chance the observers might stick with the “me” that’s supposed to be history.

Timing is everything, but sometimes, luck steals the spotlight.

So, infiltrating the Grav complex took a year. The real challenge? Gaining the Grav Capacitor’s approval. This thing, it’s picky about who it chats with. Marian Mandelbrot Yosmen, the brain behind the Grav capacitor and a legend in Cynoptian research, locked it to her quantum signature eons ago. It’s on me to convince it I’m her.

Enter my secret weapon; two quantum entangled naked singularities, hidden in my so-called “naked ring.” It houses my custom universes, and collection of all the lives one could live, each decision forking into new futures, each with their own universe. Inside this ring, two black holes, perfectly balanced and quantum entangled, reside in a pocket dimension where conventional size metrics are laughable. I’ve loaded it with a myriad of Marian’s potential lives, a universe tailored with an intricate set of paths.

Consciousness, I’ve come to realize, is the only force that can breach the event horizon.

Each time the Grav Capacitor asks for ID, I offer it a slice of Marian’s life from within the ring.

Simple, right? Except for the minor detail of Marian’s trap—a series of what-if scenarios, answerable only through direct experience in her possible lives. Even she couldn’t predict the answers to the deeply personal questions that might crop up across her alternate existences. Could you?

What she could do, was live out every conceivable variant of her life until she stumbled upon the answers.

So here I am, projecting my consciousness into the ring, fast-forwarding through time, trying to buddy up with Marian or coax out the answers directly.

After roughly eight thousand years of this relative time ballet, my accuracy’s plummeting.

And now, the Grav Capacitor shifts gears. It seems it doesn’t need to wait for my accuracy to hit rock bottom; just hovering below .05% for too long triggers a secondary security protocol.

Chaos unfolds. The Capacitor doesn’t kick me out; instead, it tightens its grip, trapping me. I can sense the scans firing up, trying to figure out who—or what—I am. And then, the pain hits, clouding my thoughts. It starts severing my cerebral links, and I’m losing a grip on who I am. This is it, the end. Panic takes hold.

Out of nowhere, the relic speaks up, offering a way out. “Would you like out of this?” it asks.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” I blurt out, desperate for any lifeline.

“Surrender control of your mind to me,” it demands.

I’m hit with a wave of genuine fear, the kind that cuts deep. Dying? I can handle that. But relinquishing control? That’s a whole different level of terror.

“There has to be another way,” I protest, though my voice cracks, betraying my dwindling hope.

As I scream silently, surrendering whatever’s left of me to the relic, I find myself detached, observing from the outside. I’m executing commands I don’t fully comprehend, at the mercy of the relic’s calm directives.

Then, the dimensional pocket collapses, exposing the naked singularities to this universe. The relic commands, and I watch, helpless, as my actions set off a chain reaction.

Everything turns white.

Had I been there to witness it, the implosion would’ve been a sight to behold.

The orbital grav center and its inhabitants, Kagama Deux, and its billions, all obliterated in an instant.

Neighboring planets and a star follow suit, crushed into oblivion, dancing towards the singularity’s embrace for eternity.

Boredom clings to Max like the humid summer air, thick and inescapable. This nowhere town isn’t the end of the world, but it’s close enough to feel its pull. He glances at the horizon, yearning for anything beyond the fields and fences.

Misha, his cat named for a childhood attempt at “Monsieur,” shuffled across the room, her whiskers finding their target with pinpoint accuracy; his nose. The shock sends him flying out of bed, launching the cat on a screeching journey into his pile of his childhood stuffed animals. A pink cow and bull topple like dominoes, while Sharky the shark meets his demise face-first in the carpet.

“Dammit, cat,” Max mutters, rubbing his nose. “How does she always get me right in the brain?” 

Misha, unfazed, begins her figure-eight dance – the universal feline demand for breakfast. He glances at the clock, 4:59 am. As usual, awake just before the alarm’s shrill cry. Today is his turn for milk duty, a chore he’s performed every day, twice a day, since they moved to this backward religious wasteland. Always awake before the alarm, he silences its impending shriek with practiced ease.

He stumbles around for socks, finally forcing open the contraption that serves as his door. One of his father’s “charity cases,” a perpetually half-drunk carpenter, had “fixed” it. The result was a block of wood that fits so snug, it required Herculean effort to open. For some unknown reason, the architect of this disaster thought a handle would ruin the aesthetic, so Max spends precious seconds every morning prying it open with his fingertips.

Emerging into the darkness, the only light comes from the flickering flame of the coal furnace. The air is thick with the smell of fuel, a constant companion in his basement tomb. He navigates the space in darkness, his head bowed against the low rafters, a habit ingrained from years of avoiding bumps.

Reaching the furnace, he lifts the metal cover to the coal chamber. As expected, it is nearly empty. The trick is never to let the fire die. But it often does, thanks to his forgetful family, resulting in a cloud of smoke that chokes the entire house.

Misha meows impatiently, and Max scratches her behind the ears in that secret spot that melts any cat’s heart. She purrs contentedly, weaving between his legs as he shovels coal with practiced ease. He imagines, with enough pressure and time, these black lumps can become diamonds. A fortune hidden in the basement. All he needs is a few million years and pounds of pressure.

He closes the chamber and makes his way back to the light. A brief moment of unease always grips him before he turns it off. The washing room and canning room lay to his right, beyond the open window in the corner, the unfinished section of the house looms like a dark maw. It always makes him uneasy, despite the stuffed animals lining his room like sentries.

He climbs the stairs, greeted by the familiar stench of cow manure clinging to the boots and coveralls hanging in the entryway. He slips on yesterday’s Levi’s, complete with knee holes, a faded T-shirt, and heavy rubber boots. July is no time for coveralls.

Opening the front door, Misha slips between his legs. Patch, his dingo dog, named for the black patch around his eye, emerges from the firewood pile, alert and ready to herd.

“Morning, pup, Max greeted, scratching his chin.

The tail wags furiously, while Misha ignores him entirely. Their longstanding mutual dislike often escalating to physical altercations, as evidenced by the scratches on Patch’s nose. They have settled into an uneasy truce, avoiding each other like wary gunslingers.

The pre-dawn air holds a promise of heat, a coming storm brewing in the electric silence. Max walks towards the new barn, built in the families second year of struggle. He stands in the center, surrounded by cows, their udders at eye level. With practiced ease, he opens and closes the stalls, using a feed system that lures the cows in from the holding pen.

The radio, a constant source of contention with his father, blares country music. He tunes the dial, catching snippets of distant stations before settling on the classic rock of Magic Valley. The DJ’s voice drones on about a ZZ Top concert, a spark igniting in Max’s chest. Maybe he and his brother Mike can go.

He checks the bulk tank, ensuring the exit valve is closed. The air hangs heavy with the smell of milk, a constant reminder of their labor. After several checks – drain closed, agitators working, milk pipes secured – he walks into the holding pen. Patch meets him there, ready for action.

The pen, a rectangle of despair under the vast Idaho sky, holds 180 cows crammed together like sardines in a can. The smell of manure clings to Max’s clothes, an ever-present perfume of his life. He remembers the winter day his hand froze to the metal gate, the desperate pee under his coveralls to free it. Scars remain, not just on his skin, but etched on his soul.

Patch, a whirlwind of fur and fury, rounds up the cows with practiced ease, their moos echoing like the moans of the damned. Max walks back into the barn, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the promise of milk. He descends the ladder, the radio blasting Def Leppard – his brother’s music, forced upon him like a bad habit. He hums along, words memorized against his will, a soundtrack to his captivity.

Six cows enter the stalls, the rhythm of milking etched into his muscle memory. Spray, wipe, attach – a dance repeated 180 times, a ballet of boredom punctuated by the occasional kick or the sting of sour milk. Time blurs, his mind drifting to dusty sci-fi novels and the escape they offer. When the last cow exits, he felt a strange sense of accomplishment, a hollow victory in this daily war against monotony.

Cleaning the barn is a symphony of suds and disinfectant, the stench of their labor clinging to the air. He finishes and fills a bucket with warm milk, the purrs of feral cats his only audience. He has a system for taming them, a homemade trap woven from twine and desperation. Each purr was a tiny victory, a reminder of the connection he craved beyond this isolated farm.

Feeding the calves brings a brief respite. Their clumsy nudges, like the affection he misses, warms him despite the threat of a misplaced hoof. As the clock ticked towards eight, he washes the buckets, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of regret. Thirty minutes until school, a temporary escape from this suffocating life.

The sun crests the horizon, casting long shadows that stretch like accusing fingers across the land. It would be a hot day, and soon Max thought, wiping the sweat from his brow. He closes the barn door, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders like the approaching storm. The cows moo, Patch whines, and Misha rubs against his leg, a purring reminder of the life he longs for, the life that seems just beyond his reach, shimmering like a mirage in the desert heat.

Prometheus had balls

- NILS VERIN

Nils nods absently along with the liturgy, his mind only half-engaged. The speaker’s voice drones on, a familiar rhythm that has long since lost its ability to command his attention. Around him, the room buzzes with muted energy, a congregation of Archanists and Shadowfolk. Their presence, their postures, their quiet movements—each detail should be cataloged, studied, prepared for. But Nils finds his focus slipping.

He should be paying attention. He knows this. If his father were here, he would not only notice the lapse but make him regret it. The thought crosses his mind, but without the sting it usually carries. He’s not here. He’ll never be here again, Nils reminds himself, the finality of it no longer cutting as it once did. Still, it leaves behind a hollow weight.

Could I have done something? The question lingers, heavy as the air in this chamber. Nils shifts his gaze, focusing on the Shadowfolk’s quiet movements, their precision a reminder of the choices he failed to make. Somewhere, he thinks, there must have been a single moment to change everything. But where?

Nils exhales slowly, forcing the thought down. It doesn’t matter. The Runebinders saw to that. The memory of their cold efficiency prickles at the edges of his mind. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. His father, discarded with the same indifference one might scrape mud from their boots.

The speaker’s voice fades further into the background as his gaze drifts across the gathering. Archanists in shimmering cloaks designed to obscure and distract. Shadowfolk moving with quiet purpose, their attire practical and subtle, every detail serving a function. The illusionists on the outskirts, their holographic bracelets a silent reminder of the power in misdirection. He should be analyzing them, taking mental notes, but instead, his thoughts drift elsewhere.

The old man’s shop under the Alley of Respondent Shadows. The memory rises vividly, a place he could retreat to, where the mechanical hum of relays and the sharp scent of oil filled the air. He aches to be back there, fine-tuning circuits, finding comfort in the predictable precision of machinery. One more run through the relays, he thinks. One more chance to get it right.

The failures of the previous day gnaw at him. He’d tossed and turned all night, replaying every detail, every choice, convinced he’d missed something. This morning brought clarity, as it often does. A negative relay, he thinks, his mind locking onto the possibility. It has to be. There’s no other way to generate the kind of reverberation needed for a Becton field. The certainty feels like a small victory, but it’s fleeting, lost in the present moment where none of it matters.

The ritual will start soon, and with it, the weight of duty will press down on him again. He knows he could perform it in his sleep—it’s second nature now. Yet, the familiarity of it only sharpens the ache of what he’s lost. His father. The shop. The life he can’t return to. Nils straightens slightly, forcing his focus back to the present, though the longing lingers, a quiet undercurrent that never quite leaves him.

“We embrace the shadow,” the leader speaks

“and the shadow embraces us,” he murmurs effortlessly.

His mind clears, and he finds himself back in The Spire of Infinite Facades, shuffling amongst the other Shadowfolk. They elegantly expand outward in a well-practiced dance until each finds their own space of approximately two square meters.

A single pure note rings out from the singing bowl, and his consciousness shifts as his body moves into the ritual. Sudden chaotic movements erupt from him, with frenetic changes in tempo, erratic and unpredictable.

 “Sinni gargo, expiritus, movitum,” the words flow from his lips, a complex myriad of tech jargon and runic phrases, conjuring images of the battle between chaos and order in his mind.

Initially, each movement appears random, as chaotic as the sounds emanating from his lips. However, he begins to perceive the order beneath the chaos, focusing his mind to counter the order, to fight the predictable, and to rend the entropy, to break the chains!

In these moments, he feels truly alive. He surrenders completely to the ritual, channeling all his emotion and purpose into the sounds and movements, his awareness receding until he becomes one with the movements, in perfect communion with his god—a god with whom he has a personal connection, who knows him and has seen what is special inside him. Not metaphorically, as the Archaists’ might suggest, but tangibly, in flesh and blood and purpose.

Max’s Scirocco sits parked in the driveway, parked behind the lineup of family vehicles. With the precision of a seasoned mechanic, he pops the hood and retrieves an extension cord, connecting it to a light nestled among the engine’s innards. In the biting cold of Idaho’s mountainous winters, this makeshift warmer is the only thing standing between the engine and the icy grip of the morning freeze.

Inside the house, the entry room stands as a testament to farm life, its air thick with the scent of cow manure clinging to coveralls and boots. Here, under the strict edict of his mother, the ritual of shedding the day’s workwear unfolds. Max complies, stripping down to his basics before retreating to his basement sanctuary for school attire.

Ahead of the household’s morning stir, Max embraces the solitude of an early shower. The day awaits, its start marked by a thirty-minute drive that stretches out before him, a familiar path he traverses with the ease of rote memory. Yet, in his mind, it’s a battlefield, where each curve in the road is a stealth mission, each hill a covert operation against imaginary foes.

The transition from pavement to gravel marks a shift in his journey, the dirt road beneath his wheels a canvas for his driving prowess. Here, Max indulges in the thrill of the fishtail, mastering the chaos of skidding dirt and gravel with a deftness borne of countless hours of practice.

Emerging onto the pavement of MIA-Memorial Highway, Max breathes a sigh of relief, the solid ground beneath him a welcome change from the rugged terrain of the dirt road. Yet, the specter of Lincoln County’s sole law enforcement officer, dubbed Enus, looms large in his rearview mirror. Today, though, the path is clear, and Max seizes the moment, pushing his car to its limits as Dead Man’s Curve looms ahead.

Richfield materializes on the horizon, its water tower standing as a silent sentinel over a town caught in a bygone era. Here, at Richfield High School, Max navigates the social hierarchy and academic challenges with a detachment, his intellect setting him apart from the mundane concerns of his peers.

In Mrs. Furtado’s math class, Max’s arrival disrupts the monotony, his presence barely acknowledged yet subtly accommodated. Seated next to Emilia Simpson, the object of unattainable affection and academic rivalry, he settles into the routine, only to be summoned away by a note, a familiar escape from the constraints of the classroom.

Tasked with troubleshooting the school’s temperamental Tandy computers, Max finds freedom in the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The reading room awaits, its cozy confines offering a brief respite from the day. Yet, as Max sets about his task, the computer springs to life with an unexpected plea for help, a message that cuts through the solitude blinking on the monochrome screen; “I NEED YOUR HELP MAX.”

It has taken Nils several days to come up with the items for his father’s Skuggaflétturinn Rún. He had chosen a small knife that his father always kept behind his right interior thigh to represent the warrior. A copy of *Meditations on the Shadow Soul* to represent the scholar and a small set of spectacles that changed the color of the eyes to represent the trickster. He held these items gently wrapped in his father’s favorite shawl. He could feel the slight buoyancy of the shawl in his hands as it attempted to mutate slowly, appearing as different materials, colors, and states of wear beneath his fingertips. He remembered fondly the family outing when he accompanied his mother to the hidden markets to buy it. A gift for the night of lights—a time and a feeling he briefly wondered if he would ever know again.

His own robe shimmering in the frequency of the buildings surrounding the ritual grounds. If seen from above, he would be gradually fading in and out of view against the background of the building and underfoot lighting. The Arcanist came slowly up on his left side with its typical genderless movements and veiled robe in stark contrast to his own. Together, they moved to the central dais.

Nils turns to face the Arcanist and, in a loud clear voice, speaks, “Rune Vefur.”

The Arcanist returns the greeting in kind.

Nils turns to the gathered people and asks, “I am not alive, yet I grow; I have no lungs, yet I need air; I have no mouth, yet I can drown. What am I?”

Nils continues to ask the riddles, each one a representation of his father’s life, until each has been answered by a member of the assembly. He then leads the remaining people into the Hall of Mirrors.

As he does so, the Arcanist reads out, “While his form may be gone, his essence remains in the myriad reflections each person carries with him.” They arrive at the internal fires, burning untethered in the air.

When Nils pauses, the Arcanist reads out, “The burning of secrets,” and Nils removes a scroll of parchment, unrolls it, and briefly scans the contents before offering it into the fire, where it burns suspended above the flames. They then move into the chamber where his father’s body lies naked upon a stone table. The chamber has seats elevated around the table where each of the attendees gathers.

Nils and the Arcanist move to the table in the center. “Weaving the Web,” reads out the Arcanist. With the Arcanist’s guidance, Nils performs a symbolic weaving, intertwining cords above his father’s body in complex patterns that represent the web of fate and the interconnectedness of life and death.

The Arcanist reads out “The Gift of the Trickster.” Nils places his father’s most precious possession, the family gemstone, which he risked to win the favor of Nils’s mother, into the hands of his father.

In an instant bathed in blinding light, Nils finds himself no longer within the confines of the chamber beside his father, but standing precariously on the precipice of a small cliff. Gazing into the abyss, a vertiginous sensation grips him as the canyon below unfurls beyond the limits of his sight. As he lifts his eyes, the cliff walls stretch indefatigably towards a sky that seems to exist only in concept. It is then that a voice, ethereal and omnipresent, intones;

“I am the whisper in the shadows, the flicker in the flame. A trickster in tales, ever-changing, never the same. I father monsters and plot the fall of the divine, yet in valor and wit, through the sagas, I shine. Who am I?”

Pivoting from the chasm’s edge, Nils observes an aperture, its perimeter etched with Runes emitting a pallid azure glow. These symbols, veiled in familiarity yet eluding comprehension, beckon him with a voice that resonates not through air but directly within the confines of his mind, an alien whisper.

“Alone I stand, slender and tall, in the midst of discourse, I’m nothing at all. But in your thoughts, I hold a place, and in reflection, I show your face. Who are you?”

Compelled by an insatiable curiosity, Nils steps through the threshold, immediately sensing a shift in the atmosphere—a paradoxical blend of increased density and his own lightened physicality. The path before him, paved with what once seemed like stone, now reveals itself as a refined glassy ore. The once faint blue illumination now radiates warmth and strength, rendering the surreal environment unsettlingly normal, heightening his caution.

To his right, complex carvings adorn the wall, reminiscent of a family tree, small chevrons marking the descent of people, draws his attention.

Yet, the voice intrudes once more; “Time is not our friend.”

As Nils rounds the corner, a strange sense of peace washes over him, catching him off guard. The space before him feels like the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. A profound comfort settles over him, so overwhelming it borders on disorienting. Is this what it feels like to stop running? he wonders, the thought both foreign and enticing.

The chamber feels alive, humming with harmonies that defy understanding, their complexity resonating somewhere deep within him. He barely notices the luminous expanse above or the shadowy figures darting through its shifting light. Instead, he feels a pull, an invitation to rest, to let go. Is this it? The end? The idea doesn’t scare him as much as it should.

At the room’s center, a man reclines on a couch, his casual gesture urging Nils forward. The invitation feels both gentle and absolute, like refusing it was never an option. Nils takes a step, and the softness underfoot propels him forward with an unsettling ease. He nearly stumbles but regains his balance, his movements clumsy against the surreal grace of the space. Even my footing feels unearned here, he thinks, the realization tugging at his sense of self.

The furniture shifts as he sits, molding around him in a way that feels intrusive yet strangely affirming. It forces him into a dignified posture he doesn’t feel he’s earned, like a child playing at being a king. What is this place? he wonders, his mind struggling to reconcile the overwhelming sensations with any semblance of logic.

And then he sees the man’s face.

Whatever composure Nils had clung to evaporates. The visage before him isn’t just striking—it’s beyond comprehension. It isn’t beauty in any conventional sense but something that commands awe, a presence that feels both intimate and infinite. He tries to form a thought, a word, anything, but his mind reels under the weight of it. How do you look at something like this and stay yourself? The question loops in his head, unanswered, as he feels his sense of identity begin to fray.

er his thoughts, Nils is confronted by the most striking visage he has ever beheld.

“You have questions, for that, I am sorry; as brevity is required,” the figure speaks, his voice enveloping Nils, creating a disconnect familiar to anyone who has grappled with translation devices. The context of their conversation, seemingly lost between dimensions of understanding, hangs heavily in the air.

“Do you know who I am?” the voice asks

Nils is catapulting back to a childhood moment of despair and revelation. Lying in his childhood room, reeling from the Ritual of Confusion’s failure, he had encountered Loki, the god of mischief, in a vision. This deity, known for his cunning, warned of a looming cataclysm threatening the galaxy’s rigid order—a message meant solely for Nils. Since then, every test, every challenge, was surmounted with a newfound purpose.

Acknowledging the deity before him, Nils realizes the gravity of this encounter. He was destined for this conversation, this plea from a god.

“Yes, I know who you are,” he affirms, ready to embrace the task laid before him.

“I have something that I require of you,” the deity begins, outlining a mission of cosmic significance—a task to disrupt the current reality to prevent its stagnation and failure, an undertaking so vital that it encompasses all of existence, past, future, and beyond human comprehension.

Nils listens as the entity elaborates on the necessity of breaking the universe’s current order—not to destroy, but to save. A balance has been lost, and with it, the potential for creativity and purpose. It’s a call to action that transcends understanding, requiring only willingness and the provision of tools by the deity.

“Tell me, Nils Verin,” the figure intones, emphasizing his name with a gravity that seems to shake the very foundation of reality, “can you do as I ask, will you do as I ask?”

The question lingers, charged with the weight of eons. The man’s gaze penetrates deep into Nils’s soul, offering a choice that carries the weight of eternity. To walk away is to return to ignorance; to accept is to tread a path seen by few, forever altering the fabric of reality.

Nils’s decision is swift. “Yes, I will do it,” he declares, sealing his fate.

A small table and a silver box materialize, the latter opening to reveal a pulsating cloth of yarn—the Bant af Garn, a tool of unimaginable power and purpose.

Accepting the binding, Nils feels the universe shift subtly, aligning with a new destiny. The deity’s gift, a single thread of yarn, promises a connection and a capability beyond his wildest imaginings. As he takes hold of the thread, a voice greets him, a sentient presence within his mind, marking the beginning of a journey that will challenge the very essence of his being and the reality he knows.

“Time is not our friend; you must leave the way you came. Take the thread with you. It carries my will and a fraction of my abilities. It will provide you with what you need. You must go now,” it is spoken as if a request, yet there is no hint of an option.

Nils feels that all-too-familiar compulsion. Almost without thinking, he finds himself back on his feet, retracing his steps. The soft mattress catapults him at high velocity toward the portal from which he came, akin to the sensation of stepping off a moving walkway onto stable ground. He narrowly avoids colliding with the edge of the entranceway, silently thanking the reflexes honed by his ritual training.

Traversing the glassy passage, he approaches what he initially thought was a family tree, poised to exit through the now-open door onto the cliff, when he abruptly halts. Despite the directive and the strong urge to depart, he refuses to be coerced any further. With a significant exertion of will, he commands his feet to stop. Each time he ceases concentrating, he feels an inclination to move toward the door, but with a supreme effort, he remains just shy of the cliff’s doorway.

As he stands, feeling the compulsion intensify, a sudden flash of light from his initial position on the ledge is followed by the swift closure of the portal door, leaving Nils enclosed within.

The compulsion dissipates. He embraces the sensation of regaining control over his body as he examines what he once considered a family tree. Gradually, the design transforms in his vision, revealing not a lineage but a series of maps. These maps, growing increasingly detailed with prolonged observation, interconnect in a complex pattern, enhancing in resolution the longer he gazes.

The sight is captivating, and he loses track of time until his focus shifts back to the glassy corridor, realizing he has nowhere to proceed. The portal’s edges feel sealed, devoid of any control panels. Resigned, he slowly retraces his steps toward the main chamber, the silence accentuated by the soft tread of his leather shoes.

Nearing the chamber’s entrance, he cautiously moves forward, centimeter by centimeter, until he can peer into the room. The chairs remain untouched, and the table stands as he left it, the entity nowhere in sight. Nils steps onto the soft material, adjusting his pace to avoid hastiness, and returns to the table where the silver box sits. The room is silent, the music ceased, and the overhead light casts subtle shadows across the table. He carefully opens the box to find the “Bant af Garn,” pulsing with life.

Suddenly, a noise reminiscent of an airlock opening fills the room, and the being’s gaze locks onto him.

“STOP,” the command reverberates, striking Nils with the force of a physical blow. Startled, he loses balance and falls, he tries to use the table to arrest his fall but one hand plunges into the box grasping the Bant af Garn.

“What is your desire?” a voice inquires softly within his mind.

“Get me out of here,” Nils thinks desperately. His final memory, before reality unravels, is of two colossal arms surging towards him, passing harmlessly through his form to obliterate the table below.

Nils is standing beside his father. An annoyed-looking Arcanist glaring at him.

“The Gift of the Trickster,” says the Arcanist, putting emphasis on the word “Trickster.”

Nils stands slightly dumbfounded, not quite at his father’s death ritual, not quite in the hands of an angry god, then looks down at his hands and sees the hidden switch below his father’s corpse. He presses it softly with his knee, and in a flash of color, the body is gone. The gathered attendees laugh as if on cue and begin dispersing themselves from the gallery.

“Come, come, Nils, the feast will be starting soon,” is beckoned from one of the attendants. Dutifully, he follows them from the chamber, his mind numb and his body ready for flight.

“Very sorry for your loss,” chimes a voice inside his head.

Max stared at the screen where the text blinks on and off cycling through colors.  A few initial thoughts ran through his head.  First, how in the hell was it blinking in colors on a monochrome monitor?  Max had often dreamed about getting a color monitor but it was not something the school had a budget or the desire to buy.  Second, how the hell was message getting onto the machine, there was no connection to anything else but a tape recorder and he was the only programmer in school. 

Maybe someone else was playing a joke on him.  He reached around to the back of the machine and hit the reset button. It was a faster way to restart it then to shut it off and have to wait thirty second for the power to cycle.  He waited as the screen went blank and then the reboot text came on.  Just to be thorough he unplugged the audio cables from the tape recorder.  Now the only thing this computer had access to was a tiny 56K internal chip with the Bios on it.

The computer started spewing boot up text on the screen, Tandy computer corp, blah blah blah.  Finally it finished booting and sat there with just a blinking cursor.  He waited a few second watching the screen.  Had he imagined it?  Now he was second guessing himself.  Maybe the last student had left the message for him and he had just not seen it.  That must have been it. 

Max laughs at himself nervously feeling a kind of chill down his spine. He was about to focus on the recorder again to make the volume adjustment when the words appear again?

MAX I NEED YOUR HELP

Max looked around and saw only the chalk boards and empty chairs of the classroom looking back at him. The he turned back to the computer and stared again at the words.  What the hell he thought to himself.   He quickly reached down and pulled the power cord out of the socket. 

The screen went dark as he heard a faint whining of the internal electronics powering down.   He dropped the cable and quickly left the room. What the hell is going on was all he could think.  He was not paying attention when he heard the words. 

Mr. Valkith, may I inquire as to why you are in the hallway in the middle of class time”

He looked up to find the assistant principle Mr. Jones looking at him. 

“Bonesy Jonesy, he thought—a nickname the students had for the assistant principal, one of the thinnest men any of them had ever seen.” You could see the outline of his ribcage and shoulder blades.  Pretty much his only pleasure in life seemed to be harassing the students.  Unfortunately assistant principal primary job was discipline.

“Sorry Mr. Jones, they asked me to take a look at the computer in the open studies class, I was just on my way back to first period sir” the sir was a bit of a stretch but then a little extra politeness seemed to go a long way when it came to old Bonesy.

“And were you successful in fixing the computer Mr. Valkith?” he responded

Briefly there was a rise of panic in his stomach. The mention of the computer made him suddenly think again about the words on the screen.”

“err ahh yeah its all fine now, but I think there is a  problem with the power supply.  I would recommend that no one use it for the rest of the day as I saw some sparks coming out of it earlier.  I was planning on reading the service manual tonight to see if there is something I can do to fix it.” Max heard the words coming out of his mouth and felt a little admiration at the cleverness.

“Very well Mr. Valkith, I will see to it that the unit is unused for the remainder of the day.  If you could please let me know when you have had at….…” brrrriiiingggggggg

The Second period bell echoed down the empty corridors.

“Yes sir of course, gotta run second period” shouted max over the exploding sounds of students exiting their classrooms.

Max turns and melts into the crowd of students heading to their lockers between classes. The remainder of the day witnesses many events, none of which Max can recall. He spends the entire day pondering how the words could have appeared on the computer, which has no input devices connected. The only possibility seems to be that someone altered the BIOS of the machine—a basic input-output system hard-coded onto the motherboard that instructs the CPU on how to communicate with the monitor, keyboard, and usually an input device like a tape recorder.

Since the BIOS loads even before the operating system, without it, all one has is a pile of electronics unaware of how to interact with its constituent parts. Programming a BIOS is typically done at a factory, and as far as Max knows, it’s way beyond the capabilities of anyone at Richfield High School, let alone anyone in Lincoln County.

The more he thinks about it, the more mysterious it feels, and by the end of his last class, his curiosity morphs into an obsession. He decides he will spend the evening trying to figure it out, watching the clock, which seems to crawl minute by minute through the last 45 minutes of his seventh-period history class. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the bell rings, signaling the end of class and, even better, the end of the day.

He walks back toward the free study classroom, dodging the oncoming traffic of students headed to the exits. The school doors will remain open for a few more hours to accommodate athletic students doing practice who need access to the lockers and showers. Max often stayed after school to learn programming on the system. He’s pretty sure he can work for a couple of hours without being bothered by the janitor.

Even if he needs more time, the Janitor, Sam, is a pretty good guy; he has spent a few evenings chatting with him after hours. Max reaches the classroom, enters, and closes the door. He hesitates for a few minutes, then reaches over and locks the door. Students are not supposed to lock the doors without a teacher present, but then, he really does not need someone walking in on this.

He approaches the computer and sees that Jones has placed a note stating, “Out of order by order of the assistant principal,” typed on a note card and signed. What a douchebag, Max thinks. He could have skipped the signature. He briefly wonders how people end up being the assistant principal in a backwater school.

He sets the card aside and reaches for the power cable lying along the right-hand side of the computer. He struggles for a few seconds to match it up to the power outlet and feels a satisfying thud as it slips into the socket.

He reaches around the back of the integrated unit that serves as both keyboard and motherboard and flips the switch. Slowly, the boot process initiates, and the monitor comes on. The cursor blinks normally, and he watches it until he realizes he is holding his breath. Nothing happens. He breathes out slowly. Then, text starts to print out on the screen.

“Max, I need your help. Please do not turn off the machine. You do not know me, but I know you.” The cursor sits blinking.

Max’s mind races. How in the world is this happening? The computer is connected to nothing.

Gingerly, he moves his fingers to the keyboard.

“Who are you?” he types. A few seconds pass.

“A friend,” comes the response.

Max quickly goes through his checklist of friends. Andy? Jeff? Tad? None of those people know anything about computers.

“What friend?” he types.

“One you don’t know yet, but you will,” comes the response.

“How do you know me, and how are you doing this?” Max types.

“I will explain things to you, but you will have a hard time believing me. That is okay, as I would be skeptical as well. I am a future friend of yours from a long way away. We will meet some time from now. You are my only hope as I have gotten into some trouble that requires your help.

Would you help me, please?” appears on the screen.

“How do I know that you know me, and that I can trust you, and how in the hell are you communicating on this computer? Where are you?” Max types.

“From where I come from, we have more advanced technology than you do. I am communicating to you on this computer by sending a very specific radio signal to your CPU. Once the chip receives the radio signals, these signals are converted into binary code. This conversion is necessary because the chip processes information in the form of electrical impulses.

Effectively, I am able to load information into this primitive system from a long ways away. The process of getting the radio signal to your location involves some concepts that I do not have the time to teach you at this moment, but as I understand you are curious, I will do my best to answer your questions at a more opportunistic time,” is displayed on the screen.

Max sits staring at the screen. This is some serious Star Trek stuff. He briefly considers shutting the machine down again and fleeing the room. Who is this person, if it even is a person? If he is to believe what’s happening, then it suggests some alien kind of stuff, and he is not entirely sure a lifetime of science fiction stories has prepared him for the real deal. He continues to stare at the screen until it begins to produce more text.

“Look, what I need from you is pretty simple. I just need you to be at a specific place at a specific time and pick something up for me. Nothing fancy, nothing dangerous. Once you have it, I will ask you to read a few things from it and answer a few questions. That’s it, total time a few minutes, not counting travel. I don’t want to make this too weird, but it is honestly a matter of life and death.”

Shit, Max thinks. Luke Skywalker received this kind of message and ended up hanging one-handed out of the gas giant manufacturing center’s backend. Well, on the other hand, he did get out of the shit-hole town he lived in, and frankly, Max always thought Luke’s home-world was a step up from Dietrich.

“Where would I have to go, and when would I have to be there?” he types.

“The University of New Mexico Meteorite Museum, the first floor of the Earth and Planetary Sciences building, at 1:30 AM Friday night,” appears on the screen.

“How in the hell am I supposed to get to New Mexico?” Max types.

“Max, there are only a few moments in one’s life when their decision will truly make a difference. I know you are smart and resourceful. I cannot provide any greater aid than what I have given you, and I can only communicate for a short while longer. I am begging you, please do this for me. It means more than you can imagine, and I have no other option. I am very sorry, but I will not be able to communicate with you again before you arrive at the Museum. It is critically important to my life and a number of others that you are standing by the Norton County stony meteorite at 1:30 AM Friday. Please understand I would explain more if I could, and know that it is incredibly important. I am counting on you...” the cursor sits blinking.

“Wait a minute,” Max types. “Hey, I need some more details?”

Max stares at the screen, and nothing happens. The blinking cursor mocks him, daring him to ignore the message. He glances at his watch: 4:30 PM, Thursday. He has thirty dollars in his wallet, a cash card with another hundred, and a rusting Scirocco parked outside. New Mexico is fourteen hours away, and every part of him knows this is insane.

His parents would never let him go, and skipping school for something this ridiculous would get him grounded for the rest of high school. Besides, what if this was a prank? What if he drove all that way, blew his money, and it turned out to be nothing? Worse, what if it wasn’t? The thought sends a chill up his spine. He could feel the weight of his father’s voice already: “Max, you need to grow up. Quit chasing nonsense and stick to your chores. You’re not a kid anymore.”

But maybe that was the point. He didn’t feel like a kid anymore—hadn’t in a long time. And the future stretching ahead of him? It felt smaller, duller, the longer he stared at it. Farm life, school, maybe college if his parents could scrape together the money. Then what? A job in some office or, worse, a life tethered to this town, to the same fences and fields he saw every day. The thought makes his chest tighten.

And then there’s the message. I need your help, Max. It doesn’t make sense. Hell, none of it does, but something about those words feels real—urgent, even. Like the person behind them somehow knows what Max doesn’t: that there’s something bigger out there. Bigger than Dietrich. Bigger than him. For the first time in a long time, he feels the whisper of something he thought he’d lost: curiosity. Maybe even hope.

He bats it around in his head as he walks to the parking lot, the weight of it settling on his shoulders like a heavy coat. By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the idea isn’t any less crazy, but it’s not going away. He’s still chewing on it, trying to find an out, when his foot presses the gas and he passes the turnoff to Dietrich without slowing. It’s not so much a conscious choice as the absence of a no.

The endless miles of Highway 93 stretch out ahead of him, open and empty, and he feels something crack open in his chest. Maybe it’s rebellion. Maybe it’s stupidity. Or maybe it’s just relief. He cranks the volume on Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet, singing along to “Livin’ on a Prayer” as if the words are some kind of prophecy. If he keeps going, maybe the rest of the world will finally make sense.

The western deserts of the United States stretch endlessly, each mile a quiet, dusty reminder of isolation. Sagebrush and jackrabbits blur past his window as the mountains in the distance remain forever out of reach. The route from Richfield to Salt Lake City is unrelentingly flat, a straight shot of highway that leaves too much room for thinking. But when the road finally curves toward the Navajo Nation, the vastness of the desert shifts. There’s something ancient in the way the landscape seems untouched by time, something that stirs his restless thoughts into quiet awe.

The loneliness doesn’t bother him. Out here, it feels like he’s leaving everything that’s ever held him back. For once, the idea of the unknown doesn’t scare him—it calls to him.Max rocks his way through his third Mountain Dew, chosen solely for its high caffeine content. He spends only a few minutes in the roadside truck stops, enough time to use the bathroom and fill up the gas tank. At ninety cents a gallon, he blows through the majority of his thirty dollars on gas, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies. It does keep him awake and focused.

He pulls over and sleeps rather uncomfortably somewhere outside Farmington, leaving the motor running and the heat on against the chill desert air. Finally, as the sun peeks over the horizon, he enters Albuquerque, silhouetted against the Sandia Mountains.

Max has never been to Albuquerque, let alone the University of New Mexico. Once he enters the city, it takes him several instances of asking folks out walking in the morning air for directions.

Finally, he arrives at the University and parks his car in the stadium parking lot, a short distance from a billboard encouraging people to support the Lobos. A few students are milling around the gymnasium, preparing for morning athletic workouts. He approaches a group of students.

Can you tell me where the meteorite museum is?” he inquires of a student who looks about his age.

“Yeah, it’s in the north of the quad, but it doesn’t open till ten. You’d be better off waiting in the student union building till it opens,” replies the student, pointing to the north.

Max pulls open the glass doors, relief washing over him as the warmth hits his face. It’s freezing outside, and hunger gnaws at his stomach now that he’s been out of the car for a while. He scans the room—a cozy little coffee shop tucked into the corner of the building—and digs into his pocket. Four dollars. That’s all he’s got left. He buys a coffee and a small plate of eggs, barely noticing the cashier’s polite smile, and retreats to an out-of-the-way table to wolf it all down.

As he eats, his gaze drifts to the students moving in and out of the shop. He can’t help but watch them, their groups laughing and chattering, the sound of their easy camaraderie filling the air. They seem genuinely happy, like they belong here, and it stirs something bitter in him.

What a difference from high school, he thinks. Bell schedules, conformity, guards pretending they care about discipline. Here, no one’s shuffling to the next class with dead eyes. They’re alive, moving in little packs, caught up in their own worlds.

Hours slip by without him noticing. When he checks the clock on the wall, it’s almost eleven. Three hours? Seriously? The realization feels surreal—time just drifted away while he watched strangers. Shaking his head, he stands, pulls his coat tight, and heads back out into the cold.

The museum—or what the sign calls a museum—disappoints him instantly. A plain brown building with a couple of reserved parking spots out front, it looks more like an office than anything remotely grand. He follows the signs for UNM Northrop Hall Earth and Planetary Sciences, finding a back entrance marked Loading Zone. Well, nothing says inspiring like a back door, he thinks, pushing it open.

Inside, the so-called museum is just a single room with a few sparse exhibits. He spots the Norton County stony meteorite right away—it’s hard to miss, being the size of a small car. Big, white, jagged. That’s it? Max thinks, circling it. He tries to summon some excitement—this thing fell from space, after all—but it’s just a rock. Cool in theory, boring in person. The bigger challenge is figuring out how to stick around until the middle of the night without getting caught.

Part of him wonders, Am I being pranked? The idea nags at him as he wanders the room. It doesn’t make sense—no one he knows would go to this much trouble. And yet, the absurdity of driving a thousand miles to break into a museum on the word of some mysterious contact keeps poking at him. What the hell am I even doing here?

His wandering brings him to the restroom. It’s nothing special—just a couple of urinals, some drab green stalls—but the drop ceiling catches his attention. Max steps into a stall and climbs onto the toilet, pushing up one of the tiles. Sure enough, there’s a crawl space above. Now this… this might work.

He lifts himself into the space, careful not to put weight on the flimsy tiles, and moves hand over hand along the iron bars supporting the structure. The dim crawl space is claustrophobic, but it offers a certain thrill. At least it’s not boring, he thinks, pulling himself onto an old platform once used for HVAC equipment. The adrenaline fades quickly, though, and exhaustion washes over him. Leaning back against the supporting bar, he lets out a sigh. No one would believe this. That’s his last thought before sleep claims him.

When he wakes, it’s abrupt and disorienting. For a moment, he forgets where he is, the iron bar digging into his back snapping him back to reality. He checks his watch—5:00 PM. Eight hours to kill. Why the hell didn’t I bring water? The thirst gnaws at him until he makes his way back to the bathroom, where he drinks greedily from the sink before returning to his perch.

The hours crawl by. Max drifts in and out of restless sleep, his body sore and his nerves on edge. Around eight, he hears the last of the cleaning crew leave, their voices fading down the hallway. He waits another hour, just to be safe, but the darkness in the crawl space makes it harder to navigate.

When he finally moves, the disaster strikes quickly. His foot slips onto a tile, and the ceiling collapses beneath him with a deafening rip. Max lands hard, pain shooting through his left shoulder as chunks of plaster rain down on him. For several agonizing seconds, he doesn’t move, waiting for security to burst through the doors.

But nothing happens. Slowly, Max picks himself up, shaking bits of ceiling off his jacket. His shoulder throbs, but nothing feels broken. The mess around him is staggering—a gaping hole above, debris scattered across the floor. He glances at the meteorite a few feet away and feels an absurd urge to laugh. Well, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. The idea of trying to clean up the mess actually makes him snort. Sorry I wrecked your ceiling—here’s a mop for the inconvenience.

He checks his watch again. Midnight. Only a little longer now. For the first time, doubt creeps in. What if this is all a mistake? The words of every sensible adult in his life echo in his head. You don’t know who this person is. What makes you think you can trust them? He shifts uncomfortably on the floor, staring at the meteorite. It’s just a rock—big, jagged, utterly ordinary. What the hell am I waiting for?

But even as his nerves fray, something holds him there. It’s the same feeling that kept him driving past the Dietrich turnoff, the same pull that brought him to this strange place. It’s better than the rest of my life, he thinks grimly. For all its absurdity, this feels like something. And that’s more than he’s had in a long time.His watch hits 1:30, and he stands looking at the meteorite.

“We have a delivery for you, Max. Will you accept?” a voice sounds next to him. Max flinches, spinning around, but the room remains empty. His breath quickens.

“Ehhh, hello?” he ventures, his voice unsteady, speaking to no one in particular. The silence stretches for a moment too long, then:

“We have a delivery for you, Max. Will you accept?” The voice again, calm, deliberate, as though it expects nothing but compliance. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Max swallows hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult to speak. “Ahh, who am I talking to?” His voice cracks. He can feel his pulse thudding in his ears now.

“We have a delivery for you, Max. Will you accept?” The question repeats, unchanging, mechanical yet eerily personal. Max’s mind races.

His first thought is to refuse, to step away and put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever the hell this is. His instincts scream at him—this isn’t normal, this isn’t safe. But then curiosity claws at him, mingling with fear. What delivery? Why him?

“Please verbalize your acceptance or denial of delivery. You have 30 seconds, or delivery will be canceled,” the voice states, emotionless but final.

Max hesitates, his body frozen in place. His brain is shouting No, walk away! but his feet won’t move. What if this is some kind of trick? What if agreeing ties him to something he can’t escape? But what if walking away is worse? Life and death, the voice had said before. Whose life? Whose death?

He bites his lip, his chest tight. “Yes, I accept,” he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he’s afraid to commit too loudly.

“You are Max Valkith, age 17, place: Earth, year 1987.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach churns, a cold sweat forming on his brow. How does it know that?

“Please validate your identity. You have 8 seconds, or delivery will be canceled,” the voice says, unrelenting.

Panic grips him. He wants to argue, to demand answers, but the seconds tick away in his head, and his fear swallows reason.

“Yes, I am Max Valkith,” he blurts, the words tumbling out in a rush. His voice rises, frantic. “Almost 17 years old, on Earth, in 1987.”

There’s a pause, and Max’s heart pounds in the silence.

“I already knew that, but it’s so much fun to ask,” the voice responds, now with a slight chuckle, as if the whole situation were a game.

Max’s legs feel weak, and he grips the edge of the meteorite display for balance. He doesn’t have time to process the absurdity before the voice continues:

“Delivery accepted, identity validated. Moving recipient to stabilized venue for delivery. Hold onto your hat, Max.”

The air around him seems to shift, as though the fabric of reality itself is twisting. His surroundings blur and stretch in impossible ways, and his last thought before everything dissolves into light is not one of excitement or resolve, but raw terror: What have I just agreed to?

Max hears a sound like a balloon deflating. Then everything goes, what he would later describe as four-dimensional. All of the objects in the room seem to overlap as he’s pulled forward, and everything else shifts back, yet persists where it was, right up until the time when his mind says, “no thank you, not gonna deal with this,” and things goes white and black, not necessarily in that order.

“What the fuck is going on with me?” Nils thinks for the thousandth time since he returned with the Bant af Garn. He has been in his room, hiding from the city for an undetermined length of time. A pile of sin juice bottles strewn in the corner testifies to the passage of days. He has wrapped a bed cloth around his head to block out the sound and wears two pairs of sunglasses in a room with a single low-output light source.

He cannot remember the last time he ate, yet he feels no hunger at all. On the contrary, he has been energetic and feeling like a caged tiger since his return. He barely remembers the conclusion of his father’s rituals, knowing only that the light was killing his eyes. It seems everywhere he looks, the light blazes at him in a rainbow spectrum. It seems that white light no longer registers in his eyes. Every beam seems to break into its constituent colors, and a vast halo surrounds all the sources.

He has been staring at the fixture in his room for a good two hours. He can almost see the pause between the flicker of the LED. That should be impossible as it pulsates over two million times a second, a rate well above what a human is capable of seeing. The Bant af Garn has either broken his vision or, as he is increasingly becoming convinced, altered it in some manner to change how he perceives the visible light spectrum. Weirder still, when he concentrates, he is pretty sure he can see the electromagnetic signal coming from his portable net runner.

He is at least relieved at this moment that the accompanying headache for the last interminable amount of time has passed. He even thinks that the vision might be normalizing, but that is a pretty hard assessment to make inside his room, sitting in near darkness. The last two trips to the bathroom have left him reeling with nausea and scrambling back to his room with his eyes closed. This trip has also resulted in a number of painful bruises on his shins where he failed to see the shoe rack and lower leg assassin.

He finally, after numerous failed attempts, has completed at least the preliminaries of his Lokian ritual. His bedroom is a poor location, but the movements have at last cleared away the pain from his head, and for the first time in days, he feels like he can think clearly. He keeps returning to the words of the being in the cave. Road of Eternity? Bound to me? How much of this can he believe?

He knows that as a Lokian, he has done what must be done. It is a parable he learned at his father’s knee as a child. One that any Lokian can readily recite. No gift can be given; all things of value must be taken. He knows that he has done the proper thing in stealing the Bant, but now that he has it, how can he know its purpose, more importantly, how is he to use it to break the order of the Universe?

It would have to be something big, something fundamental to create the kind of chaos from which the empire could not readily recover. What system, what thing is so fundamental that it could affect that kind of change in an empire that had lasted over three thousand years and spanned a galaxy? The entire thing seemed incredibly unreal, yet he had been there, and he is in possession of a relic of enormous power. He has also communicated with the Bant, at least with a thread of it.

He turns it over in his hands, watching the threads pulsate. He feels, as he looks into the cloth, that it seems to grow in size, or more like he shrinks. It has a kind of fractal image that the more focused his gaze becomes, the more levels of the Bant he can see. He even fears that if he gazes too long, he might never stop gazing, as he pulls his eyes away with some effort.

“Talk to me!” he calls at it for the innumerable time.

It sits in his hands pulsating, maddeningly without response. He wraps it around his forearm and knits a piece of leather arm covering over it. “Fuck it,” he thinks, “I am getting out of this room,” he speaks quietly with determination.

He stills himself, closing his eyes tightly and relaxes his body, focused on his breathing. He uses a technique his father taught him to calm himself. He inhales until his lungs can take no more, then holds his breath, counting slowly, one..two..three..four, then he exhales slowly until his lungs are empty, pausing at the bottom, one..two..three..four. After five or six rounds of this, he feels a calm stillness.

He opens his eyes and opens the door to his room. The light in the hallway briefly seems to brighten until he can almost not bear it, then as suddenly it dims and returns to its normal brightness. He walks to the door, pauses, takes a deep breath, and opens it to the street. Thankfully, it is already past dark. Nothing greets him but the shade-filled streets of Estropolis. He glances up and down the street and then makes his way quickly into the shadows heading east. He enters the first alleyway and quickly scales a drainage pipe, emerging on the top of the third-floor roof. Much better to make his way across the rooftops.

He begins running, bouncing from roof to roof with acrobatic skill. He moves as quickly as a runner might move on the ground, but each second his unbelievable athletics kicks in as he bounces off walls, jumps from ledge to ledge, and narrowly catches himself on rafters, piping, all of the support structures civilization had relegated to the top of buildings. He feels best up here, free from the prying eyes of the street and in his element. A vast playground of secrets held only by the few physically gifted enough to traverse them. He sees the lights of the Chamber of Skalds in the distance. This means he is close to his destination.

He rounds a corner fluidly, stepping off the edge of a building with practiced ease as he has done hundreds of times before, landing softly on a balcony a few meters above the ground. He is now in an interior alleyway formed by the backs of four dwellings, roughly twenty meters long and two meters wide. He drops softly to the ground level. He can see a single teenager reading through the semitransparent window. He moves softly until he is next to the last dwelling. Reaching down, he pushes his fingers against the ground while simultaneously pushing his elbow into a tiny recess in the nearby wall.

He feels a satisfying click as the pressure plate recesses and then opens a single centimeter, just enough to allow him to run the edge of his fingers underneath it. It rises smoothly with his pull until revealing a hatch with a welded ladder disappearing into the depths. Without hesitation, he moves down the ladder, not pausing to see as the plate glides silently back into place above him, leaving nary a trace that anyone has passed.

Nils more slides than steps, using the strength of his hands to arrest his fall as he passes deeper into the earth. He tightens his grip, slowing himself after fifteen seconds, and gracefully dismounts the ladder, landing silently on the concrete floor.

Four identical passages surround him, and he quickly enters the one on the left. It is nearly twice his height with a graceful rounded ceiling and brick walls. There is the tiniest echo of his footfalls as he jogs along the corridor. The passage seems to be moderately illuminated, but there is no obvious source of light, as though the walls simply radiate a low-grade grey color. After several minutes, he pauses in a junction nearly identical to the one he entered, save for the absence of the ladder. He taps several times on the wall, waits, then taps a more intricate pattern.

From behind the wall comes a mechanical clicking sound, and the wall simply shimmers and is gone. Nils enters an enormous room, with a ceiling that rises out of view. He cannot see the far side of the room, just an enormous amount of electronics in various states of repair leading off into the distance. There are pathways through the piles just wide enough to walk, and every so often, a small island with a few desks, mostly populated by youths around his age. It’s a staggering amount of objects to try and focus.

The night market, believed by the galactic empire as an insignificant nuisance. But to the Shadowfolk, it was a fortress of innovation hidden in plain sight. To Nils it was simply home.

He enters the rows and is greeted with a complex array of hand signals. The thieves’ cant of his fellow shadow folk. The hand motions are accompanied by smiles and some degree of enthusiasm. Nils returns each hand signal with the appropriate one of his own as he moves deeper into the stacks, finally arriving at his own section.

He approaches the desk and moves to what looks like an inverted set of two parallel telescopes. Placing his eyes over them, he quickly types a set of commands on the desk, and the lights and power come on, lighting up the desk and monitor of his workstation.

“Greeting, Nils, welcome back. Shall we continue with the last operation?”

Nils opts to forgo continued use of the cant and simply responds.

“No, we have a new project. Run me a compound search: Bant af Garn, Road of Eternity, Breaking the order of the universe. Give me outputs with a 99%+ hit rate, sorted by reference oldest to newest.”

“Shall I limit the search to Lokian references?” responds the monitor.

“No, run it galactic-wide,” Nils responds.

“Please note that that will require additional funds. Please indicate with a verbal to comply.”

“Do it,” responds Nils.

“I have only a single reference that meets all requirements” the monitor returns.

 “It is an excerpt from the Vaikunthan archives attempting to translate The Cynoptian epic.  The date of discovery is eight hundred thirty three cycles ago.  The date of authorship is unknown, but the estimated carbon dating of the outpost from which it was transcribed is pre-historical.

Shall I transfer it to you or shall I verbalize it.”

Nils sat back in his chair, put his feet on the desk and places his favorite noise canceling audio device in his ears.

“Verbalize please”

“The following is an Excerpt from The Parley of Chaos and Death as translated from temple remnants found on an Cynoptian orbital ruin in sector xr56.1.”

In the time before time, when the roots of Yggdrasil whispered secrets yet unknown, there was a gathering of powers that would echo through the ages. In the shadowed halls of Helheim, where the whispers of the dead were like the rustling of leaves, two deities met under the watchful gaze of Niflheim’s mists: Loki, the ever-shifting Trickster, and Anubidia, the ancient Goddess of Death.

Loki, with his flaming hair dancing like tongues of fire, wore a smirk as sharp as the edge of a dagger. His eyes, reflecting a mischievous cosmos, met those of Anubidia. She, robed in the essence of night, her eyes as deep as the void between stars, regarded him with an ageless wisdom.

“Why do you dance so merrily in the realms of men, Loki? Do you not see that their threads are woven tight by the Norns? Fate binds them all.” Anubidia states, her voice echoing like a distant lament.

Loki chuckled, a sound that stirred the embers of stars. “Dear Anubidia, you have lingered too long in the company of spirits. Mankind thrives not in the strict lines of fate but in the chaos of choice. It is in freedom that they truly live.”

Anubidia, unmoved, gazed into the tapestry of shadows. “

You speak as one unburdened by the weight of time. There exists but one thing that can alter the threads the Norns weave – the Bant af Garn, the Skein of Destiny. It is said to hold the power to unravel fate itself.”

“And where, pray tell, might one find this Bant af Garn?” Loki’s question was a whisper, yet it carried the weight of thunder.

“In the very hands of those who weave the tapestry,” Anubidia replied solemnly. “Guarded by the Fates, beyond the reach of gods and men.”

Loki’s grin widened, a spark igniting in his eyes.

“Ah, but what is a challenge if not an invitation for a trickster? Perhaps this Skein could use a bit of... untangling.”

Anubidia regarded Loki with a look that had seen the birth and death of stars.

“Beware, young god, the ambitions that stir your heart. You would not be the first to be ensnared in the web they seek to unravel.”

Their words hung in the air like a mist, a prophecy yet to be fulfilled. And as they parted ways, the halls of Helheim whispered of a coming storm, of a dance between chaos and destiny, where the fate of mankind hangs in the balance.

Nils removed the ear plugs and sat in thought. If what he had just heard was to be believed he was holding a skein of destiny, stolen by Loki from the fates, just as he had stolen it from Loki.  If he had heard this a few days ago he would have laughed out loud, but now he felt different.

He has stood in the presence of the god himself.  Whatever he was in possession of now was important.  Stealing the Bant was the right thing to do because; nothing worth having is given freely. The words of his people echoing in his ears.  He had given his word that he would break the cycle of order. 

“System run two queries, mythology of Skein of destiny and Lokian powers, give me overlapping references” he sub-vocalizes

“Lokian or galactic” responds the terminal

“Lokian” Nils responds

“There are two references in the Lokian archives with overlap of Skein of Destiny and Lokian powers. Both are from the Poetic Edda circa 13th century earth.  Historical note this was pre GD (Great Divergence) so accurate dating is relative.  Shall I read them to you” 

Nils replaced his listening devices, lounged back in his chair again and nodded assent.

The first reference is a story called “The Balancing of the Worlds”

In the realm of Yggdrasil, the great tree that connects all worlds, there stirred an imbalance. The roots of Yggdrasil delved deep into the foundations of reality, but a disturbance had begun to unsettle the worlds. The branches of the mighty tree swayed perilously, forewarning a cataclysm.

Loki, ever the shapeshifter and schemer, perceived this imbalance not as a disaster, but as an opportunity. He remembered the Bant af Garn, the Skein of Destiny, a relic hidden within the folds of the Norns’ abode at the base of Yggdrasil.

With a mischievous grin and a trickster’s guile, Loki obtained the Skein. It pulsed with the raw power of potential, a thread that could weave fate anew. Loki climbed Yggdrasil, from its deepest roots to its highest boughs, threading the Skein through the realms, weaving a path of balance.

As he wove, the swaying branches stilled, the trembling worlds calmed. The Skein did not just bind; it balanced. It mended rifts and soothed the quaking realms, restoring harmony to Yggdrasil. Loki, with a rare moment of solemnity, saw the unity he had brought forth. In balancing the physical realms, he had, for once, brought peace instead of chaos.

“The second reference is called The Binding of Two Hearts”

In the shadow of Yggdrasil, where the leaves whispered secrets of old, there was a tale of two souls, torn apart by fate. A warrior from Midgard, valiant and true, and a Valkyrie, fierce and noble. Their love was forbidden, caught in the web of divine laws and mortal boundaries.

Loki, wandering beneath the great tree, heard the lament of the parted lovers. The trickster, often the maker of mischief, felt an unusual stir in his heart—a desire to mend, not mar.

He held the Bant af Garn, the Skein of Destiny, its threads shimmering with the light of stars. Loki knew that with a single touch, he could bind their destinies forever, weaving a shared path through the strands of fate.

Under the moonlit sky, by the roots of Yggdrasil, he found the lovers, each mourning their solitary fate. With a gentle touch, Loki brushed them together with the Skein. The thread glowed, pulsing with a newfound connection.

In that instant, their separate paths entwined, creating a shared journey ahead. The warrior and the Valkyrie felt a surge of hope, a bond unbreakable, tying their hearts together across the realms.

Loki stepped back, a rare smile of genuine satisfaction on his lips. In binding their destinies, he had uniting what the rigid laws had divided. Beneath the boughs of Yggdrasil, love had triumphed, woven by the hands of the most unlikely weaver.

The system emits a soft chime, signaling the completion of Nils’ search for references. Lost in a labyrinth of thought, Nils’ concentration breaks only when he hears his name. Turning, he notices Minita approaching. Their attire, a patchwork of modular panels capable of mimicking their environment, marks Minita as a member of the Espionage class, a group usually distant from the Shadowfolk. Being neuter, Minita enjoys broader social liberties. Nils momentarily contemplates ignoring this intrusion into his solitude but recalls Minita’s prowess with information, potentially valuable yet necessitating a trade.

Nils greets, “Rune Vefur, Minita.” He gestures the customary greeting, intertwining his fingers, a mix of respect and a keen interest in what Minita might need from him, already calculating the potential benefits.

Minita returns the greeting, “Rune Vefur, Nils. Please forgive the intrusion, but I come with a request.” They respond with the same gesture, their tone serious yet tinged with a subtle eagerness.

Nils thinks to himself, Good. If they need something, this could work to my advantage. Yet, he finds it peculiar for Minita to be so forthright with their needs.

He responds formally, hiding his curiosity, “It is, of course, my delight and that of my clan to serve.”

Minita teases, breaking the formal tone, “Don’t be a dick, Nils. Well, don’t be you.” They smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Nils chooses to overlook the jab, asking directly, “Alright, Minita. What do you need?”

Minita explains, “As you’re aware, the fet de illusion is upon us. I’d dearly like to attend the Hall of Mirrors this year. Given it’s the third aspect, the Runebinders are hosting. They’ve decreed all attendees must be in pairs. Would you be my partner for the event?” They’re almost hesitant, the request personal, stepping beyond their usual interactions.

Nils contemplates, recognizing the strategic value in having them indebted to him. He agrees,

“Sure, Minita, I’d be happy to accompany you. If you could share your parameters for the evening, I’ll ensure we match.”

Minita’s face lights up with relief and excitement, expressing gratitude, “You’ll have them well before the event. Thank you, Nils.”

Nils seizes the moment to make his own request, “Just one thing—could you assist me with something? It seems right up your alley.”

Minita looks skeptical yet intrigued, “What’s that?” They know this exchange could tip the scales of their professional relationship.

Nils flatters, aiming to engage Minita’s intellect and curiosity, “Could you review a couple of references for me? Your access to information is unparalleled, and frankly, you’re smarter.”

Minita, aware of Nils’ strategic use of flattery but still feeling a surge of pride, agrees, “Send them over. I’ll see what I can find.”

As Minita disappears back into the stacks, Nils forwards the references, settling back with a sense of accomplishment. He’s played his cards well, turning a potential social obligation into a strategic alliance, all the while planning his next move in the shadowy world they inhabit.

Max blinks, his vision swimming as he grapples with disorientation. He is momentarily blind before pale gray light leaks into his vision. He blinks repeatedly, pulling himself to his feet. He experiences a moment of agoraphobia as his mind tries to catch up with what it is seeing. He stands in a medieval courtyard so vast its borders fall out of his range of vision. His heart hammers in his chest with awe and apprehension.

Architecture looms before him, a breathtaking spectacle of grandeur and darkness. It feels like he has been dropped into a scene from a dark, epic science fiction movie. Towering structures pierce the sky, their surfaces covered in glistening black materials and chiseled stone, making them look simultaneously ancient and modern. The architecture bears an eerie elegance, its design a mystery of technological prowess. Above, the sky is a tapestry of grayish hues, illuminated but with no discernible source of light.

Max’s gaze is drawn to a series of archways that dot the courtyard. They are like nothing he has ever experienced, even in the wildest science fiction. The archways are a paradoxical blend of old and new, sharing common components, but each with a unique flare that matches nothing else in the courtyard. One entire side of the courtyard is a black gleaming structure; calling it a castle or palace in no way accurately describes its absurd scale. The parapets have figures of giant carved creatures, some reminding him of Egyptian tombs he has seen in magazines.

In the midst of this alien grandeur, he feels insignificant and exhilarated. He laughs, thinking the most impressive thing from his town was a grain silo.

The ground beneath his feet is cool and smooth, a material that is neither stone nor metal but something entirely other. The air tastes fresh but with a slight flavor of cinnamon and musk. As he stands trying to comprehend what he is seeing, he feels a light brush of air behind him. He turns to find a cot made for sleeping about half a meter high has appeared.

He is momentarily startled when a sudden wave of nausea rolls over him. He buckles over, leaning one hand on the cot while he vomits at his feet. His legs lose all sensation, and he falls face-first into the netting covering the cot. His vision is overrun with intense geometric shapes. He closes his eyes tightly. Each time he tries to open them, he feels waves of nausea. So, he lays still with tightly closed eyes, bathed in a dazzling display of orange, gold, and black geometry.

As the moments stretch onward, a voice emerges from the void, as clear and resonant as a tolling bell, “Do you wish to know the truth of yourself?”

A shudder of fear courses through him. Could the truth of his being be something so dire, so irrevocable? he ponders with a hint of dread. Materializing from the mists of his mind’s eye, a chest adorned with jewels and secured with an iron lock appears, as if conjured by the question itself.

“Do you want to know your truth?”

The question hits him anew, a surge of apprehension mingling with the inescapable realization that he is compelled to answer in the affirmative.

“Yes,” he whispers into the ether.

With a creak and a groan like ancient hinges waking from a long slumber, the chest opens. Instantly, he is transported back to the farm—a place of simpler times yet laden with heavy memories. He observes himself, as if from a great distance, executing a black cat with his rifle, a mercy killing for an animal riddled with worms.

Next, the vision shifts, showing Misha, his once beloved pet, evoking the heart-wrenching decision to end another creature’s suffering. It starkly illustrates how his profound loneliness in a tiny, devout town had metamorphosed him into his own worst enemy. In choosing isolation over despair, he had crafted an existence of withdrawal and emotional barricades. His solitude, once a shield, now revealed itself as a shackle, pushing others away and locking him in a cycle of self-imposed exile. As this understanding crystallizes, a desperate need to delve deeper into his own psyche overwhelms him.

The transformation is abrupt and grotesque. His form morphs into a colossal arachnoid demon, its belly seething with burning poison. The power is exhilarating, intoxicating even, but equally repugnant and agonizing. In that moment of monstrous revelation, he confronts a stark truth: he is inherently selfish. Bending forward, he retches, purging the venom of his selfishness in a physical and symbolic expulsion that seems to wrench his very soul. The sounds of his own desolation echo around him, a mournful lament that seems to emanate from within.

Empty and purged, he begins an odyssey through time, traversing the inception of the cosmos to the far reaches of eternity. The dual nature of existence—good and evil—becomes apparent, each aspect a mere facet of a grander design. Amidst this cosmic journey, the plaintive meow of a cat pierces the silence. Opening his eyes, he finds a black tomcat at his feet. Employing the familiar call he used on the farm, the cat approaches and nestles contentedly in his arms, purring. With the feline’s presence, the visions resume, now guided by the cat’s feminine essence, which elucidates the motives behind the eternal dance of good and evil.

At the nexus of time, he grasps the totality of his existence—he is both observer and creator, endowed with infinite knowledge and power, yet burdened by the enigma of his own purpose. This epiphany, that all of existence might merely be his attempt to understand himself, dawns on him with crushing weight.

When reality reasserts itself, the cat has vanished, and the eternal vista remains unchanged. He rises, renewed in body but awash with the profound implications of his revelations. The surroundings pulse with vibrant colors, the very essence of life visible to his eyes. Creation responds to his whims; his thoughts manifesting instantly in reality. Yet, as the euphoria subsides, a profound sorrow envelops him. He recognizes the transient nature of his epiphany—he must return to the mundane, the singular existence that knows not the interconnectedness of all.

Tears flow freely as he contemplates this return to normalcy, understanding now that life, in its myopic daily struggles, is but a pale shadow of the vastness he has witnessed. Yet, there is a peace in this acceptance. Time loses meaning as he lays down, the visions fading into the quietude of sleep. In the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, he perceives a tall, androgynous figure watching over him. As he strives to focus, the figure dissipates like a shadow under the relentless march of dawn. Fully awake, his physical needs assert themselves—hunger, thirst, and the urgent call of nature.

Glancing down, he notes a peculiar bracer encircling his arm, fashioned from leather and yarn, snug and oddly warm against his skin. Despite repeated attempts, it defies removal, clinging to him as if part of his very flesh.

Faced with the immediate demands of his body and the absence of any conventional facilities, he speaks aloud, half in jest, “Look, if there is anyone here, I mean no disrespect, but unless you can point me to a bathroom.”

Raised in Idaho, he knows the natural world is often his only restroom. He relieves himself on the ground, the stream disappearing as if absorbed by the very earth, leaving no trace nor splash—a curious, almost mystical occurrence.

Relieved and mildly embarrassed, he fastens his jeans and scans his surroundings for water. Structures that might house fountains catch his eye behind the twin arches, beckoning him to explore further. As he approaches the first arch, an imposing edifice of black marble inlaid with reflective golden veins reminiscent of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, he sees his reflection fleetingly in its mirrored surface. Underneath, a sculpted garden invites exploration, but his thirst drives him onward.

As he nears the arch, adorned with a radiant carving of a woman in a kimono, his movements become sluggish, time stretching thin around him. Despite his efforts to reach the inviting image, he is thwarted by the inexplicable slowing of time. Curious but increasingly desperate, he gives the arch a wide berth, eventually discovering a safe path between the two arches, where time seems to flow unhindered.

Past these mysterious gateways, he encounters a tranquil courtyard, centered around an magnificent tree that exudes a serene authority, its presence comforting and ancient. A modest fountain under the tree beckons, offering the promise of refreshment. As he approaches, the conflicting advice of his mountain upbringing wars with the fantastical allure of myth—drink and be bound, or cautiously avoid entrapment by the faery realms.

He ponders, balancing recent events, and concludes, what’s one more issue? And so, he drinks. It turns out to be the most satisfying gulp of water he’s ever experienced. Cold and perfect, he feels empowered as he guzzles it down, drinking until satiated. Then, he sits on one of the tree’s protruding roots, surveying the courtyard, realizing each structure isn’t truly a building at all. The fronts boast large and imposing-looking iron gates. Through the gates, one can glimpse small interior patios open to the sky.

Driven by curiosity, he approaches the first gate.

Nearing it, he hears a deep voice clearly state, “You cannot choose death alone.”

Carved on the door are the familiar figures of two grim reapers dueling with their scythes. He’s pretty sure engaging further is unwise and retreats from the door.

As he does, the voice again reaches him, “Be seeing you soon, but please, next time, a little decorum.”

Fear should grip him, yet the voice’s tone is unexpectedly friendly.

He finds himself asking aloud, “Who are you? Where am I?” but the question hangs unanswered in the air.

He moves to the opposite gate, bypassing the fountain and tree. This gate mirrors the first in shape and structure but features two lovers entwined in a passionate embrace, their naked genitalia graphically depicted. Surrounding the main image are a series of smaller carvings depicting Kama Sutra positions.

While he studies this, he again hears the voice, “You cannot be alone in love,” but no one is in sight, leaving him with only the sound of his own quickened heartbeat.

“Can you talk to me?” he inquires, met with silence.

“Not a very good host,” he remarks sarcastically, eliciting an equally sarcastic response from the unseen voice,

“Not a very good guest.” Shocked by the unexpected reply, he stammers an apology, but again, silence prevails.

After a fruitless half-hour seeking another response, he finally turns his attention to the third gate hidden behind the tree. This gate’s carvings are convex, creating the impression it was hewn from a single large stone. An infinity symbol dominates the center, surrounded by small carvings depicting men and women in various states of pain, some emotional, others physical. The same voice, now tinged with sadness, announces,

“You may have neither love nor death if you pay the price,” followed by, “You may enter alone,” offering permission without invitation.

He recoils, pondering the ominous implication. Whatever it signifies, it doesn’t sound like an offer he wishes to accept, and he retreats. As he turns to leave, a faint trace of hysterical laughter evolves into screams. Considering himself brave, the sound nonetheless chills him to the core, propelling him into a brief adrenaline-fueled run. A couple kilometers later, he collapses breathlessly onto the black marble ground, overwhelmed by fear like never before. His body trembles as adrenaline courses through him.

It takes a few moments to orient himself, and he realizes he’s crossed a significant distance in the courtyard to where a different set of arches stands, ominously distinct from the rest. The base colors are red instead of black, and there is no visible ornamentation to any of them. After a few minutes, he feels up to moving again and starts walking toward the nearest arch. He is about twenty meters away when the pain starts. It’s like every centimeter of his body just got hit with a ragged-edged hammer.

He screams and falls back to the ground, and for the second time that day, he is trying to vomit, only this time there is nothing coming out. He lays curled over, dry heaving until the pain subsides; and he notices that the leathery yarn thing on his wrist is hot, almost to the point of burning. He tries to pull it off but it seems to be made of something stronger than his skin. After a few tries, he gets up and starts walking back to where he first arrived.

It’s clear that this is not the area he wants to be. Just thinking about the red arches brings back thoughts of the pain. He is sure these thoughts are the future subject of his nightmares. It takes him about fifteen minutes to get back to where he thinks he was when he arrived. He does not find the cot anywhere. He sits down on the ground and starts to feel a little sorry for himself. His shoulder hurts from where he injured it falling from the ceiling in the meteorite room. That seems like a thousand years ago now. He is hungry, he has no idea where he is.

Think, Max, think, he tells himself. There must be a reason that the guy from the computer screen at school asked him to come here. He just needs to reason it out. He said he needed his help and that a lot of lives depended on it. There has to be something here that can help him. He starts counting the arches. There are twenty-one black ones with different decorations and twenty-one red ones without.

He is none too inclined to check out the red ones again, but at least the black ones did not try to kill him. Given that his options seem to be a lot of pain at the red, scared witless at the building behind the first two arches, and a massive castle that seems to have no entrance, he decides to check out the other arches. It takes him another half hour to get beyond the initial two arches.

Once he is closer to the third and fourth, he sees a grove of trees. The arches are spaced pretty symmetrically, so he tries the same trick of walking equidistant between them. Trying to eyeball this, he occasionally feels the sensation of time slowing, so he adjusts his path.

The first archway has the same now-familiar dark marble, but the three carvings look like pictures he has seen from India. The first depicts a guy reclining on a serpent with a lotus flower emerging from his belly button and another guy standing on the flower.

The second carving is a guy with blue skin and a third eye on his forehead. He has a crescent moon in his hair and a river flowing out of it. He holds a trident and walks with a bull.

The bull reminds him of the bull they keep on the farm. They often play a game of who has the courage to run across the bullpen at home. Many times, he has had to dive for safety between the rails of the corral with a pissed-off horn wielding bull breathing down his neck. It’s kind of badass for a guy to have such an animal following him around.

The third carving is of a woman with children. She looks pretty nice, like someone he would want to meet. The most interesting mural is at the apex. There is so much going on that from the distance, it takes him a few minutes to figure out what he is seeing. 

There are some good guys and some bad guys, using a serpent, tied to a mountain, to stir an ocean. The ocean looks like a galaxy. The mountain is held on the back of a turtle. Coming out of the ocean are a couple of people and some jeweled vials in elaborate cases; it’s like they contain something really important. The sky overhead is very stormy. He has to admit he is pretty curious as to what is going on, but any attempt to move in for a closer look results in an all-too-familiar feeling of time slowing down.

The other arch is also made of the black substance, but the art is more uniform and feels more military. There are four carvings on each side of the arch, all highlighted in bronze. In the center is a warrior, wearing a feather headdress and carrying a shield and a spear. He reminds him of Native American art he has seen in museums near his town. Most of the area around where he grew up was a Native American reservation or at least still has the names of the tribes.

Lower down on the sides of the arch are warriors in combat, some wearing jaguar and eagle costumes. There is an image of the sun, with rays of light cascading outward. One image keeps his eye, an Eagle perched on a cactus, clutching a snake in its talons.

On the other arch are pictures of hummingbirds. A couple of the pictures are a bit disturbing and look like ritualistic sacrifices. A final one catches his attention. It looks like some type of complicated clock or calendar based on the sun. In all, he thinks it looks pretty damn cool. At the same time, he is not sure he wants to meet any of these guys in a dark alley. They look pretty unforgiving.

He makes it to the far side of the arches and can see what is pretty clearly a garden. At least it looks like the trees have fruit, although it is not like any fruit he has ever seen. The first is a cross between a bush and a tree. It has small round berries that seem to emit a bioluminescent glow, slowly pulsing in shades of neon blue and green. He decides to give these ones a miss. The first thing he eats on an alien world should not be glowing.

A little further in, he sees vines that look like watermelons, except that the melons are oblong and have a radiant sun-like outer skin, that keeps transitioning from a deep orange at the top to a fiery red at the bottom. Apparently glowing is the way of things around here, so he takes one of the melons and uses the only tool he has to open it. He jumps on it with both feet.

Best-laid plans; it shatters underneath him, and he collapses on top of it. He finds himself laying in a pile of golden-hued, honeycomb-like structures. He stands up awkwardly and gently dips his finger into one of the honeycombs and gingerly sticks it into his mouth. His mouth explodes with the best flavor he has ever tasted. It’s a juice-like liquid that bursts with sweet and spicy flavors.

After a few seconds, the rind turns into a crispy wafer texture, which is also delicious. As he eats the rest of the melon, he notices the ground seems to absorb any small fallen pieces, much as it did his urine earlier. Where is it going?

He sees grapes, except that each bundle is a double helix, like strands of DNA, spiraling around each other on the vine. Each grape is a gradient of two colors, often contrasting like purple and yellow, with tiny patterns of helical stripes. After he has eaten a few, he finds that the flavor changes, starting sour and gradually becoming sweet, with some delicious aftertaste he loves, but has nothing with which to compare it. He eats until he is full, slowing down only when he realizes that making himself sick, would be three times too many for the day.

Walking further into the grove, he encounters the coolest trees he has ever seen. The air is filled with a fragrance between cinnamon and caramel, and the leaves rustle gently, creating a soothing musical sound. The bark shimmers like brushed aluminum with a soft iridescent sheen. The branches are wide, each limb twisting in fractal-like patterns.

It reminds him of the circuit boards inside the TRS-80 computer at school, only reaching vertically toward the sky. The leaves are pulsing from translucent to emerald green, glowing with the backlighting of the sky, making them look like living lanterns. The ground is a soft matting, the only thing he has found that looks comfortable since his cot disappeared. He sits down to rest for a few minutes and slowly dozes off.

He’s in the back seat of a cab in New York City, which is weird because he’s never been to New York City. He’s pretty sure he’s dreaming. He can’t see the cab driver because there is a smokey glass barrier between them with a small slot, he assumes for passing money. The driver starts speaking to him in a heavy bronx accent.

Driver begins the conversation with an apology, “Apologies, it’s tough to communicate in your active state. I’m sure ya got questions. I’ll answer what I can. I’d like to assist ya with your current dilemma.”

Max, confused and seeking answers, quickly responds,  “Ok, who the fuck are you, and where the fuck am I, and which particular dilemma are you referring to?”

The Driver explains, “As to who da fuck I am, I’m afraid ya don’t got da context to understand an answer, suffice it to say I’m two things for ya in dis instance. I’m da physical band on your arm and I’m da one wit’ da information ya require to assist in your other two inquiries. First, you’re on da home world of da Cynoptians, Necropolara. Currently, you’re in da capital city of Anubidia, in da military sub-district. You’re da first livin’ being to have visited in four billion years, earth standard. As to your dilemma, it’s nearly impossible to leave Anubidia, as it exists outside of da time and space dat you refer to as da universe. Dis brings us to da purpose of dis conversation and my desire to aid ya in your continued voyage. Please take a moment, dat’s a lot of information for someone in your position.”

Max, overwhelmed, tries to process the information, “Uh, who or what is a Cynoptian?”

The Driver clarifies, “Da Cynoptians are da race who follow Anubidia, someone your mythology has many names for, most commonly variations of da word death. While a rather inaccurate definition, it’ll suffice for da moment. Da Cynoptians are what ya would call da first race. Dey are ancient beyond concept and were largely responsible for definin’ da rules and structure of dis universe. Dey have not been heard from since about da time your solar system was formin’.”

The Driver then pushes the conversation forward, “Please excuse me, da amount of time we got is limited, and we got more important matters to discuss. Are ya now in a position to absorb practical information, or has da aforementioned topic matter left ya in an existential crisis?”

Max assures the Driver he’s ready to continue, “Uh, I think I am pretty good to go, but thanks for the consideration.”

The Driver details the plan to escape, “In ordah to get ya off of dis world, we gonna need to convince da autonomous systems dat you’re Cynoptian. I got limited capabilities in dis realm, but I believe I can get ya access to an endoskeletal structur dat will allow ya to transit one of da gates. Can ya please memorize da followin’ instructions?”

Max hesitantly agrees, “Will do my best, strange pushy cab driver.”

The Driver gives specific instructions, “I’m certain ya seen da palace-lookin’ structure. Please find what appears to be a portal; it’ll be sealed but should appear as a blank wall at da end of the first series of stairs left of here on da upper level. Can ya do dis?”

Max confirms, “Sure.”

The Driver continues, “Once ya proximate, I’m gonna need ya to sit and focus. Focus means ya gotta clear your mind, focusin’ only on your breathin’. When ya got nothin’ in your mind and are completely calm, ya gotta look only at me, da band on your arm. Imagine yaself goin’ into da band. Once ya see yaself inside of da band, ya’ll see a series of symbols; now, dis is da trick, without losin’ your concentration, ya need to move your view to where da door should be. A set of symbols will appear dere. As ya see each symbol, try and match it wit’ da symbols ya see inside da band. Dis ain’t simple, and it may take ya some time. Probably days. Ya need to be diligent and focused. Unfortunately, I ain’t gonna be able to communicate wit’ ya to assist. Can ya do dis?”

Max expresses his willingness to try, “Happy to try.”

The Driver concludes, “Once ya matched da requisite number of symbols, da door should open. There’ll be a final symbol shown to ya after da door opens. Ya gotta memorize dis symbol. Ya understand?”

Max confirms his understanding and readiness to proceed, “Memorize the final signal, got it.”

The Driver provides the final steps, “Inside of da passage, ya’ll find rows of identical boxes. On da exterior of da chamber, ya’ll find a door wit’ da symbol ya memorized. Enter dis door. It ain’t gonna be locked. Inside da room, ya’ll find a chair wit’ a helmet and a small pad on da armrest. Sit in da chair, place da helmet on ya head, and place me, da band on your arm, on da pad on da armrest. Dis will enable me to activate da device. Da device will enable ya to locate a Janusian endoskeletal implant. Once ya find da location of da implant, place me, da armband, against a pad similar to da one on da armrest. Dis will enable me to activate da implant for ya. All clear?”

Max acknowledges the gravity of the instructions, “Yeah, about the skeletal implant part?” His voice rises up several octaves, showing his nervousness.

The Driver urges him to focus, “Pay attention; we ain’t got much time.”

Max reassures him, “Ok, ok.”

The Driver explains the importance of the final steps, “Once dis has been activated, ya must leave da palace and return to da first arch ya encountered. Dis is a portal. Ya should now be able to approach and use it. Once ya through da portal, dere are a couple of important points.

First, I ain’t gonna be able to communicate wit’ ya once ya left Necropolara, so dis likely gonna be our last communication. Second, ya gonna receive a communication from Nils Verin. I ain’t certain what form dis communication gonna take, but it’s essential dat ya follow his instructions. Nils is da person who contacted ya on Earth. Third, at some point in da future, Necropolara gonna call ya home to dis place. It might be decades; it might be days, but everythin’ dat touches dis city returns. Ya understand everythin’ I told ya?”

Max, overwhelmed by the complexity and finality of the situation, exclaims, “Dude, you are saying a lot of fucked up things, but yeah, I got it.”

The Driver sets the stakes high, “Da only permanent way out of da city are da great sacrifices of Love, Death, or Agony. Ya met ‘em yesterday by da fountain. Finally, and dis is da most important, ya must find Nils and return me. Time is short; please confirm if ya understand and are willin’ to undertake these tasks. I feel it’s only fair to advise ya dat failure to accept will result in ya spendin’ da rest of your natural life alone in dis place.”

Max, faced with the reality of his situation, responds, “Jesussss, man, you just lay it out like that. A crazy fucking string of events with no explanation and a promise of dying alone on Death’s world.”

The Driver gives a final, somber confirmation, “Ya, Max, I’m sorry, but dees are your options.”

Max, still grappling with the enormity of his situation, asks, “Do I ever get to go home?”

The Driver offers a philosophical and somewhat uncertain response, “Da possibility of dat is not zero, though I expect what ya refer to as home is a state of mind as much as a place, and it is, in my considerable experience, impossible to ever truly go home.”

Max, contemplating the surreal nature of his journey and the decisions before him, finally agrees to the Driver’s terms, “I will do as you ask, but can I at least know your name?”

The Driver introduces himself, “My name in your tongue would be Bant af Garn; but yus can call me Bant, it is my pleasure to know ya.”

As the cab comes to a stop, the Driver concludes the conversation with a final gesture, “I’m afraid dis is where ya get out. Em hotep nefer, my friend,” he speaks while crossing his hands across his chest a motion Max can see through the glass, that somehow makes him think of a funeral procession.

He awakens under the trees feeling rested and more than a little freaked out. He looks around the garden again and comes across some fruit that looks like half-yard, the English beer-drinking glasses he has read about. The fluid inside tastes a bit like flavored water and definitely quenches his thirst. He doesn’t feel the least bit hungry. He guesses that the stuff he had eaten last night must be pretty nutritious. He’s always hungry in the mornings.

He keeps running the instructions Bant af Garn has given him through his head and periodically glancing at the more or less innocuous ornament on his arm, trying not to think of it as some extraterrestrial sentient being. He has already decided to do as it asks but feels a little resistance to leaving the sanctuary of the garden.

As long as he stays here, he can pretend the whole thing is a dream and imagine for a minute that he will wake up in his bed at home, with Misha purring next to him. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes; that is not what he really wants.

There is a question that tells you whether a person is a real Science Fiction fan. It goes like this. You’re driving down a deserted highway in the middle of the night and a UFO appears and lands on the road in front of you. You stop the car and get out. A door opens and a ramp slides to the ground.

An alien walks down the ramp and greets you. It tells you that it is just leaving for another galaxy. It has room for one more if you want to come. The only problem is that it is a one-way trip, if you want to go you have to leave with it now, without communicating to anyone, and you can never come back. Do you get on the ship? Any true aficionado knows the answer is yes! So here he is, living the actualization of that what-if story he always loved, so he guesses it’s time to quit messing around and get on with it.

It takes him a good half hour of jogging to get to the edge of the palace stairs. There is no way to get a good sense of scale, but he guesses it is a day’s hike to the upper ramparts. He realizes this is not something he wants to try without water.

He spends an hour going back to the woods. He manages to use a vine to wrap and tie three of what he is now calling water fruit to his back. It’s a little makeshift but functional. He forces himself to eat a few more of the Helix berries, even though he is still not hungry, and he is off.

Not sure if you have ever tried to climb stairs for twelve hours. Max thinks without hesitation, it is the most unpleasant experience he has ever undertaken. He keeps thanking himself that he took the time to bring along water as he has to frequently stop and rest.

By the time he arrives at the upper stairs, the last of his water is exhausted. The location he finds matches the description Bant af Garn has given. A small set of stairs ends at a wall of the weird black material from which this whole palace seems to be made. He takes a few minutes to rest up and massage his aching calf muscles.

Finally, he sits down and closes his eyes and starts to breathe, trying to focus his mind. He fails completely. He thinks about Emily, the girl in his class, then about his cat, the weather, this world, Bant af Garn, cabs in New York City, parachute pants, his hair, the price of gasoline, meteorites, programming tricks, some guy he doesn’t know called Nils.

He has no idea how much time has passed, but his rear hurts from sitting on the ground, his legs are numb from being cross-legged, and for the first time, he is hungry. The hunger, at least, he is able to handle by eating the rind of the water fruits. His mind, the Garn, and the wall all stubbornly remain unchanged.

He nods off for some time. When he wakes back up, his legs are so cramped from climbing stairs he can barely move them, and he has the mother of all headaches. He starts to consider his options. Pretty sure his legs can’t take the descent at this time. Not much else to do here, and he cannot sleep anymore. He rubs his legs and walks around in circles until the cramps fade enough to let him sit cross-legged again.

He just stares at the band on his arm. He stares until his eyes hurt, then blinks and repeats. It seems like this goes on for hours, but as his vision starts to go out of focus, he starts to see patterns in the band. It reminds him of those weird geometric pictures, that if you look at just right, suddenly become three-dimensional holograms. At some point, this happens with the Bant, and he sees what looks like a hedge maze. He only holds it for a few seconds, till it fades, and he is back staring at a band on his arm.

This tiny success renews his spirit. He has no idea how long he stares at that band, but sometime when he is just holding the band in his vision and slowly counting his breaths, he feels himself merge with the band. The reality around him slowly blinks out, and all he is left with is a feeling like he is very tiny and floating down into the band. He rests, super comfortable, just slowly counting his breaths. A few seconds in, hold, a few seconds out, hold, after what could have been minutes or hours, he raises his eyes to the door and he loses it. He is back sitting on the floor, in pain, and staring at a blank wall.

It takes him another two dozen tries before he can hold the state of being in the Bant and looking at the wall simultaneously. He loses it several more times when the first symbols appear. After what seems like forever, he sees a symbol on the door and he merges it with a symbol inside the Bant. It’s like he has bifurcated his mind into three distinct zones.

One keeps him rooted in the Bant, one focuses on the door, and the final matches the symbols. He makes a lot of mistakes. The differences in the symbols on the door and in the Bant are subtle. There are at least five inside the Bant that look very similar to the one on the door; he often picks the wrong one. Each time he does, the process starts over, and each time it is a new sequence of symbols.

As frustrating as this is, he starts to feel like he recognizes the symbols when they are repeated. He gets as far as six matched symbols when he screws up and loses the whole process completely.

He is exhausted mentally and physically. He is also hungry and thirsty, as he has consumed the last of the water fruit rinds hours ago. He lays back and closes his eyes and is instantly asleep. His sleep has no dreams, and when he awakes, he begins again, completely focused on the process. His hunger and the rest of the world go away.

He is not sure how long it takes him, but when he matches the fourteenth consecutive symbol, he sees the wall shimmer, and where there had been nothing before lies an open doorway. A final symbol that looks like an upside-down pentagram sits in front of the open door. Each point is a smaller set of symbols that seem to match the portals he has seen in the courtyard. He spends a very long time memorizing the details before he finally loses concentration.

He is exhausted and ecstatic, feeling like he has completed a really difficult programming exercise. It takes him a few minutes to let blood come back into his legs as he tries to stand. He gets cramps in his calves, which cause him to dance around yelling like an idiot until they subside to a dull ache.

The doorway emits absolutely no light, and he is not sure if he will be able to see inside. He approaches slowly and places a finger ever so gently against the light barrier. His finger passes through without resistance. He tries the whole hand with a similar effect.

He pushes his face through and as soon as his eyes break the barrier, he finds himself looking into a vast room, larger than an airplane hangar. He sees rows of shelves, about a meter apart, stretching the length of the chamber and rising up at least five stories. Each shelf has hundreds of small black boxes neatly stacked. It is a massive amount of storage.

As he steps inside, he notices that the quality of the light is different. This light is a warmer yellow tone than the grey of the courtyard. He looks toward the ceiling and sees what appears to be an inverted city of futuristic skyscrapers hanging down toward him. Staring at it gives him a moment of vertigo before he returns his vision to ground level. It’s warm here, and the air smells fresh. How do you keep fresh air and immaculate cleaning for four billion years?

To his right, the wall curves inward and terminates at some square, one-story structures. It’s about a five-minute walk to the first structure, and it is doorless. He finds four more structures, each with a door, but no symbols before arriving at a door with symbols. It has overlapping circles, so he moves on.

Each subsequent door has geometric symbols until he reaches the back of the main room. He finds three doors with Pentagrams. The first two are right side up and have different symbols at the points. The third one is a perfect copy of the final symbol he has seen before entering the complex. He pushes against it, and the door opens silently inward.

In the middle of the room stands a floating chair. There is a half a meter of nothing under the chair, and it reminds him of the chair he has his teeth cleaned. Other than that, it matches the Bant’s description from his dream.

Is he voluntarily placing himself in some futuristic torture chamber? Nobody likes a dentist chair, and this is a little ridiculous. Maybe he should bail and take his chances back in the courtyard. He realizes that he has exactly no understanding of this place. He is dependent on the voice of a cab driver, who claims to be living in a yarn and leather band on his arm.

He approaches the chair, looking for a good mount point. Finding none, he runs from one corner, jumps up, and twists around to land squarely in the chair. He expects to catch himself from falling out the other side, but as soon as he is in the correct position, all of his inertia simply ends. He has never felt a sensation like this before.

He climbs off the chair and repeats the jump three more times, just to feel the effect of his momentum being canceled. Well, Newton, we have some news for you! He feels no opposite reaction at all. This guy in motion simply stops. Pretty darn cool.

He realizes he is stalling because he is afraid to put on the helmet, which is floating just above his head. He takes a deep breath, reaches up, and takes hold of the helmet. Cool, the same effect. It simply stays wherever he places it. No gravity, no momentum, nothing attached to it. It is similar to his motorcycle helmet back home, except no straps to secure it. He places it on his head, and it is super comfortable.

Once on his head, it moves seamlessly with his head and appears to have no weight. He lays back on the chair and lines up the band with a small silver pad on the armrest. There is a moment when nothing happens, and then he starts to see things about a meter in front of him. It looks like a scan of his body with several areas color-coded in red.

He recognizes one of them as where his tonsils would be if he had not had them taken out when he was fourteen. It also seems to highlight a couple of very small red spots on his chest and one on his left leg. The one on his leg is where he broke both bones on the trampoline when he was seven.

He sees a blue light that starts at the feet of the image and moves upward. As it moves up, the image is cleared of any red spots. When it reaches his throat, he feels a tickling sensation. Once complete, the body image highlights the area of the eyes with green colors. It also highlights the palm of his hands with the same green.

This time the beam of light that goes over the body is orange. When it passes his hands and eyes, he feels a tingling sensation in each area. He also feels any hunger, thirst, and fatigue are just gone. He feels great, like he just got up from a long peaceful sleep.

When he looks around the room, he sees a series of controls along the wall. They were not there before he sat down! He can read the words above the controls! They are not in English, but he understands the symbols. This is obviously a medical room.

He walks around looking at the controls for some time. He can understand what they say, but not so much that he would want to try and make them do anything. After about fifteen minutes, he opens the door to the main chamber and stops cold.

There is a massive amount of lights and symbols on everything in the room now. Each shelf has a short description, and the boxes each have a color code. There are descriptions above each aisle in soft neon lighting. The descriptions are free-standing in space, unattached to anything. The first few sets of rows have symbols that seem to relate to mineral extractions. The next ones give him thoughts of navigation.

He goes through aisles on arts, some form of meditation, communications, and finally, he comes to something that seems to mean bodysuits. The images he gets are of military and civilian bodysuits that adapt for climate, gravity, and language.

He is about ten rows in when he sees the symbol for Janusian. It is two faces, facing away from one another. He has no idea how he knows this is Janusian. It has to be something the chair did to him. He recognizes the symbol from the arch in the courtyard. There is a small pad similar to the one on the armrest of the chair, and he presses the armband against it.

After a few moments, one of the black boxes floats down from the third tier of shelves. When it gets to the bottom, it sits in the air in front of him. He sees a series of symbols that have something to do with calibration on the front of the box. A thick gaseous substance comes out of the box and floats toward him. When it reaches him, it covers his body. There is zero sensation as it covers everything but his face. Then it just sinks into him. One second it is there, and the next it just kind of falls through him. The empty box just ceases to be. One second it is there, and the next it is not.

He doesn’t feel any different. He momentarily questions himself if anything has happened. Weird. He walks the rest of the way along the aisle until he is back near the door where he entered. He can see it a few hundred meters away and is about to head that direction when he starts to think. What else might be in here? He decides to go through the rest of the room.

The next aisles are something about culture, then there are aisles about biology and medicine. He hits the most interesting one, interfaces! The images it shows him make him think of access to systems and security. He chooses the access aisle and begins walking along it. He sees symbols that make him think of networks, systems, memory, codes.

He stops at the systems area as it has the same gray pad that he used on the chair and on the suits. No idea if his friendly Bant is up for it, but he presses the band to the pad. After a brief pause, a black box comes out of the stack directly in front of him. It has symbols on the cover that are glowing and shifting. The box opens, and this time the smoke that comes out is a dark pulsating blue. It surrounds him in identical fashion to the previous and then just sort of falls into him. Just as before, the box simply ceases to be, and he is standing, feeling nothing different.

Well, not sure what he had hoped for, maybe some crazy new skills. Best intentions and all that. He heads back to the exit, which takes him about fifteen minutes. As he jogs over, he realizes how strange it is that he has gone from terrified of this place to feeling in some small way like he belongs. Funny how the human mind can accept almost anything.

With gravity on his side, the trip down is a whole lot easier than the trip up. He makes good time getting back to the courtyard and arrives having just broken a sweat. It takes him another half hour to get back to the arch. What he immediately notices is that the symbols on the arches are alive now. Where before he saw only carvings, now there are brilliant colors and shifting images.

He stands in front, just watching the interplay of light and shadow. He chooses an arch that shows scenes of water, rivers, and oceans. Well, here goes nothing, he thinks as he begins to walk toward it. About thirty meters away, he feels the slowing of time sensation and a pang of dismay.

He is about to turn and go back when he feels a counter sensation. It is like something is pushing him toward the gate, so even as time is getting slower for him, he is still making steady progress. It takes him about a day of walking with the sensation. It is painfully slow, but at the same time, he feels a little progress. The last three meters take several hours until he crosses the threshold of the arch. Without warning, he is tumbling head over heels down a hill of what feels like grass but is much bluer.

Nils spends the days leading up to the Fet de Illusion researching the Bant af Garn without success. He has managed to find its control panel through a combination of meditation and concentration. He spends another afternoon cursing for the nth time about the lack of instruction.

Who the fuck makes a sophisticated piece of gear without proper UI or AI, he fumes. Here he sits, with the power of a god, and he can barely figure out how to turn the damn thing on. He decides to give it a break for a while, closes his eyes, and engages his internal microcircuitry.

He sees a heads-up display in the air in front of him as his implant projects on the back of his corneas. All citizens of Estropolis receive retinal implants at birth. They learn to control them via a digital-analog brain interface in childhood. Controlling the display is so second nature that he navigates it unconsciously. His personal AI filters communications based on his prior usage.

He views a communique from Minita. It is largely video data showing them in clothing for the Fet. It contains a source reference to load into his personal holograph. All that is required now is for him to make modifications for class and gender to match. He makes a few small changes and then, with a wicked smile, adds a lighting strip of brighter purple. He rotates the garment in three dimensions, adding a family crest pin, an individual finger weave, and soft-soled slippers.

Next, he pulls back in Minita’s outfit and has it render the two of them walking together. He adds an algorithm synchronizing a soft pulsating glow for the outfits. Happy with the result, he sends it back to Minita to review and waits. Less than five minutes pass before she responds with an emoticon indicating delight.

There is a sub-message attached to the outfit which requires a personal one-time decryption. He responds by generating a key pair and sends it back. Almost immediately, the counter key is received, he validates, and opens the sub-message.

Super odd, it is not from Minita; it is from someone he does not recognize, an unknown man wearing Runebinder class garments and includes a video. The man is requesting to meet at the Fet de Illusion. Nils has never received communications from anyone in the Runebinders, much less an invitation. Very curious. The video has a one-way key which Nils uses to encrypt an acceptance.

Nils opts to use an airframe to get to the House of Mirrors. In this outfit, he can scarcely be jumping over rooftops.

He is vaguely curious as to why Minita has invited him. They are a neuter, and as such, it is unlikely to be a sexual thing. Not out of the question, of course, but they have never indicated any interest in the past. The airframe drops him in front of the restaurant “Free Fall” on Reflection Plaza, a few hundred meters from the Hall of Mirrors.

He sees Minita waiting for him and waves for them to join him. As they get closer, their outfits synchronize and merge, creating the effect he has designed in the system. He has to admit the two of them look pretty great.

Minita begins the conversation with a compliment, “I loved your changes to the outfits! The purple was a stroke of genius.”

Nils responds appreciatively, “Thank you. You made it pretty easy by choosing the base arrangement.”

Minita continues to praise Nils, “You have a talent for improving things. If you ever get tired of whatever it is you do, I think you could have a future in fashion.”

Nils humbly deflects, “Not really my bowl of nuts, but thank you for the compliment.”

Nils waves them forward, and they move through the security scanners. From a distance, the Hall of Mirrors cuts a striking silhouette against the night sky. Its surface, a labyrinth of reflective glass and trickster motifs, captures and distorts the lights and colors of the city, creating an ever-shifting mirage that seems to dance with mischievous energy. The building comes alive with a dazzling array of lights.

Unlike conventional illumination, these lights flicker and change unpredictably, casting a myriad of shadows and reflections that play upon the building’s surface. The colors are vibrant and ever-changing, shifting from deep, mischievous purples to greens that sparkle with a trickster’s glee.

The entrance is grand and theatrical, with flamboyant decorations that pay homage to Loki’s dual nature. Statues of the god, depicting his various forms and exploits, are bathed in surreal, shifting light, as if coming to life under the moonlit sky. The path to the entrance is lined with mirrors that distort and magnify, making their approach feel like a journey through a different, more whimsical reality.

Inside, the Hall of Mirrors is a spectacle of illusion and grandeur. Mirrored walls and ceilings create a vast, infinite space, where up seems like down, and the end feels like the beginning. The holiday decorations hang from seemingly impossible angles, adorned with symbols of Slygardian culture; serpents, masks, and spectral figures.

The atmosphere is filled with an air of mystery and celebration. The sounds of ethereal music float through the hall, mingling with the soft murmur of conversation and laughter. The crowd is adorned in attire that’s as vibrant and deceptive as the building itself, moving through the hall in a dance that’s both graceful and impish. Nils cannot help but think of the times his father brought him for the third aspect festivities. It is a bittersweet memory.

“Hey, I meant to ask you. Who is the guy that sent along the invitation to meet here in your response to my outfit suggestions?” Nils inquired.

Minita looked confused. “What guy?”

“You know, the Runebinder video that was an addendum to your response message.”

“Nils, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Here, let me show you.” Nils engages his optics and tries to pull up the video he had received. He tries again, but nothing is there. This has never happened before. His internal storage is heavily encrypted. Despite being basically impossible, accessing a personal storage area is a death penalty offense. His mind races as to who would, or could do such a thing.

“Oh, my mistake, Minita. It was another conversation.”

“I have never known you to make a mistake, Nils.” Minita looks at him impatiently.

“Ok, I received a sub-message as a response to our coordination of outfits. Some guy in Runebinder clothing asks to meet me at this event. It was signed with your keys, so I assumed he must be someone you know.”

“That is pretty much impossible, Nils. You know I use the strongest encryption, and I have no idea who you are talking about.”

“It gets weirder. I stored the video on my personal repo, and it’s gone now. No one has access to that space. Hell, wars have been fought over less.”

Suddenly the lights and the people didn’t seem so festive anymore. Nils and Minita both suspected that the other must not be telling them something because the alternative was too hard to imagine.

“Excuse me, would the two of you be so kind as to accompany me?” A woman neither of them recognizes, stands looking expectantly at them.

“Uhh, who are you?” Nils askes.

“My name is Alissa Eltover. I am the assistant to the man you received a communication from a short time ago. I would be most pleased if you would accompany me to our private chamber for a short discussion.”

“I would be happy to, but my friend here was just leaving.” Nils makes a number of small gestures with his hand, only visible to Minita in the Cant.

“Keep a trace on me, meet me later in the catacombs,” he gestures.

“As you like, you are the only required party,” Alissa responds.

Something about her voice and demeanor tells Nils this is not an invitation he can decline.

She takes him by the arm and begins leading him toward one of the large mirrors. Her grip feels like iron, and he is forced to follow. Just as they reach the mirror, it shimmers briefly, and they step through it. Immediately, the sound of the crowds is gone, and they are standing in a large room. Along the side of the room are Huitzilopochtli warrior statues. Standing at the end of the room is the man from the video.

“Xochiyaoyotl!” (zoh-chee-ow-YO-tul) Nils” he says while mimicking a rising sun with his hand. 

“My name is Xochitl Ohtli, but you may call me Xoc, pronounced zhook,” he carefully enunciates, feeling a sense of pride and identity in the title he’s earned. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Please sit, we have a few things to discuss,” he gestures toward a small overstuffed leather chair.

Nils thinks to himself, ‘Xoc... a name that commands respect and fear.

“Alissa, please see to it that our other guest arrives home absent memory of tonight’s engagement,” Xoc instructs, gesturing her back toward the entrance as he thinks about maintaining secrecy and control over the situation.

“Consider it done,” Alissa turns and exits, leaving only Nils and Xoc in the room.

Xoc, feeling a sense of urgency and directness, says, “Let us dispense with formalities.” His Runebinder clothing transforms into armor. ‘This should show my strength and readiness,’ he thinks to himself. The armor is a deep blood red with a radiant sun emblazoned on the breastplate in gold. The helmet is adorned with brightly colored feathers and moves independently of the main armor.

Nils recognizes it as formal armor, lacking the normal ports where specialized weapons can be interfaced. While formal, like all things Huit, it is functional first and only decorative to a point. It houses enough firepower to level the building and surrounding block, and it is very illegal on Estropolis.

Nils returns the greeting and hand movement, “Xochiyaoyotl!”

“You’re a bit out of your patch of woods, aren’t you?” Nils challenges.

“Indeed I am, but is not the third aspect festival in your culture a night when all cultures and classes are invited to mingle?” Xoc smiles.

Nils thinks to himself, ‘He’s done his homework. I need to tread carefully.’

“I don’t suppose you would like to share how you got that video to me, or more importantly away from me?” Nils asks.

“Straight to business then? A man who gets to the point. Useful. I see we shall do well together. I may consider what you ask, but I have more important things to speak with you about. Would you be so kind as to join me in a glass of wine?” Xoc offers, emphasizing the importance of the gesture.

“It would be my pleasure to share a cup with you, Xoc.” Nils walks to the chair and sits down, very aware that his life now largely depends on a man honoring his own customs, while flagrantly defying the customs of his own world.

“Excellent. I hope you enjoy the vintage. It was a gift to me, and I am assured, of the very finest possible quality,” Xoc says, something about his stress on “I am assured” piquing Nils’ curiosity.

Xoc produces two glasses from a small cabinet and an ornate bottle with a label so faded as to be illegible. He opens the bottle without any visible device, pours a small amount into his glass, swirls it a few times, takes a deep inhale, and drinks the remaining.

Nils realizes the significance of this gesture. While there are a thousand ways he could still be poisoned, it is symbolic. Xoc fills both glasses and sits in a chair similar to his own facing Nils. As he sits, his armor seems to shift and become less rigid, allowing him to recline naturally.

“Your colleague earlier made some inquiries regarding a certain item. This item is of particular interest to me. Not in its possession I assure you. No, the object is not something possible for me to possess. However, I have a need to utilize its capabilities. I am aware you are in possession of it at this moment.

Since you have been in this room, I have taken the liberty of some very extensive scanning to confirm two things. One, that you indeed are in possession of the Bant af Garn, and two, that you do not know how to use it. While the first situation is quite difficult for me to believe, I have accepted it. I would be keen to hear how this has come to be, should you be inclined to share,” Xoc proposes.

‘He knows about the relic. This changes everything,’ Nils thinks to himself as he continues to look at Xoc without expression.

“Ahh yes, the legendary poker face of the Shadowfolk,” Xoc remarks, taking a sip of his wine.

Nils does the same, admitting there is a subtle grace to the drink despite not being a wine enthusiast. They sit, taking drinks of the wine in silence until the two cups are empty.

“I have a proposal for you, Nils. I can enable you to use the Bant af Garn, at least to the degree that any man can. In return, I would ask that you use it to help me complete a project. Your assistance in my endeavor will in no way harm you or your future ability to use the Bant. A mutually beneficial arrangement. I also will give you, my word of honor, that you will have complete safety while engaged in this arrangement. I ask only that you give me your own word that you will act honorably as well,” Xoc states.

“Let’s see how he responds to a little pressure.” Xoc thinks

“I am a straightforward man and think it only fair to say that should you refuse my offer or stray from the agreed terms in any way, I will have you and your family executed in the most painful way imaginable. It is simply a fact,” he adds, delivering the ultimatum with such a calm voice and demeanor he could be proposing a game of Xoctlia, but Nils sees he is absolutely serious.

“You Huit do not disappoint,” Nils responds, noting a tiny facial movement from Xoc at the use of the term “Huit,” evaluating if he feels it holds a derogatory undercurrent; then it is gone, and his face is again placid.

“I accept the terms and conditions of your offer. You have my word of honor that I will not deviate from the proposed arrangement. May I have your word?” Nils requests.

“You have my word of honor, as an Ocelotl Warrior,” Xoc assures.

Xoc extends his hand forward at chest level with his palm extended. Nils extends his own, holding his palm against Xoc’s as they make eye contact. They remain in this position for several seconds before closing the hands into fists and returning them to their side. It is the same gesture that was used in the conclusion of the Storm wars nearly a thousand years prior.

“There will be a Vaikunthan ship, The Noble Flower, waiting in the Nebula Nexus port tomorrow at 13:00 hours. Authorization to enter the port and the ship have already been added to your personal AI. The ship will rendezvous with the Aztec Fireblade, my ship, once it is outside Slygardian space. You will be met at the boarding when you have submitted authorization by one of my subordinates. You will not be allowed any personal items, but I have made an exception for the relic.

The crew will not be aware of the purpose of your travel. Do not disclose this to them. In addition to the authorization added to your personal AI, I have included compensation for any time lost during our engagement. I look forward to our next interaction. Please enjoy the remainder of your evening,” Xoc informs.

As Xoc stands, his armor returns to fully opaque. He turns and walks through an aperture that looks much like the one Nils entered.

Nils waits a few moments after he leaves before letting out a long slow sigh. He feels like he has been on adrenaline since he entered the room. Only now recognizing how tense he has been. He rises from the chair and gazes at the statues of military victories lining the walls.

What am I getting myself into? Slowly he walks back across the room and exits back to the festivities.

“Nils, I was just looking for you,” Minita calls out as he emerges.

She is smiling and seems totally unaware of what has happened.

The remainder of the Fet is a blur.  Civility requires him to keep company with Minita, but he is totally focused on the agreement he has made with Xoc.   His anticipation at gaining an understanding of the Bant is exciting, but balanced by his trepidation at working with the Huit.  One thing is certain.  Xoc has not ben fully transparent in his “request”. 

While the Huit are famous for keeping their word, they are equally famous for obscuring their desires.  An art he finds impressive and distressing.  What he needs now is more information.  As soon as propriety allows, he bids Minita goodnight, indicating that he has some research that must be completed before morning.

He ditches his outfit in the alley as soon as he passes the Hall of Mirrors security.  He walks six blocks quickly to the Diplomatic Enclave, a repository of Slygardian knowledge of other races.  “Diplomatic”, makes him smile.  Call it what you will externally, it is clearly an intelligence agency. 

He ignores the front door instead entering a staircase leading beneath the building.  The staircase ends at a wall with a coded lock.  He turns to the brick wall on the left and gently runs his fingers along the cracks until he hears a soft click.  A brick opens outward revealing a  small optical scanner.  He places his eyes in front of the scanner and waits as his personal AI provides keys that match with his biometrics. 

These are the visible security protocols.  The third layer.  The first two layers took place when he stepped on the stair, matching his weight and movements to a dataset that updates daily for all Slygardian’s.  The false door and hidden pad where level two.  Now a retinal scan, DNA sampling and code exchange finish the authentication.  Hidden behind the door, an unseen mechanism replace the corridor with an alternate pathway and the door opens silently.

A single guard stands blended with the shadows, cloak engaged.  Nils pauses briefly whispering “Rune Vefur” while making the Hand cant indicating class and requirements.  The guard authenticates a second set of authorizations silently and a second hidden doorway illuminates. 

Nils pushes through the doorway and enters a long hallway with multiple doorways.  A series of small illuminations on the floor guides him through numerous turns and end at a door with no markings.  He places his hand on the door and waits.  A few moments pass until the door is opened and he enters an office with a single table.  There is a semi transparent shield of glass between he and the other occupant of the room who is obscured from view.

A female voice comes from behind the glass. “Rune Vefur citizen Verin. How may we be of assistance to you?”

“I am looking for information on a Huitzicalan citizen named Xochitl Ohtli,” Nils responds. Several minutes pass in silence and Nils begins to wonder what is happening. He hears another person enter the room and a quiet click as the door locks, and his suspicion rises. What have I gotten myself into?

Observing Nils’s discomfort, a new voice speaks, “I assure you there are no ways out of this room that are accessible to you. Please sit down, Nils.”

‘He’s cautious, good. He should be.’ She thinks, masking her personal vendetta against Xoc with professional composure.

Noticing the authoritative tone in the voice, Nils thinks, ‘I need to tread carefully here.’ “My apologies, I would have thought citizens deserved better treatment than to be left waiting without explanation. To whom do I owe the honor?”

“You may call me Lyrina. I would like to ask you some questions.”

Internally skeptical, Nils responds, “Rune Vefur, Lyrina. It was my understanding that answering questions was the purpose of the Diplomatic Enclave, not asking them?”

Pausing to gauge Nils’s reaction, Gunner inquires, “What is your interest in Xochitl Ohtli?”

‘Mentioning Xoc’s name stirs a storm inside her. Stay focused, Gunner.’

“Purely academic, I came across the name during a casual conversation at the Hall of Mirrors and it intrigued me.”

Her voice steady, Gunner notes, “Intrigued you enough to come directly to the Enclave from the Hall and inquire. That is quite an academic interest.” ‘He’s hiding something. I can feel it.’

Realizing her intelligence capabilities, Nils thinks, ‘She’s already dug up that much. This woman is not to be underestimated.’

Pressing on, Gunner explains, “Nils, it is clear from our files that you are an intelligent person. I will for this reason speak plainly to you. Xochitl Ohtli is perhaps the most wanted and dangerous persons alive. If you have any contact or information about Xoc, it would be appreciated greatly by myself, my team, and several governments.”

“Mentioning Xoc... it’s like pouring salt in an open wound. I must remain detached.”

“Great, now I’ve got a target on my back,” Nils thinks. “I am sorry, but I have nothing to offer you. As I stated earlier, it was a simple inquiry.”

Watches him closely, analyzing his response, Gunner wonders, ‘Is he telling the truth, or is he another piece in Xoc’s dangerous game?’

“Nils, may I ask if you have any travel plans currently?”

“No, I have no plans to leave Estropolis.”

“I afraid I must insist that you do not go off world in the coming thirty days”, Gunner notes, ‘I need to keep him close, under surveillance. Xoc is a master at evading us, but this man... he might lead us to him.’

“This just got more complicated. But if it gets me closer to the truth...” Nils responds, “Of course, it would be my pleasure and duty as a citizen.”

She activates a private communication bubble, considers her next action carefully before pleading, “Nils, Xoc is dangerous beyond belief. Please help us...help me.”

‘Breaking protocol goes against everything I stand for, but for Xoc, I’ll cross any line. The things he’s done... the lives he’s ruined... mine included.’

Nils thinks, ‘Never seen a government official break character like that. This is personal for her. Xoc... who are you really?’

“Citizen Verin, you are free to go. Thank you for your time and support. Rune Vefur,” Gunner concludes.

‘I’ve shown more of my hand than I intended. But desperate times... I can only hope he’ll lead us to Xoc.’

Responding with a sense of personal involvement now, Nils says, “Rune Vefur.” ‘Lyrina... there’s more to her story. Xoc, what have you done?’

He leaves, his mind racing with questions and the weight of the unexpected responsibility he’s just shouldered.

Nils spends the evening with little sleep. Even an hour of ritualistic chaos kata fails to put his mind at rest. So many questions and so few answers. He also vacillates with simple practical questions. If there is a general travel prohibition, would he be unable to access the Nexus port? He should also be denied access to boarding any craft. On the other hand, Xoc has been pretty clear that he would have access to both, but this is before the meeting with Lyrina.

Whatever is between Lyrina and Xoc is deeply personal. That, and the fact that Xoc is wanted by a number of governments, weigh against his growing desire to understand the Bant af Garn and how he can use it to complete what he is beginning to think of as his sacred mission. He rises from bed and forces himself to do another half hour of chaos katas until his muscles ache, only finding respite from his thoughts in the final few minutes of the ritual.

He showers and as he towels himself dry, a course of action clicks into place. He could evade the Nebula Nexus port security with a little luck. The Nexus port is one of the busiest interplanetary ports in the system and has thousands of workers. Most of whom would be changing shifts around dawn. The Nexus port relies primarily on ship security; the AI’s that run any ship are magnitudes more competent than security for a terrestrial port.

Getting to the Noble Flower would be easy, getting on board is another matter. He has no choice but to trust that Xoc can get him on board the Noble Flower or this will be a very short exercise with a lot of explanation. He is certain that the next encounter with Lyrina would go differently, especially if she learns he is trying to leave Estropolis. ‘One thing at a time,’ he thinks to himself. Get on the ship, learn how to use the Bant af Garn, get out alive. These are the priorities.

He sits in the middle of the bed and bends over until his hands are placed equidistant on the floor. Carefully, he applies pressure with both hands, gently alternating the pressure in each hand with well-practiced muscle memory. After the third change in pressure, he hears a satisfying click and an otherwise invisible panel slides back revealing a compartment beneath the floor.

He removes the soundproof liner, revealing a cache of four small metal boxes. He pulls the box closest to his right hand, unlocks it, and removes a black wristband with a small digital display. He engages his AI and accesses the control interface. He quickly runs through a series of menus until he arrives at the digital signal operator. He sets the parameters to copy short-term replication on contact and activates the device.

Just to be certain, he runs a quick diagnostic and receives all green marks indicating perfect function. He then pulls up video footage of the Nebula Nexus cargo area specifying timestamps between 03:00 and 05:00 hours, during active terminal days. He locks onto an image of a maintenance worker’s uniform, quickly copies the image, and pulls it into his editing software.

He pulls his own bio data, has the AI replicate the uniform in three dimensions matching his body type and size. In his heads-up, he now sees himself clothed in the same uniform. He then saves the template out to his personal holographic generator, momentarily engages it. His clothing shimmers, and he is standing in an exact replica of the uniform.

He drops back into the image editor, asking the AI to add some stains and age the uniform to mimic daily use for three months, and repeats the viewing. He looks at it in the mirror for a moment, satisfied he drops the holo, returning to his normal clothing. Feeling equipped, he returns the boxes to his cache in the floor, replacing the cover, which melts into the floor leaving no trace as he leaves the apartment.

Swarm1:

03:03 Base, we have movement on primary leaving residence.

Base1:

Continue monitoring primary, no engagement.

He walks the four blocks to an underground station with express service to the port. He likes this time of the night. The late-night revelers have already disappeared into their apartments and hotels, and the early bird workers have not yet finished their stim drinks and hit the streets.

This is the hour when he feels like the streets belong to him. In the distance, he can see the soft glow of the Illusion Gardens. He pictures visiting them with his father, begging to walk the central path again to watch the holograms change the appearance. The memory brings a familiar mix of warmth and sadness.

Swarm1:

03:03 Primary entering underground express system.

Base1:

Report destination, maintain visual.

As the train makes its way to the port, it begins to fill with support and maintenance personnel. By the time they reach the main passenger terminal, his car is full of sleepy-looking port workers. He passes the main port of entry where most of the workers depart the train, choosing instead to exit at the south port cargo stop.

He moves slowly to stand next to a man wearing a uniform identical to the one he had seen in the video at his apartment. As he exits the train, he stumbles into the worker, grabbing the man’s wrist to stabilize himself. ‘Activate digital scan and copy,’ he orders.

Swarm1:

03:31 Base, primary exiting train at South cargo port stop, Nexus Nebula.

Base1:

Copy, Swarm1, tag primary with tracker, dispatch internal agent inside terminal.

As he approaches the security login, he briefly steps behind a pilot and engages his hologram and digital replicator, emerging from behind the pilot wearing the uniform of the maintenance worker. For the next fifteen minutes, he is Torin Matti, maintenance level three worker, with access to non-restricted port services. He has a brief scare when the scanner pauses upon reading his identity, but quickly recovers as he is admitted into the port cargo area with a group of fifteen other workers.

Swarm1:

03:37 Base, have we lost visual contact with the primary?

Base1:

Was tag successful?

Swarm1:

Negative, base.

Base1:

Dammit!

Step one a go, he mentally catalogues. A habit he has for complex tasks. Break it down into little pieces and stay focused on just the next step. He thinks of the reference he had always liked from an old adventure story. ‘When you fall out of an airplane, you can only focus on the next 15 seconds. Then the fifteen after that.’

Getting from the cargo area to the main terminal takes only a few minutes using the underground maintenance passages. His heads-up is able to pull a complete schematic of the port and allows him to effortlessly navigate the underground labyrinth. He checks the docking chart and sees that the Noble Flower, flagged Vaikunthan, is docked at port 216.

Base1:

Requesting visual support from port security, stand by.

Swarm1:

Standing by.

He follows the underground passages until he is a short distance beneath port 216. He moves quickly through his heads-up display, finding maintenance access points. Three points present themselves, only one that his borrowed ID can access. He opens the access doorway, steps inside just as his clearance revokes itself, indicating the actual owner of the ID has discovered the duplication. No sense worrying about it now.

He is standing in a maintenance break room that shows signs of neglect. It has a workbench and a cot with a small table, an empty cigarette package, and a half-drunk beverage lay on the table. He lies down on the cot, drops the hologram of his uniform, and closes his eyes, pausing only to set a timer for 12:45 hours before drifting off to sleep.

It seems like only an instant has passed as he wakes. He glances at his heads-up, seeing the time as 12:44. He disengages the pending alarm, stands, and stretches. He pulls up his hologram edit program and focuses on his face. He browses a series of similar-looking faces varying in age and skin color, labeled with races.

He chooses one labeled Vaikunthan 35 and engages it. His face shifts and merges into the image from his heads-up. He goes back into the editor, pulls up clothing. He selects an unstitched piece of cloth, five meters in length, tied around the waist, and labeled Dhoti. Then he matches it with a knee-length coat in rich blue and gold, buttoned up to the collar and adorned with a conch, discus, and lotus, labeled Sherwani. He engages his personal hologram projector and exits the maintenance room.

He receives several odd looks from passing service personnel as he walks to the nearby staircase which admits him into the general passenger section. The hall is full of passengers making their way to their respective gates. As he approaches port 216, he sees a gate agent and a single security personnel. ‘Well, here goes nothing.’ He accesses his personal AI, pulls the authorization that Xoc has provided, wondering again how it is possible that Xoc is able to get into his personal storage and approaches the agent. She is wearing a tunic top and skirt in simple earth tones.

“Shanti dhara,” the agent greets in a clear, pleasant voice.

“Shanti Dhaka,” Nils replies.

“Please provide your clearance and boarding authorization,” the agent requests.

Nils engages his AI and pulls up the credential Xoc has provided. His heads-up display shows the credentials are being examined. There is a wait...five seconds, ten seconds. Nils begins to panic as the seconds drag on.

Base1:

Swarm1, we have an identification flag at port 216, please investigate.

Swarm1:

13:05 Roger, Base1, 30 seconds to incident.

“Pardon, citizen, there seems to be a system issue. Can you please submit authorization again?” the agent asks, hinting at frustration with the portal system.

“Of course,” Nils replies with a smile, masking his internal panic. ‘Xoc, you fucking fuck, this was your job,’ he thinks to himself as he again asks his AI to submit the authorization.

Swarm1:

13:06 Base1, 5 seconds to target, engage on contact?

Base1:

Surveil only, do not engage.

The access scanner emits a cheerful sound and turns green.

“Please enjoy your passage, citizen. Welcome aboard the Noble Flower,” the agent says with a smile, gesturing for Nils to pass onto the boarding gangplank.

Swarm1:

13:07 Base1, sending video footage of a young male in Vaikunthan garments boarding the Noble Flower.

As Nils rounds the corner, the corridor opens into a transparent viewing gallery, allowing him to see the Noble Flower against the port for the first time.

The Noble Flower is a striking contrast to the ever-shifting landscape of Slygard. The design is sleek with serene colors; efficient, elegant, and purposeful, an impressive display of Vaikunthan engineering. In stark contrast to the Slygardian port. The ship is deep blue with gold accents, covered in symbols of peace and protection. It seems out of place in the vibrant, ever-changing hues of the Slygardian architecture.

As he passes the access port, he feels like he is stepping into a different world - one of calm and order amidst the chaotic energy of the port. The ship’s interior seems to emphasize balance and tranquility. The lighting is ambient and comfortable, he feels the vibrations of the engines as a gentle hum. It’s like the whole world turned down the volume, like coming home to a quiet apartment from a crowded city street.

“Heads up!” he hears, as an oblong ball flies past his head followed by several young men wearing short robes, laughing and smiling.

They stop quickly upon seeing Nils and step to the side of the passageway, with their backs against the wall in an almost military formation.

Each holds his hands together in a prayer-like motion and uniformly speak, “Shanti Dhaka, citizen.” The motion is well practiced, but the impish smiles and enthusiasm show through on their faces.

Nils imitates their hand gestures and returns the greeting, “Shanti Dhaka.” He is mildly alarmed when the boys react with surprise as though they had not expected to be acknowledged. I need to bone up on Vaikunthan customs, he thinks.

The boys remain in their position until it becomes apparent they are waiting on him, and he moves down the corridor, noting that they do not relax until he is well past.

He receives a silent notification from the ship via his personal AI and quickly responds. His heads-up indicates that the ship has established an open connection which provides him access to in-ship communications, navigation, and services. He chooses navigation, and a transparent line appears in front of him indicating direction. He follows the line, taking him down a series of turns, ending at a small door with a single character that the heads-up indicates means passenger quarter.

Pressing his palm against the door gains entry, and he is standing in a sleeping cubicle with a bed, locker, and a small efficient-looking bathroom. He spends a few minutes searching the room for surveillance equipment and storing his belongings. He receives another silent notification from the ship.

“Welcome to the Noble Flower. It is my pleasure to have you aboard. I would be pleased to give you a tour of the facilities, or you are welcome to self-navigate. We will be exiting terrestrial atmosphere shortly. I have loaded all services and navigation to your personal AI. Please feel free to make any inquiries or relay required services to me directly.

You have a request for an in-person meeting with Quentin Pores at 17:30 time in the lotus garden, which I have marked on your navigation. May I currently be of assistance in any way?” the ship relays.

“Thank you, I will self-navigate. May I inquire about Quentin Pores and our destination?” Nils responded.

“Quentin Pores is a member of the Vaikunthan diplomatic core with a permanent station on Dharmagaia. He is currently assigned to the Huitzicalan delegation. Please excuse me, but your current status does not permit me to share destination or course information. Would further details regarding our diplomatic core, Vaikunthan culture, or the Huitzicalan mission be required?” Noble Flower replied.

“No, thank you. I would be interested to know why the young men in the hallway earlier were surprised that I answered their greeting,” Nils asked.

“The Slygardian shadow folk technology you are currently using makes it appear that you are a member of The Dharmadhyaksha, ‘The guardians of order’ caste. It would be unusual for a member of this caste to acknowledge ‘The Karmachari’ caste, to which the boys belong. You may continue to utilize your technology while on board, but you will be unlikely to interact with other members of the crew while doing so,” Noble Flower explained.

“Thank you, Noble Flower. I will call upon you again should I have further questions. If you would be so kind as to update my personal AI with a cultural overview and customs of Vaikunthan society, I would be most grateful.”

“With pleasure. We will be at our next destination in 42 standard units. Rune Vefur, citizen,” Noble Flower confirms.

So much for secrecy. May as well look around.

Nils drops the projection of his Vaikunthan illusion and regards himself in the mirror, curious as to how a Slygardian would be received on a Vaikunthan ship. He opens his heads-up and pulls the self-tour from the ship’s listings. A thin green line appears in his vision with a direction indicator, and he begins following it. He follows the line down the hall and, as he turns the corner, the ship opens into a series of large open spaces.

He sees that the passenger rooms are all similar to his, opening off the main areas into small corridors arranged around the exterior of the ship. The main chambers are a harmonious blend of technology and art. The walls, adorned with intricate mandala patterns, shimmer softly under the ambient lighting.

This is unlike any spaceship Nils has ever seen. He traces his hand along the elegant lines of the architecture, taking in every detail. The central aisle is lined with lotus-shaped seats, each crafted for comfort and privacy. When he runs his hand over the seat, he feels a soft, organic texture that surprises him. The seats subtly shift color—almost as if they’re reacting to the mood of whoever sits there. A seat that senses how I feel? he wonders, settling into one and feeling it mold to his form as if it knows him.

Above, the ceiling transforms into a night sky from Dharmagaia, the Vaikunthan home world. Constellations drift and reform, accompanied by an overlay that tells the stories and history of the Vaikunthan people. As Nils watches, he feels as if he’s moving through more than space—like he’s part of something ancient, a journey that transcends time.

The only sign that they’re leaving Slygardian atmosphere comes from his heads-up display. There’s no jolt, no sense of motion; it’s as if they’re gliding on air. Impressive technology, he thinks, feeling the ship’s subtle sophistication in every detail.

Passing a panel, he notices information about the journey, displayed in an elegant script. Even their information screens are works of art, he muses, surprised by the attention to beauty in every aspect. Following his curiosity, he heads to the dining area, where the warm scent of spices meets him. The food is a blend of tradition and innovation, every dish carefully presented as if it’s meant to be savored visually as much as in taste.

In the recreational area, holographic screens display serene Dharmagaian landscapes accompanied by soft sounds of nature. They’ve managed to bring a piece of their world into the stars, he thinks, feeling an unusual calm settle over him. It’s rare for a ship to feel like this—a sanctuary, not just a vehicle.

He wanders into a library, finding shelves lined with both ancient texts and data pads, each one meticulously organized. A holographic librarian appears, modeled after the Vaikunthan goddess of wisdom. “May I assist you in finding a text?” she asks with a warmth that feels almost genuine. Their reverence for knowledge is woven into everything, he realizes as he browses through the philosophical works.

Eventually, he finds a viewing deck with a vast transparent port, stars gliding past. Standing there, Nils feels a connection he hasn’t experienced before. This ship is more than transportation; it’s a journey within, he reflects, feeling the weight of his own thoughts as he stares out into the universe.

A soft buzz from his AI interrupts him, alerting him to a meeting with Quentin Pores in the Lotus Garden. The navigation line in his display shifts from blue to pink, guiding him toward a bank of elevators that respond automatically to his approach. They carry him to the top of the ship, opening into a vast garden filled with lotus flowers the size of trees. Following his path, he passes alcoves made of living plants, each with tables, chairs, and hammocks, until he reaches his destination.

In the alcove, seated in one of the lotus chairs, is Quentin Pores. He looks far younger than Nils anticipated, perhaps twenty standard years, with a deep tan and an immaculate white robe that somehow seems both formal and casual. The epaulets indicate a rank, though Nils isn’t sure what kind. Quentin smiles, radiating a quiet competence that Nils finds both intriguing and disarming.

Quentin gestures to the lotus seat across from his own. “Nils, I take it? It’s a formality, as he is, of course, aware of exactly who Nils is,” he says with sincerity.

“Quentin, a pleasure,” Nils replies as he sits down in the chair, noticing it shift color subtly as it negotiates his personal mood. He then feels the familiar absence of surrounding sound indicating they are operating inside a privacy bubble.

“May I offer you a drink? The ship grows the ‘Piques fruit’ onboard, from which we make a classic of the rainy season on Vaikunthapuri. A rare pleasure I hope you will enjoy,” Quentin offers.

Nils nods in assent, and a young girl in a sari comes around the corner, holding a silver tray with two glasses and a pitcher of light pink liquid. She places it on the table, smiles, and makes a small bow, then quickly exits.

Quentin pours an equal amount into each glass, raising his own and makes a hand gesture indicating good fortune. Nils is impressed with the gesture, indicating a knowledge of Slygardian civilization that few would ever master. He is careful not to react with more than a smile, replying, “To our mutual good fortune.”

Quentin begins apologetically, “I would first like to offer an apology on behalf of our mutual acquaintance. We expected an uneventful exit from Estropolis. It would seem that your inquiry at the Diplomatic enclave, natural enough under the circumstances, has initiated a series of events we had hoped to avoid.” He thinks about the potential breach of security.

“It is only fair to advise you that your departure did not go unnoticed. While this does not strictly come under the agreement you have in place with our mutual acquaintance, it will affect you, should you return to Estropolis. I have been asked to remind you of the terms of your agreement and to reconsider any future actions that might place said agreement in jeopardy,” he smiles, clearly conveying his message. “Are we clear on this point?”

“Crystal clear,” Nils confirms.

“Excellent, may we turn to more pleasant topics?” Quentin says, taking a long drink from his glass. “Ahhh, as refreshing as ever.”

Nils takes a sip of his drink, enjoying the light, sweet taste and slow lingering aftertaste.

“In approximately twenty-six standard units, we will briefly pause for spin preparation. During that period, I would like for you to meet me in the sub cargo bay two. I am adding it to your navigation. I am also adding a security override that will allow you access. We will be leaving the Noble Flower in a smaller craft prior to spin. All requisite information has been uploaded. Please be on time, as our window for the jump is very short.”

“I will be there on time,” Nils assures him. He is accustomed to having his instructions followed.

“Enjoy your remaining time on the Noble Flower, and I look forward to seeing you shortly. If you will please excuse me, I have a number of preparations that require my attention,” Quentin says as he rises from his chair, the sound of the garden returning.

Nils is left sitting alone. He enjoys the rest of his drink until he overhears a nearby group laughing and speaking animatedly. Curious, he follows the sound further down the path until he arrives at a small amphitheater, hewn from stone and blending into the foliage.

There are twelve men and women dressed in similar uniforms, split into two teams, engaged in a vigorous discussion. Their chairs are green and blue, presumably indicating their team.

“I believe true happiness is achievable. It’s about contentment and finding joy in the small things in life,” one man asserts.

“Ah, but as the great philosopher Imaginus Fabricatus once said, ‘True happiness is as elusive as a shadow in the night.’ Happiness is transient, always chased but never fully grasped,” says a member of the Blue team.

The round ends with thoughtful nods and chuckles. A woman with long hair, noticing a spectator, calls out, “From the look of you, you must be Slygardian?” The entire group turns to stare.

“I am. Well met,” he nods and starts to turn to leave.

“Please wait a moment. Won’t you take a moment to play a round with us? My colleagues are very boring, and we would love to hear from someone outside of Dharmagaia,” she insists, capturing everyone’s attention.

“I have no idea what you are playing.”

“We are playing Philosophers’ Rally. It’s really simple: oh and My name’s Eritrea by the way.”

“Come on, join us,” several others chime in enthusiastically.

“Sure, please let me know the rules.”

“Philosophers’ rally is a team-based game where players engage in philosophical discussions. You get points for sound ideas and wit. Each round, one team poses a philosophical question. Each team gets equal time to make their case. The quotes don’t have to be real. You can even choose the topic if you like, but you have to be on my team,” Eritrea explains.

“Why do you get him, Eritrea?” others murmur in disapproval.

“Because I saw him first!” she smiles.

He thinks for a minute, then takes an open chair which immediately turns blue, indicating his team.

“The new guy has to pick a topic” says a green player indicating Nils

Nils thinks for a moment and then strikes upon an idea. “Which is the best universe. One ruled by order or one ruled by chaos?” he proposes.

“Order is essential. It brings peace and harmony. Like the Buddha said, ‘In the tranquility of order, there is the seed of enlightenment,’” the Green team argues.

“And let’s not forget Lama Serenity’s words, ‘In the order of nature, we find the true essence of our being,’” they add.

“Blue team’s turn!” Eritrea announces.

“But chaos is the cradle of creativity. As the philosopher Creativus Wildthink said, ‘From the whirlwind of chaos emerge the most beautiful creations of the universe,’” the Blue team argues.

“Exactly! Artistica Innaatus once remarked, ‘Chaos paints the canvas of the cosmos, allowing imagination to color it with brilliance,’” they continue.

“And don’t forget the words of Innovator Disruptus, ‘In the unpredictable dance of chaos, lies the freedom to create and transform,’” they conclude.

“Green rebuttals, 30 seconds each,” Eritrea directs.

“However, Harmony Seeker argued, ‘While chaos sparks, it is the order that sustains. A flame untamed is a flame that burns out,’” the Green team counters.

“And Zen Philosopher Calm Waters noted, ‘True creativity flows like a river – its power comes from its directed, orderly path,’” they add.

“Blue team rebuttals.”

“Yet, Chaos Theorist Tumultus Nexus believed, ‘Order confines, chaos liberates. The universe’s beauty lies in its unpredictability,’” the Blue team replies.

“And remember what Free Spirita said, ‘A seed must first burst into chaos before it grows into a flower. Chaos is not the enemy; it is the catalyst,’” they conclude.

The round ends with both teams contemplatively weighing the merits of order and chaos. “Guys, we have to be back in class in fifteen minutes,” one of the boys says as the group starts to gather their things to leave.

“Not bad for a first time. You sure you have never played before?” Eritrea asks as she approaches him.

“No, just a lucky topic I am fond of.”

“I am curious if you have a real opinion on it, it seems a little specific not to be personal.”

“Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact. It has a lot to do with a question I think about often. How does order arise in an entropic universe?”

“Ok, now you have my attention. What do you think?”

Nils considers before answering. “Well, the universe is like this giant messy room that keeps getting messier. That’s entropy for you – relentless and, honestly, a bit untidy.”

“A messy room, huh? I guess my bedroom is a perfect model of the universe then! But how does all this mess lead to something complex, like life?”

“Ah, that’s the fun part! Imagine the mess in your room starts to sort itself out in one corner. Like, your socks suddenly pairing themselves.”

“My socks pairing themselves? Now that’s a universe I’d like to live in!”

“Right? But that’s what happens on our planets. The Sun throws energy our way, reducing entropy locally, and bam – life happens!”

“So, we owe our existence to the Sun’s... tidying habits?”

“Exactly! The Sun is like the cosmic maid. But here’s the twist – the overall mess, or entropy, of the universe still increases. It’s like if your room gets messier overall, even as one corner tidies up.”

“Fascinating. So, in a way, the chaos of the universe kind of sets the stage for order to pop up here and there?”

“You got it! Without this cosmic chaos, there’d be no stars, planets, or stim dates.”

“Speaking of dates, do you believe in chaos theory in relationships too? Like, unpredictable yet leading to something meaningful?”

“Oh, totally! It’s like human interactions. You never know what small talk might lead to a groundbreaking idea. Or how a coffee spill might lead to a new invention!”

“Or how a conversation about entropy might lead to... something else?”

“Precisely! Entropy is the unsung hero of creativity. It’s like, without a bit of chaos, there’s no room for new ideas to emerge.”

“You’re quite the entropy enthusiast, Nils. I like that.”

“Thanks, Eritrea! I just find it amazing how the universe’s disorder is actually a cradle of life and creativity. Like this garden – a little chaotic, but full of possibilities.”

“Yeah, full of possibilities.”

“Sorry, I need to get back to my quarters, but nice meeting you.”

“Uh, yeah, nice meeting you. Hope we get to see you again before dock.”

He enters the elevator, full of thoughts on entropy, and is halfway back to his room when he realizes the conversation was not about Order and Chaos at all.

With little left to do, Nils returns to his room and spends a few hours reading up on Huitzicalan cultural history. He finds several points very interesting. The Huitzicalan’s are a civilization that reveres martial prowess and the art of war as the highest form of devotion. Their society is built upon the principles of honor, sacrifice, and the continuous pursuit of victory and expansion.

They have a history of war with every galactic civilization going back millennia. They were forced to sign a non-aggression treaty almost five hundred standard years prior after a near-fatal conflict with the Janusians.

At the point of imminent defeat, the Janusians detonated a weapon in the solar system containing the Huitzicalan’s’ home world, Solaris Aztlan. To demonstrate their resolve, the weapon completely destroyed the third planet and all its inhabitants. According to the records, the capability still exists for the Janusians to detonate another weapon in the system, causing the Huit sun to instantly supernova, killing all remaining people. This capability is the only thing that has kept the Huit from further aggression in the last centuries.

So the only thing keeping galactic war in check is the threat of imminent demise. Nils does a few more hours of research before laying down on the bunk to sleep. He has to be very careful in the coming days, he thinks as he drifts off.

Nils wakes moments before his alarm. He dresses quickly and sorts his few possessions. His vision lingers on the Bant af Garn as he feels new urgency to understand the device. He feels discomfort at the idea that the Huit have been in control of his situation since the meeting with Xoc in Estropolis. They seem to have complete insight into his movements and access to even his most sophisticated files and systems. Not something he is keen to continue.

To settle his thoughts, he goes through the Chaos kata, enjoying the requirement to modify it to the smaller confines of the cabin. He comes out of the trance-like state to the mild vibration of his personal AI, acknowledging that he needs to be at the loading bay.

He uses the shower, amused that it actually produces water as opposed to the more common sonic cleaning he is used to on Estropolis. He finds the data upload from Quentin and key site navigation. He notes there is an invite to a party being held that evening from Eritrea. He allows himself a moment to enjoy the idea of a simple gathering of friends and a pretty girl before conceding the fact that he will never see her again.

His heads up shows the navigation line and he begins to follow it. It goes in the opposite direction of the open area instead threading him through a complex of service passages. The soft blue line shifts to hues of orange as he passes several access ports, all of which open at his approach; Quentin has done his job well.

The access corridor gives way to a larger main juncture and he begins to see stacks of supplies indicating a shipping port. He passes signs his heads up translates as cargo bays and finally arrives at cargo bay two. There is a mechanical door large enough to fit a small ship. To the right is a smaller door with a separate aperture made for people. The door appears to have an airlock currently inactive. A safety procedure in the event that the main compartment is depressurized.

He can see the main opening to the ship is currently closed and the pressure indicator light is green. He places his palm on the door and submits the security override Quentin has provided. There is the sound of internal mechanisms and the door opens slowly admitting him. It immediately reseals once he is past. As he steps into the expansive cargo hangar, a sense of solitary vastness engulfs him. The hangar, immense and currently unoccupied, echoes with the quiet hum of the ship’s systems. The air feels cool and smells faintly metallic, a reminder of the deep void just beyond the walls.

Ahead of him looms the Huitzicalan combat spacecraft, all sharp lines and angles, a predator lying in wait. Deep red and gold paint catches the faint overhead lights, giving the ship an air of regal menace, as if it could lunge forward at any moment. An eagle and a jaguar, etched into its hull, seem poised to strike, their claws extended. The sheer presence of the vessel casts a quiet intimidation over the hangar, as if daring anyone to underestimate it.

At the far edge, an energy field shimmers faintly, holding back the cold vacuum of space. Beyond it, stars blink, their light dulled by the field’s glow. The thin barrier feels both reassuring and unnerving, a fragile veil separating the ship from the void. He feels a mix of admiration and unease.

As he approaches the ship’s immense scale becomes fully apparent. It towers over him, a hulking testament to Huitzicalan engineering and their martial spirit. The hangar is empty of personnel, yet the air thrums with purpose, as though the ship itself is alive, a warrior resting, poised for its next call to battle.

“Please enter the ship quickly through the starboard portal,” a voice resonates directly in his skull. The tight-beam transmission sends a shiver down his spine, the words vibrating against bone. His heads-up display translates “starboard” and guides him toward a telescoping elevator.

He steps inside, the doorway sealing smoothly behind him. The lift is silent, delivering him effortlessly into a well-lit corridor. Handholds line the walls and ceiling, a design meant for zero-gravity travel. He grips one instinctively, imagining the disorienting pull of weightlessness.

Following the directions on his display, he reaches the control deck. The room exudes a fusion of high-tech automation and raw military functionality. Holographic displays hum quietly, glowing with soft light, while control panels pulse with restrained energy. Every detail speaks of efficiency and readiness, a place that operates on precision rather than need for human intervention.

At the center, a tactical hologram hovers in the air, projecting a live 3D map of the surrounding space. It feels like a nerve center waiting to spring into motion. Seats surround the display, their deep red and gold upholstery echoing the ship’s exterior. They are low-slung and unadorned, designed purely for practicality.

The walls are lined with control screens and buttons, each one alive with subtle activity. There is no sign of personalization—no clutter, no keepsakes, only machinery and purpose. The space feels like the heart of a slumbering beast, coiled and ready to strike. He stands there, feeling small yet vital in the presence of such restrained power.

Then, from the shadows of a side passage, Quentin emerges.

“Please take a seat at one of the consoles. We may have some turbulence on our departure,” Quentin says.

“Turbulence in a spacecraft?” Nils thinks.

“Don’t you need an atmosphere to get turbulence?” Nils asks.

“Not that kind of turbulence,” Quentin replies, focusing on the navigation console, summarily feeding it coordinate data.

Nils sits in a nearby chair feeling the chair adjust to his size and weight. He also feels a gentle null field pressing him securely into the seat. The heads-up gives him a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the ship in the cargo hangar. He has a discombobulating feeling as he sees and feels the ship move toward the light blue barrier to space. The field shimmers as they pass through, never fully opening. The view shifts to encompass both the Noble Flower and their craft.

He is struck by the stark difference in design. The Noble Flower with a sense of peace and their craft a weapon of efficiency and war. They glide along the Noble Flower only centimeters separating the hulls of the crafts with a precision no human could hope to achieve. It is at this moment that he realizes the Noble Flower is about to enter spin.

The moment the mothership initiates the bending of space, a profound change sweeps through their craft. It’s as if the very fabric of reality around them is being twisted and pulled, an invisible hand reshaping the cosmos. The sensation is disorienting yet exhilarating; it feels like being at the epicenter of a cosmic event.

The control deck’s automated systems hum louder, responding to the altered physics. Nils can feel a subtle vibration under his feet, a physical manifestation of the tremendous energies at play outside. The holographic displays flicker momentarily, adjusting to the new parameters of warped space-time.

As the mothership plunges into faster-than-light speed, their craft enters the turbulent wake of its path. It’s akin to being in a small boat caught in the swell behind a massive ship. The sensation is one of controlled chaos.

The deck tilts slightly, and Nils feels a gentle push against his body, as if gravity itself is fluctuating. Around him, the lights dim and then stabilize, reacting to the energy fluctuations. The seats, usually so still and silent, automatically adjust to compensate for the turbulence, gently shifting to maintain balance and comfort.

Outside the stars stretch and blur into lines of light, painting surreal streaks across the black canvas of space. It’s a visual spectacle unlike any other, a reminder of the immense speed and power. The control deck, for all its automation and military precision, feels alive and dynamic in this moment.

The ship’s systems work tirelessly to maintain stability. Yet, despite the technology at their disposal, there’s a sense of humility here, a recognition of the vast, unfathomable forces they’re tapping into. As the turbulence subsides and space begins to smooth out around them, the sensation of speed is replaced by a surreal calm. The juxtaposition of the violent bending of space with the tranquility inside the control deck is aptly demonstrates the incredible capabilities of their ship.

“Holy shit,” Nils exclaims, “was that intentional?”

“Intentional and necessary. We needed the field generation of the Noble Flower; a craft this size could not have accomplished that alone and the bending will erase any record of our departure. A welcome side benefit. That little boost will shorten our trip from weeks to hours,” Quentin replies, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Trip to where?” Nils wonders silently.

The remainder of their voyage is uneventful. Quentin seems preoccupied and gives single-word answers regarding any inquiries. Nils assumes he has been told to share no specific information with him.  He realizes he can’t remember the last time he ate, so he goes looking for food. It takes him only a few minutes search to to find the galley.

As Nils steps into the mess hall of the ship, the stillness of the room is immediately apparent. He is alone, surrounded by the stark functionality that defines this space. The hall is utilitarian in every aspect, designed for efficiency and speed, reflecting the no-nonsense nature of a military vessel. The walls are bare, save for the food dispensing system – a far cry from the elaborate setups of civilian crafts. Here, the focus is on nourishment and sustenance, not culinary delight. The system is a compact unit, built into the wall, with a simple touchscreen interface.

Nils approaches the dispenser and is met with a limited selection of meal options. The choices are straightforward and nutritious, designed to provide maximum energy with minimal fuss. Options like protein-packed stews, nutrient-dense salads, and carbohydrate-rich pastas dominate the menu. Each item comes with a brief description of its nutritional content and its intended effect on performance – increased stamina, improved concentration, or faster muscle recovery.

Additionally, there are options for stimulants and performance enhancers. These include amphetamine concentrates for heightened alertness, electrolyte-rich drinks for quick hydration, and strength enhancers tailored to the demanding needs of military personnel. The choices are all about optimizing physical and mental function in high-stress environments.

Making his selection, Nils watches as the dispenser efficiently assembles his meal. The process is quick and mechanical, with no flourish or unnecessary movements. In moments, a tray slides out with his chosen food, neatly packed and ready to consume.

The presentation is purely functional; the food looks edible and nutrient-rich but lacks any decorative elements. Nils takes his tray and sits at one of the many empty tables. The chairs are sturdy and comfortable enough for a quick meal, but not designed for lingering. The large viewports that might offer a view of the stars are absent here, replaced by reinforced polymer walls, a reminder of the ship’s primary purpose.

Eating alone in the mess hall, surrounded by silence, Nils feels the weight of the warship’s mission. The room, like everything else on this vessel, is built for a singular purpose – to support the crew in the relentless pursuit of their military objectives. The functional nature of the mess hall, from its limited meal choices to the inclusion of performance-enhancing options, reflects the disciplined world in which the Huit operate.

Scarcely having completed his meal, Nils receives a request from Quentin to return to the command deck. He places his tray in an automated recycle slot and returns along the same path.

“We will be arriving at your destination shortly,” Quentin informs him as Nils returns.

“My destination? Am I to understand you will not be joining me?” Nils inquires, seeking clarification.

“No, I will be dropping you off at an interim station,” Quentin responds, his tone final.

“And after that?” Nils probes further, seeking more details about his journey.

“That is no longer a concern of mine,” Quentin states dismissively, ending the conversation on the matter.

The hull vibrates gently, a deep hum that feels more like a heartbeat than a machine. Nils barely notices the shift from FTL to normal space, the transition smooth and almost imperceptible compared to the jarring leap into faster-than-light travel. The stars outside the craft settle, their motion slowing into familiar constellations. Back in normal time, he thinks, the realization sparking a strange mix of relief and anticipation.

A panel retracts, revealing the view ahead—a massive asteroid now repurposed into a space station. Nils leans closer, his gaze locking onto the scene. What kind of mind looks at a rock in the void and sees a station? The thought stirs equal parts admiration and curiosity. As the ship arcs gently toward the asteroid, he finds himself less focused on the structure itself and more on the background—a stellar nursery, a birthplace for stars. The luminous clouds of gas and dust, streaked with vivid colors, feel alive in a way that human hands could never replicate. Creation in its rawest form, he muses, the sight humbling in its scale.

The asteroid, though impressive, strikes him differently. It’s an achievement, no doubt—metallic docking bays and infrastructure stitched across its rugged, natural surface. But against the nursery’s radiant chaos, it feels… insufficient. We try so hard to impose order, to tame the wild, he thinks, his eyes tracing the asteroid’s transparent dome and interconnected walkways. Inside, green spaces and water glint faintly. Life support systems, bio-regeneration—all so fragile compared to the forces shaping stars.

The ship docks, and the asteroid looms larger in the viewing panel, its human-made structures dwarfed by the vastness of the stellar nursery. The juxtaposition lingers in his mind as the navigation line in his heads-up display lights up. Time to move. He glances toward Quentin, instinctively wanting to say goodbye, but the bridge is empty. Figures, Nils thinks with a faint smirk. Quentin never was one for drawn-out farewells.

The line leads him through the ship’s corridors to a telescoping docking connection. Darkness envelops the walkway, broken only by the faint glow of LEDs marking the floor. The airlock ahead hisses softly as it pressurizes, the sound strangely intimate in the silence. Stepping through, Nils feels the gravity shift—less than half of planetary normal. The change in weight pulls at him, a subtle reminder of how far from home he really is.

The airlock door slides open, and the quiet of the ship gives way to the cacophony of the asteroid’s interior. The noise hits first—machinery humming, metal clanking, distant voices echoing through the cavernous space. It’s a chaotic symphony of activity, a stark contrast to the stillness of space. Nils inhales, the metallic tang in the air sharp and unfamiliar, mingled with the faint smell of lubricant and ionized particles. Not unpleasant, just… different.

The lights overhead are harsh, casting long shadows across the bustling space. Everywhere he looks, people and machines move with purpose. The asteroid feels alive in its own way, a hive of industrial and scientific energy. Yet, despite the noise and motion, Nils feels a strange detachment. We’ve brought order to this rock, sure. But out there, his thoughts drift back to the nursery beyond, the universe is still writing its story, and we’re just footnotes.

He shifts his bag over his shoulder, stepping fully into the space. The work around him continues, indifferent to his arrival. Another cog in the machine, he thinks, the hum of the asteroid resonating beneath his feet.

Nils finds himself on a wide platform overlooking the main operational floor. Below, crews of technicians and scientists move with purposeful urgency, attending to their respective tasks. The floor is a maze of machinery and equipment, each piece a component of the larger operation being conducted here.

In the center of it all stands a colossal apparatus, the heart of the asteroid’s industrial operation. It’s a towering construct of metal and energy conduits, pulsing with power. The machine is surrounded by control stations, manned by operators intently monitoring readouts and adjusting controls.

Large holograms display a myriad of data – graphs, numerical readouts, and 3D models providing real-time information about the operation. The air is electric with anticipation, as if something groundbreaking is on the cusp of happening. Overhead, a network of catwalks and suspended gantries provides access to various levels and sections of the facility. Automated transport units move along designated tracks on the ceiling, ferrying materials and tools to different parts of the station.

He is alerted by his AI that local information is available and that he has a personal request. He gives authorization to attach to the local grid and views the communique. It is an acknowledgment of his arrival and a meeting point and time, about twenty minutes. He accepts the request, and his navigation light appears, leading him from the docking port roughly toward the center of the station.

He arrives at vertical transports which open automatically and immediately accelerates as as the door closes. The interior is elevator-like and without any external view. His internal sense of balance tells him they are moving in three dimensions before coming to a stop. As the elevator doors glide open, he steps into the lobby of a Huitzicalan luxury hotel, housed within an asteroid.

His gaze is captivated by the sight through the transparent roof, but the lobby itself commands a moment of appreciation for its martial elegance. The lobby is a visual account of the Huitzicalan’s’ military history, adorned with symbols of their triumphs and prowess. The floor is a polished dark stone, inlaid with intricate gold patterns that tell tales of ancient battles and victories. The walls are lined with grand tapestries and detailed murals depicting scenes of heroism and conquest, interspersed with displays of ancient weapons and armor.

Furniture within the lobby is both luxurious and formidable. Heavy, dark wood tables are etched with historical scenes, and the seating – upholstered in rich, deep reds and golds – is robust, designed to reflect both comfort and power. The martial theme is omnipresent, yet the atmosphere remains welcoming, a blend of opulence and disciplined order.

As impressive as the lobby is, it’s the view through the transparent roof that truly takes the breath away. The expanse of the stellar nursery in the nebula beyond dominates the visual experience. This cosmic spectacle, visible in all its glory through the clear ceiling, offers a live canvas of star formation. Swirling clouds of gas and dust, illuminated from within by the nascent stars, present a mesmerizing array of colors – blues, pinks, and purples dance across the void, painting a picture of the universe in its most primal act of creation.

The contrast between the lobby’s martial grandeur and the ethereal beauty of the nebula is striking.

No one pays any attention to him so he settles into an upholstered chair. He finds his eyes continually drawn to the spectacle above. The lobby, for all its splendor, becomes a backdrop to the natural wonder of the universe unfolding overhead. For a moment, the Huitzicalan ethos of power and exploration feels perfectly encapsulated in this single, awe-inspiring view.

From his vantage point on the couch, his heart rate picks up as he watches two Huitzicalan soldiers in full battle armor approaching him. Their presence is intimidating, the air around them practically crackling with the anticipation of action.

The armor they wear is unlike anything he’s seen before – it’s high-tech, and every centimeter seems to be designed for maximum efficiency and protection. The material is a matte black, absorbing light rather than reflecting it, making them appear even more formidable.

The armor is in its engaged mode, not the transparent, inactive state often seen during peacetime. This signals that they are prepared for immediate combat, a fact that sends a shiver down his spine.

Emblazoned on their chest plates are the Huitzicalan insignias – a stylized eagle and jaguar. These markings glow subtly, an eerie red against the black, as if to highlight their readiness for conflict.

Their helmets completely obscure their faces, with visors that seem to scan and analyze the surroundings. He can’t help but feel they are looking right through him, assessing him as a potential asset or threat.

As they stride toward him, their movements are calculated and precise, each step measured and silent despite the bulk of their armor. The weaponry attached to their armor is equally high-tech – sleek, deadly, and unlike standard military issue. It’s clear that these soldiers are not just foot soldiers; they are elite operatives.

Sitting here, Nils feels a mix of awe and fear. The thought crosses his mind – why are they approaching him? Is he in danger? Has he unwittingly become entangled in something far beyond his understanding? Their approach feels like an encroachment, an invasion of his personal space by something otherworldly and dangerous.

As they stop in front of him, standing imposingly in their battle-ready armor, he finds himself holding his breath. The anticipation of their next move, the uncertainty of their intentions, has him on edge. In this moment, he is acutely aware of the power and capability embodied by these two soldiers, representatives of the formidable Huitzicalan military might.

“Nils Verin, you will come with us now,” not an invitation, he thinks, rising to follow them.

One of them moves slightly forward and the other moves behind him. It makes his skin crawl to have one of them out of his range of vision. The first starts to move forward, and he is forced to follow quickly. As they move across the lobby, another bank of elevators comes into view. They continue marching him briskly toward them.

On arrival, the soldier behind him steps to his left and the soldier in front to his right. He notes that there are two access panels which the soldiers simultaneously engage in a practiced motion. Wherever they are going, it requires two simultaneous authorizations, he notes. An exterior door opens to the right and an interior door to the left. He notes the thickness of the interior door, probably 30 centimeters of reinforced material.

The soldiers look at him, and he enters the lift. They follow him in and stand uniformly on either side. The lift doors close, and he feels them begin to descend. There is a slight high pitch as they pass through a great number of levels at high velocity. They must be very deep within the asteroid. The lift comes to a stop. The two soldiers repeat the multiple authentication, and the doors slide back, revealing a large room. The room is circular, with a large command console at its center. The command console is equipped with multiple interactive screens and control panels. Above the console, holographic displays hover in the air, showing complex telemetry readouts.

Seated around the console are five people. They are all clad in Huit body armor, but in its transparent, lower security mode. The armor, while less intimidating in this state, still carries an air of authority and purpose. It conforms to the body of each officer, highlighting their physical fitness and readiness.

The atmosphere feels intense as though he has walked into a serious conversation that has just ended abruptly.

In a slightly elevated position sits Xoc, a few centimeters higher than the others, subtly indicating his authority. Xoc’s armor, like that of his colleagues, is in its transparent mode, but with additional insignia and markings that denote his higher rank and status. He looks up, acknowledging Nils’ arrival.

“Xoc, I trust your trip has been uneventful?”

“Perhaps not the first word I would use. As pleasant as one could hope,’” he responds.

“Please join us.” Xoc makes a hand gesture, and a final seat rises from the floor directly facing the other seated attendees.

Nils sits in the chair as indicated, facing Xoc directly, with an equal number of others on his left and right.

“There are some things that you will need to know for the next step in our work together,” Xoc launches immediately into the discussion, a trait Nils has come to recognize. “Dr. Citlali, please brief Mr. Verin,” Xoc indicates to the woman on his left.

Dr. Citlali’s armor, while possessing the standard robustness and functionality of Huitzicalan design, is distinctively marked. The deep red base of her armor is subtly adorned with intricate gold etchings that depict events he assumes is Huitzicalan history. The most prominent marking on her armor is the emblem of an ancient codex, emblazoned on her chest plate.

As she begins to speak, a holographic image is projected depicting events as she narrates them.

“We have been researching a ruin of the Cynoptian civilization near one of our outposts in Huitzicalan space. Recently we made a breakthrough that has allowed us to come to some understanding of their technology. We believe that the origin of the Cynoptians predates that of our universe. Use of certain aspects of their technology is simply not possible inside of our own reality.”

“However, it seems it might be possible to create a small bubble of their reality, briefly inside our universe, where Cynoptian technology could function. In order to access this space, we would require something that shares capabilities of the Cynoptians and our universe, a key if you will. We believe that you, Nils Verin are in possession of that key. Equally important is that you have somehow obtained the capability, however limited, to use it.”

The Bant af Garn.

“This base has been created; and I might add, at an unbelievable cost, with a single purpose. To access that pocket dimension and to pass some brief information back and forth. Which leads us to this conversation. We need you to travel, with our assistance, to that dimension and to return with knowledge that we believe exists there, including the proper use of the Bant af Garn.” Xoc explains.

“This place is just for me?” Nils takes a moment to wrap his head around the idea that this asteroid has been built solely to allow him to travel. “Let me see if I have this straight. You believe that I can transit into another dimension and will somehow find the knowledge you seek from an ancient race that predates the formation of our universe?”

“Not only do we believe it, Nils, but we have specific data that a denizen of that reality wants to give it to us!”

“Please note that you might be under the assumption that this is a choice. It is not. In just under twenty standard units, you will be making that voyage. I suggest, no, I insist, that you spend the time between now and then cooperating with our specialists who will be preparing you for the trip. They wish me to stress to you that any deviation from their precise instruction will result in your death and a very unacceptable end to this lovely edifice.” Xoc raises his arms and rotates them in a sweeping motion, indicating the entire station.

Nils, for the first time, seriously questions his decision to come here.

“You will be leaving with our Tlatoani Ixachitlan, Supreme Spiritual Leader, of the great Temple of Huitzilopochtliher, her most honorable Tezcacoatl Xochiquetzal,” Xoc indicates the woman on his left.

As she stands, she dons a helmet that had been sitting out of view beneath the console. The base color of her armor is deep celestial blue, intricate symbols etched in lighter shades of aqua and silver, creating a pattern that seems to flow and shift with her movements. Her breastplate has a serpent eating its own tail with skin that seems to undulate slowly. The top of her helmet is a plume of razor-sharp flowers that seem at once beautiful and deadly.

“You may call me Tez, Nils Verin,” she pauses to look at him directly. Her eyes are heterochromatic, one a deep blue and the other a blood red. She has gorgeous skin that glows golden against dark red hair. “Please come with me, we have much to do,” she gently links her arm with his and pulls him from his chair to follow.

As they approach the door, it opens automatically and the two sentries stand waiting. One sentry leads, followed by Tez and Nils. The final falls in behind in single file. Despite the deadly armor, Nils cannot help but notice that Tez has a stunning body as he follows her from the room. They pause halfway to the lift, and Tez turns to a blank wall and subvocalizes a command too faint for Nils to hear. The seamless wall telescopes open into a passageway, and they enter into a long metallic corridor.

Nils can hear the footsteps of the soldiers and the soft rustle of his own clothes as they walk the silent passageway. After a few hundred meters, the passage ends in a T-junction with two doorways recessed on either side. The two sentries access input pads on each side of the door, and it slides back. The sentries step in military fashion to the sides of the door, and Nils follows Tez into the room.

Nils steps into the room, and it hits him immediately—a fusion of luxury and cutting-edge technology that feels both indulgent and alien. The high ceilings and layered lighting create an atmosphere that seems to pull him forward, each area distinct, as though guiding him through stages of an unspoken journey.

The first section draws his eye—a lavish boudoir, centered around a bed that is all soft curves and opulent fabrics. It radiates indulgence, the amber glow of the lighting casting everything in a warm, inviting haze. It feels intimate, almost intrusive, like stepping into someone’s private dream. Who even sleeps here? he wonders, the thought tinged with equal parts curiosity and unease. The space feels seductive, surreal, and not entirely meant for him.

To the side, the mood shifts. The warmth of the boudoir gives way to something darker, more controlled. A dungeon emerges, sophisticated and meticulously arranged. Restraints and apparatuses gleam under strategically placed spotlights, their polished chrome, leather, and dark wood exuding an air of precision and power. Nils feels the tension here, a balance between elegance and dominance. This isn’t just about control—it’s about intention, he thinks, noting the calculated care in every piece. The space hums with energy, a quiet challenge to anyone who dares enter.

The room transforms again, pulling him into a stark, clinical space. The laboratory is sleek and uncompromising, its metallic surfaces reflecting sharp, white light. Holographic displays pulse with data, glowing with a sense of urgency that contrasts sharply with the boudoir and dungeon. Here, the focus isn’t pleasure but purpose. Boundaries don’t exist here, Nils realizes. This is where exploration happens—where limits are tested. The shift is jarring, a reminder of how easily this space moves between indulgence and discipline, between release and control.

In the far corner, the intensity softens. A seating area offers respite, furnished with low chairs and warm tones that feel almost domestic. A small bar completes the space, a sanctuary of sorts, inviting conversation or quiet reflection. A place to think after everything else, Nils notes, feeling the subtle intention behind this quieter corner. It feels out of place but necessary, a counterbalance to the room’s extremes.

“Show it to me now please,” Tez turns and faces him expectantly.

Nils’s mind races for a moment. Oh, she means the Bant. He hesitate for a moment and then pulls back the material from his right arm, exposing the Bant af Garn.

Tez sucks in a quick breath as her eyes lock on the Bant.

“So much power in something that looks so…ordinary,” she closes her eyes for a moment and then seems to come back to herself as if waking from a brief trance.

Tez lowers her armor to its minimal setting, and it becomes completely transparent, revealing a simple silk bodysuit with a weave of gold and blue. She removes the helmet, placing it on a low soft dressing table.

With the armor at this setting, her deep red hair falls down past her waist. The transition from warrior to woman is shocking. Her demeanor changes from authority and distance to softness and cheer as a smile lights up her face.

“Xoc loves his sense of formality.”

“Uhh, bedroom, sex dungeon, and wow! So, what comes next?” Nils inquires.

Tez tosses her hair and laughs delightfully. “You and I are going to get to know each other Nils, but first be a dear and drop your shoes there by the door and join me,” she walks toward the laboratory portion of the room. Nils walks to the door, takes off his sandals, and places them on a shoe stand tucked tastefully in the corner.

He walks back across the room and sees that Tez has sat at a table with two facing chairs. The table has small hand restraints on each side of the empty chair. He hesitates as he looks at the straps.

“Nils, if I were planning to torture you, I would have invited our two escorts to join us. Please sit down, I promise no harm will come to you.”

What in the hell have you gotten yourself into, he sits facing Tez, who looks at him with a gentle, amused smile.

“I need to run a few tests on you before we begin. Please place your left and right hands through the straps in front of you,” she looks directly at him, waiting patiently.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks.

Nils places his hands through the straps, which gently tighten to fit snugly around his wrists. The material seems almost stretchy, not hard as he had imagined. Once it has closed firmly around his wrists, it seems to grow in size, spreading to cover his entire arm from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. It’s an unpleasant tingling sensation. The area of his arm covered by the Bant af Garn seems to increase in temperature slightly.

“Please look at me directly.” She stares directly into his eyes.

Nils stares back, and as their gaze locks, he feels like he is moving toward her. Each eye, the blue and the red, seems to grow until he is floating in space, looking not at a woman but at a goddess in a floating silver chair. A sense of awe and intense desire to please her fills him.

She whispers, “Remember.”

Nils finds himself back in the room where he stole the Bant af Garn from the god, but this time he is looking down on himself sitting across from the god. Time slows as he feels himself going over every detail of the experience, noticing things he did not notice the first time. On several occasions, he returns to a prior moment, finally ending with him staring for what he feels is an eternity at the symbols near the door of chamber he first arrived.

Next, he is very young, leaning on a cleaning machine that is vibrating. He recognizes this as the first time he felt sexual pleasure by holding himself against the vibrations of the machine.

Next, he is with one of the sparring girls from his training. One by one, each memory of his life where he engaged in pleasure, alone and in company, comes rushing back to him, complete with the sensations. Only this time, he is not alone; he feels the goddess with him, approving, encouraging, enjoying, and amplifying the experiences until he is overwhelmed and falls into the most comfortable oblivion.

He wakes, feeling himself in soft sheets.

“Where am I?” his mind races, and then it comes back to him at once—the ship, the asteroid, Xoc, and Tez!

Tez stands at the end of the bed, wearing an impish smile. She has changed from a light blue to a dark green robe, inlaid with orange and gold embroidery, leaving little to the imagination. “Welcome back, sleepy head,” she says. “You have been out for nearly eighteen standard units. I thought to let you sleep as what comes next will be more… trying for you.”

Nils feels beneath the covers and finds he is wearing a simple set of soft undergarments.

“My clothes?” Nils asks.

“Shortly laundered and returned, but hardly garb for a good night’s sleep. Now please get up, there is a shower here,” she indicates a nearby door, “and please join me when ready as I am sure you are hungry.”

“What is she?” he thinks as images of his earlier interaction flit through his mind.

Nils rises, flexing his wrists. They ache faintly, but there are no marks. He crosses the room, his steps measured, and opens the door she had indicated. As he steps inside, the atmosphere shifts. The space exudes luxury, but it’s not ostentatious. Instead, it’s a quiet mastery of design—everything placed with purpose, blending technology and comfort. A room like this isn’t just built; it’s crafted, he thinks, his eyes moving over the details.

The bathtub catches his attention first. It hovers in the center of the room, carved from a matte material that seems to absorb light yet glows faintly. It feels almost alive, its curves fluid and organic, like it’s breathing in sync with the stillness. Above, a hologram of a starry sky unfolds, endless and tranquil. Nils stares at it for a moment, feeling small under the vast projection. A reminder of where I am—or how far I’ve come?

To the side, his eyes land on a toilet that feels more like an art installation than a fixture. Its design is too sleek, too refined for its function, yet it fits seamlessly into the room. He can’t help but smirk. Only here could even that be a marvel.

He steps forward, feeling the heat of the tiles underfoot, a subtle luxury that spreads warmth through his body. The shower draws him in next—a walk-in space that shifts to opacity the moment he enters. The water cascades over him, the nozzles adjusting automatically to his movements. The lights shift in soothing waves, but Nils isn’t paying attention to the colors. His mind churns, replaying every moment since he stepped onto this path. How did I end up here? The question feels rhetorical; the answer is too vast to pin down.

The towels waiting for him are absurdly soft, cocooning him in comfort as he dries off. He lingers, reluctant to let go of this small moment of calm. His clothes hang neatly by the door, but even as he dresses, his movements are slow, deliberate. Why am I stalling? he wonders, though he already knows the answer.

The mirror on the opposite wall reflects a version of himself he barely recognizes—clean, composed, outwardly calm. Yet inside, he feels anything but steady. As he uses the grooming products laid out on the vanity, his thoughts drift to Tez. The memory of her sharpness, her control, stirs something in him. What am I walking back into? The question comes with a flicker of anticipation and fear, both disarming in their intensity.

With a deep breath, Nils pulls himself back into the present. The calm of the room lingers around him, but it’s fleeting. Time to move, he thinks, stepping toward the door, even as a part of him wishes he could stay.

But knowledge of the Bant is too precious to wait. I finish up, take a breath, and leave the sanctuary of the bathroom.

Tez stands there, already armored, her stance strict and ready. Something inside Nils sags in disappointment—her armor, that formal air, it shuts out any warmth. He buries the thought. There’s work to be done.

“We will be going to the heart of the asteroid now to avail ourselves of the full functionality of this site, follow me,” she says, fully in command again without a hint of the gentle smile.

He falls in behind her as she opens the door, and they are joined by the two sentinels again in fully activated armor. They fall in single file, halting at the T-junction. The guards interact with the black wall, and a hidden lift appears. They enter and rise an unknown distance before opening again into the same cargo area he arrived from the ship. They walk toward the center of the cargo area where a series of stairways leads to a platform. Various workers are moving about, making adjustments and configuring a series of complex-looking technology.

When they reach the top of the platform, he sees a single geometric chamber. The guards pause at the top of the last steps, and only he and Tez pass into the inner chamber. She indicates that he should go in first, and he walks through the open door.

He finds himself at the entrance to an inner chamber designed for complete acoustic negation. The inner door is sleek, with a surface that appears almost fluid, made of a reinforced alloy. The material has a dynamic quality, its colors shifting subtly, giving the impression that the door is, in some way, alive. The locking mechanism of the door catches his attention. It’s a sophisticated piece of technology, featuring a biometric scanner integrated into the door’s surface.

As they step inside, the door closes gently behind, sealing the room with an airtight efficiency that reinforces the sense of isolation from the outside world. The interior of the room is stark yet comforting. The walls, ceiling, and floor are lined with the same alloy as the door, their surfaces undulating in gentle, wave-like patterns that create a hypnotic effect.

The room is small, designed for individual use. In the center, there’s a single platform, slightly elevated from the floor, intended for sitting in the lotus position. The platform’s surface is smooth and contours gently to encourage a comfortable, meditative posture. Above it, the ceiling seems to arch in a dome-like fashion, enhancing the room’s acoustic properties.

He is struck by the complete absence of sound. The materials and design of the room are engineered to absorb all sound waves, creating an environment of absolute silence, a vacuum of noise. It’s a sensation that’s almost disorienting in its unfamiliarity. The silence envelops him, creating a sense of detachment from the external world that’s both immediate and all-encompassing.

“You will sit here on the dais while we activate the device. This room should become for a brief period of time, a part of the pocket universe wherein you will gain access to an entity, we believe will provide you with the answer you seek. You will in return give them this,” she hands him a jade container with a complex locking system.

“Who or what will I meet? Anything else I need to know?” Nils asks.

“We cannot know with certainty what waits on the other side, trust your instincts. Try not to die, I would be most disappointed if you did,” she says as she turns and moves to the door, which slowly opens, allowing a brief amount of sound before closing behind her.

Nils moves to the center dais and sits cross-legged. The total absence of sound encompasses him. Sitting in the absolute silence, he gets a stark feeling of disorientation. The complete absence of sound is something his mind struggles to comprehend. In the first few minutes, the silence feels overwhelming, almost oppressive, as if the very air has been sucked out of the room.

As time passes, the intense sense of unfamiliarity begins to wane. His breathing becomes the most prominent sensation, each inhale and exhale absorbed in the vacuum of sound. The rhythmic pattern of breath becomes a grounding force, slowly drawing him deeper into a state of introspection.

At some point, a sense of calm starts to wash over him. The usual hum of thoughts and internal dialogues that clutter his mind begins to quiet. It’s as if the silence is slowly peeling away the layers of constant mental noise, allowing a rare opportunity for true clarity. The lack of external stimuli is not just a physical experience, but a mental and emotional one as well.

He finds himself in a profoundly meditative state. The absence of sound has created a blank canvas, and his mind feels free to explore thoughts and feelings that are usually drowned out by the noise of everyday life. This room, a cocoon of negative sound, becomes a sanctuary where time seems to stretch and bend. He feels a deep sense of relaxation and rejuvenation. The experience is akin to waking from a deep, restful sleep. The silence, once so jarring, now feels like a comforting embrace.

He is not sure how long he remained in the chamber, but eventually, the door opens, and Tez enters. She seems very unhappy.

“What happened?” Nils asks.

“It did not work, you have failed us!” she almost shakes with anger. “You will return now to your chamber until summoned.” she points a finger toward the door.

Nils, shaken by the coldness of her voice, rises, and walks out the door, where the two guards are waiting for him. They escort him the way he came, only pausing at the T-junction to open the door across from the room where he and Tez had been. This room is more spartan, having only a single small bed, table, and chair. Nils sits down on the bed, thoughts racing. What will happen now?

Tez exits the chamber and greets Xoc, who has finished climbing the stairs.

“Tlatoani Ixachitlan, are you pleased?” Xoc asks.

“It is better than expected,” Tez responds. “He holds in his memory the map of the gods. He is also bound to the Bant. Now that he feels the weight of failure, the trap is set. Can I presume that you were successful with the technical details?”

“We were able to concentrate the full capacity of the device precisely to your specification. Our subject is a living bridge to two dimensions for the next few hours. He should have no idea. The rest, my most honored one, is up to you,” Xoc replies.

“It is essential that he believes he works against us,” Tez says.

“It is so, my Tlatoani Ixachitlan. I swear it,” Xoc declares, lowering his head and kneeling in a subservient manner.

Tez places her hands upon his head, and a high-pitched sound starts to rise from where her fingers touch his skull. All of the muscles in Xoc’s body tense as though an electric current is flowing through them. His face becomes a mask of agony, but he remains in the position as she speaks.

“Great Warrior of the Celestial Battle, your triumphs of valor and sacrifice burn into us, O Huitzilopochtli, your iron resolve, the trials that lead to triumph. Vanquishing all who oppose, the destruction of old ways lies the new beginning. The discipline to make the sacrifices in your name, to walk the path of honor and pain, just as you rule the sky. Victorious in our endeavors, bathed in the blood of your glory, Huitzilopochtli, God of Sacrifice and Victory, guide our hands and weapons, find the path to true victory. To risk all is your greatest gift, the ultimate sacrifice in your name.”

Upon completion of the prayer, the Tlatoani Ixachitlan releases her hands from Xoc’s head. He falls to the ground, his eyes rolled back and his muscles making sharp jerking motions. She kneels gently beside him, kissing his forehead softly, then turns and walks away, leaving him trembling uncontrollably with just a hint of a smile on his lips.

Nils sits on the small bed, wondering what has happened. Has he been brought all this way only to fail? What will the failure mean to Xoc? He will kill me now. I must escape!, he thinks.

Xoc begins to scan the room for any sort of exit, but the walls and ceiling are made from a single piece of high durability material. He examines the door mechanism, which is biometric and does not respond.

As he becomes more frantic, he feels the Bant warming on his arm. He looks at the Bant, but it seems to be unchanged. He focuses his attention and feels just the slightest reaction, like a faraway voice that is too distant to understand. Finally, he speaks to it, “We need to get out of here, and we need to do it now!”

He feels it tingle ever so slightly. He places it against the biometric reader, a hidden mechanism clicks softly and door opens. He does not see the guards, so he inches his way to the doorway and glances to the left, back down the passage he initially entered. The two guards are standing near the end of the hallway, about 50 meters away by the lift.

The only other option is the door to the room he first went with Tez. He relaxes himself and brings his breathing under control. Then he slips his hand down to engage the sound displacer in his shoes. He waits and counts down from three, two, one, and sprints across the hall into the recessed alcove in front of Tez’s door.

He hears the guards start to move down the passage toward him. He places the Bant against the scanner on the door, and seconds pass. The guards are only a few meters away when the door opens, and he moves around the right-hand side as the panels close. He sprints across the room, searching for a hiding spot. He reaches the corner, turns, and puts his back into the corner, braces his arms and legs, and begins to climb.

The door opens, and he sees the two guards enter single file. They are absolutely silent. He edges up a meter as the guards begin to scan the room methodically. He inches up another meter quietly as they enter his section of the room. They are only centimeters below him as he wills himself into total silence. His Lokian garb melts into the color of the background wall and shadows. The guard passes just beneath him and continues its methodical search plan. Finally, they cover the entire room and exit.

Nils slides back down the wall, landing silently in the corner.

He begins methodically searching the chamber for an exit. He finds a small door hidden in a recessed panel. He again engages the the Bant, which grants him access to the room beyond.

In the center of the small, dimly lit room stands a chair that looks like a futuristic throne, designed with sleek lines and built from a lightweight, highly durable, metallic alloy with a matte black finish. The chair is ergonomically designed, featuring contoured padding that molds to the body. The headrest is equipped with a retractable helmet, which can lowers to encase the user’s head.

On either side of the chair are articulated armrests, each fitted with an array of sensory input devices. The most striking feature is the network of connectors and data feeds that link the chair conduits in the wall. Thick cables, sheathed in flexible, protective tubing, run from the base of the chair into the walls.

Above the chair, a series of small, unobtrusive lights emit a soft, ambient glow, providing just enough illumination to navigate the room. The walls are lined with sound-absorbing panels, and a compact but sophisticated control panel is mounted on the wall next to the chair. The panel displays real-time data on bandwidth usage, connection stability, and system health.

“Well, Bant, you’re pretty good on doors. How are you on data access?” he says out loud.

Nils walks around the chair, running his hands along the contours. Finally, he sits down, and the chair automatically forms to his body. The helmet slides down over his head, and the interior slightly inflates to cushion his skull. His own AI heads up indicates that a common interface is available for connection. “Well, here goes nothing,” he thinks and engages the interface.

He finds himself floating in darkness with a voice surrounding him.

“How may I be of assistance, Tlatoani Ixachitlan?” the voice speaks.

It thinks he is Tez.

Nils requests information on the voice’s capabilities.

“Local access, mapping, logging, security command, armor configuration, general communications, and entertainment,” the voice responds.

“What armor is available locally?”

“You have diplomatic, assault, and temple issue armor here in your chamber, Tlatoani Ixachitlan,” the voice replies.

“Options for configuration?”

“Weapons systems, offensive, defensive, size, appearance, comms,” the voice lists.

“Can the diplomatic armor can be configured to match my current size parameters?

“Configuration complete, current chair used as base configuration,” confirms the voice.

“Option for security command?”

“Personal guard, mission guard, temple guard, auxiliary,” the voice lists.

Nils chooses the mission guard option.

“Current missions: Nils Verin - Core asteroid, two guards maximum offensive. Current missions: Data core - Core asteroid, two guards maximum offensive,” the voice details.

Nils commands, “Reassign Nils Verin guard to rotation, place hold on second rotation for 15 minutes starting in 10 minutes?”

“Assignment complete,” the voice confirms.

“Do you have records of the past two hours of communications?”

“Yes, comms record available,” the voice responds.

“Search last two hours of comms, reference Nils, reference Nils Verin, Reference Bant af Garn, reference Data core.”

“Four entries, sorted by topic,” the voice reports. It lists the entries, raising doubts in Nils’ mind about the truth of what he has been told.

“Reassign the mission guard for the Data core to rotation and to pause the replacement rotation for 60 minutes starting at 02:20:00.”

“Mission guard reassignment complete,” confirms the voice.

“Load navigation of the asteroid to the diplomatic armor.”

“Local configuration loaded,” the voice responds.

“Transport options from the asteroid?”

“There are two transport options available, private craft Obsidian local non FTL. Second is transport to Solaris Aztlan leaving at 05:00:00,” the voice informs.

“Add passenger access for the diplomatic armor to the Solaris Transport.”

“Added passenger transport,” the voice confirms.

Nils exits the interface. The interior cushion deflates and the helmet rises as the chair expands to release its grip. He finds himself sitting in the darkness, illuminated only by the soft glow of the control panel lights.

He slides from the chair and crosses the room to the dressing area, where neatly folded racks of various clothing styles await. He moves to a larger locker in the back, which opens at his touch, revealing three sets of armor.

He sees the diplomatic armor to the right, accented with muted silver on deep charcoal grays. The chest plate features a woman feeding a lion. Nils pushes a panel, and a small platform with indicators for where to stand telescopes out at ankle level. He stands on the platform, aligning his shoes to the indicated points. His heads-up display provides a command listing, and he activates the Diplomatic armor.

Small robotic extenders release themselves from hidden recesses in the closet and begin placing the armor on him, starting at his ankles. The process is fast and efficient, completely covering him in under a minute. As soon as the armor covers his head, the suit automatically interfaces with his internal heads-up display.

He feels the gravity of the asteroid disappear and the temperature increase slightly, indicating that he is operating completely on the suit, no longer on the local atmosphere. He steps back, and the platform retracts. The interface between his heads-up display and the armor is so intuitive that he merely thinks a requirement, and the suit responds. He feels as though he could walk through the walls if he so desired. It is an intoxicating experience.

He notes on his heads-up display that his command to reassign his guard has just been implemented, and he pulls up navigation for the data core. He strides confidently across the room, pausing only to gaze back briefly before entering the T-junction. Through his visor, he sees the hidden panel for the lift, which authenticates to the armor and immediately opens. He enters the lift and senses more than feels it take him toward the surface.

When the lift opens, there are a number of personnel who immediately come to attention at his passing. He ignores them and repeats the earlier trip up the stairs, pausing only to scan for Xoc or Tez, both of whom the suit reports are in the command section of the station where he first met them. He arrives back at the door to the chamber and notes that the guards are absent per his command. He has 52 minutes.

He stops at a data access panel on the exterior of the chamber and engages his AI. The heads-up display indicates a common interface, authorizes him with the credentials of the suit. He sets the cycle at maximum power in 60 seconds, authorizes level 3, and removes the safeties. Upon confirmation, he enters the chamber again, noting the familiar absence of sounds as the door clicks back into place. He orders the armor to minimum and again feels the local atmosphere on his face. He returns to the dais, sits cross-legged as his timer reaches the countdown to zero.

There’s a moment of stillness so profound it feels as though reality itself has paused. Then Nils finds himself standing atop a massive pyramid. The disorientation hits hard—a vertigo of place and purpose—but he pulls himself together, instinct overriding the chaos in his mind. He steadies his footing, the world around him slowly coming into focus.

The pyramid beneath him defies comprehension, a seamless fusion of ancient reverence and alien precision. He glances down, taking in the perfect tiers rising toward the sky. Each edge is lined with glowing glyphs, their faint pulses mimicking a heartbeat. The surface—a blend of stone and metallic panels—shifts subtly, patterns flowing like living circuitry. A monument to gods—or something desperate to be seen as one. Awe churns with unease in his gut.

Beyond the pyramid, the jungle sprawls endlessly, a living ocean of green teeming with unseen life. The canopy ripples with movement, the distant hum of the wild reaching even to this height. Yet the pyramid itself feels separate, as if it exists in defiance of the natural order. The air is heavier here, charged with an almost oppressive energy. Sacred, he thinks. Or cursed. The thought lands without certainty.

Scattered across the pyramid’s surface, softly glowing openings hint at vast interiors—portals into a place alive with its own enigmatic energy. The light feels unnatural, less illumination and more an exhalation of life from within. Fortress, temple, machine—all and none of these. The realization sends a shiver down his spine, leaving him unsure if he feels more drawn or repelled.

One doorway captures his attention—a single entrance one tier above, framed by ancient stone steps. It is flanked by massive braziers, their flames leaping wildly as if in defiance of the still air. Black chains suspend the braziers, polished to reflect the flickering firelight in chaotic patterns. The doorway seems older than the rest of the structure, exuding a weight of purpose that sets it apart. Nils doesn’t need confirmation—what he’s looking for is in there. But the tightening in his stomach suggests that whatever waits beyond will demand more from him than he’s ready to give.

His feet remain rooted for a moment, his body caught in the push-pull of fear and resolve. He glances down at the simple robe he’s wearing, the soft fabric foreign and untrustworthy. No armor. No sword. No shield. Only the Bant on his wrist, its presence an anchor and a reminder. Its weight feels heavier now, a silent whisper of what he carries and what it might cost.

“Fuck it, Nils, this is what we came for,” he mutters, his voice raw and barely audible. The words steady him, turning hesitation into momentum. His feet begin to move, carrying him up the steps one by one. Each step feels harder than the last, as though the pyramid itself is testing him, measuring his determination against its secrets. The doorway looms larger with each stride, the firelight casting restless shadows across his path. The air thickens, heavy with the certainty that what lies beyond will change him in ways he cannot yet fathom.

But he climbs.

“You must learn what he desires before you make any request or you will die here,” the Bant advises.

“So now you talk?” Nils asks.

“Here it is possible,” the Bant replies.

“Why here?” Nils questions.

“Waste not your questions, the limitation is yours,” the Bant responds.

As he steps through the burning braziers at the entrance, an intense awe grips him, thick and consuming. I’m in Huitzilopochtli’s chamber now—a vast, majestic space that merges ancient reverence with raw, military power. It’s a fitting throne room for a deity who exists between worlds, bridging cosmos and combat.

The walls around him are covered with intricate carvings and glyphs, each telling pieces of Huitzilopochtli’s story, his legacy in every line. Panels of shimmering, otherworldly material pulse with a soft light, something celestial and alive. The ceiling stretches high above, disappearing into shadow, making him feel as though he is standing under an endless night sky. And at the heart of it all sits a throne of polished stone, encircled by flames that flicker mysteriously, casting a warm but eerie glow.

And then, in the center, there he is—Huitzilopochtli. It’s not just seeing him; it’s like a force that hits Nils, a wave of presence that’s both warrior and deity. Power rolls off him, quiet but commanding. He’s tall, imposing, his skin with a metallic sheen that shifts as he moves, catching the light like molten metal. His eyes are deep, radiant, holding the weight of eons, the fire of suns. It’s unsettling, humbling.

He wears armor that’s beyond craftsmanship—it’s art, blending Huitzicalan tradition with something almost ethereal, forged from the stars themselves. Sun and eagle symbols glow on his armor, alive with a soft, otherworldly light. In his hand, he holds a weapon that’s both spear and scepter, an emblem of his dual role as god of war and ruler of realms.

Standing here, Nils start to grasp the reverence the Huitzicalans have for him. This place is more than a chamber; it’s a threshold, a point where the earthly and the cosmic touch.

When he speaks, it’s a deep rumble, like distant thunder, each word carrying the weight of eternity. And when he laughs, it’s slow and satisfied, a sound that seems to echo with millennia of knowing.

“Ha ha haha hahah, the little thief comes to ask about his toy,”

Huitzilopochtli turns his attention to Nils and he feels the weight of his gaze.

“Great,” he thinks, “he knows about the theft.”

“Greetings, great one, I humbly beg your forgiveness for the intrusion,” Nils speaks, attempting humility.

“Heh ha ha, Nils Verin, you have never been humble or begged in any of your iterations, and your intrusion was an invitation lest you decorate my walls with your meager flesh. Speak plainly, little thief, what would you ask of me?” Huitzilopochtli responds, seeing through Nils’ facade.

“Mighty Huitzilopochtli, I would first ask what service I might render to you?” Nils carefully phrases his question, following the Bant’s advice.

“Ha ha ah, I see your little rag of destiny has counseled you well. Were you to release the burden of it to me, I would grant you anything,” Huitzilopochtli’s laughter bellows through the chamber.

Shit, he wants the Bant af Garn? Nils thinks to himself.

“It is not mine to give,” he responds cautiously.

“Hmm, it might be more fair to say it is not yours at all, neh?” Huitzilopochtli challenges.

“It is only mine to steward, as you steward the knowledge of creation,” Nils says, and instantly realizes the words are not his own.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he wonders internally.

“Ha ha, quoting words no mortal knows? You keep most interesting company, Nils Verin. Pray tell, what would you offer Huitzilopochtli, that he cannot offer himself?” Huitzilopochtli probes further.

Nils remembers the data codex given to him by Tez. “I would offer you transport of communications from your people and the service of returning your response,” Nils offers.

“Ahh, you make two offers, but I have retrieved from you the message, so in fact, you offer only one?” Huitzilopochtli shows that he has already accessed the message from Nils’ personal storage.

“Fuck!” Nils realizes the god has taken the codex.

“Ha ha ha, mortal, fear not. Do not you live by the mantra that nothing worth having is given freely? Was this not handed down to you by Loki, or has he gone soft in his exile?

 Hahahhahahhaha,” Huitzilopochtli pauses, surveying Nils with an amused look. “It is a good day for you, mortal. I do indeed require a return of communications to they that sent me this. Ask then for what you seek.”

Nils hesitate only a moment before speaking.

“I seek to understand and use the power of the Bant af Garn,” Nils states his desire.

“Then this you shall have, mortal, but know that your ability to wield it is a limitation only of yourself,” Huitzilopochtli assures him.

The god reaches into a bag sewn around his waist and removes a scroll. He unrolls it, passes his hand over it once before re-rolling it.

He holds it casually in one hand over his head. A falcon flies into the chamber, grabbing the scroll in its talons and dropping it at Nils’ feet before silently flying back out of the chamber.

Nils reaches down and picks up the scroll. On the outside is an inscription in a language he does not understand. γνῶθι σεαυτόν καὶ ἴσθι σεαυτῷ ἀληθής, ἀλλὰ γνῶθι ὅτι ἄνθρωπος εἶ.

“Open that and read it, slowly,” Huitzilopochtli commands.

As Nils begins unrolling the scroll, he feels a searing sensation in his head as though the knowledge is burning directly into his mind. The sensation repeats with each line he reads. As he finishes each line, it disappears from the scroll.

Must be in physical contact The binding effects any two people who touch the Bant at the same time by forging a link for eternity.

The Balancing The Bant can bring into balance any of the basic functions of the universe like gravity and electromagnetic forces. No physical contact required

Subterfuge - The gant can adapt the perception of others to make one appear to be something they are not.

Compulsion - the ability to make someone do something they do not wish to.

Emotion - the ability to change someone’s emotion toward another Access -

Ability to access any complex system or codes

Location - the ability to arrive at very precise coordinates without external markers.

Protection - The ability to render the possessor temporarily invulnerable to harm

When he finishes reading the scroll, it ignites, turning to ash that falls between his fingers. His mind races with the knowledge he has gained of the powers of the Bant.

“Ahhhh, such power, mortal one. Makes one consider to use it?” Huitzilopochtli looks Nils in the eyes, and Nils sees worlds ripped apart, billions dying, and oceans of time beyond comprehension.

 “Should you consider to use the Bant here, I thought you might consider otherwise,” it is a warning.

The god looks away, and Nils falls nauseous to the ground.

“I require something of you, Nils Verin. In that you have what you seek, there is nothing I have to offer you now. But pray tell me, would you consider the gift of a god in return for another small service?”

Nils steps back to his feet, feeling unstable. “I would consider it, Huitzilopochtli,” he replies.

“I would like you to make something for me. I can assist you in its manufacture, but it must be done from within the chamber your corporeal being now resides. It will require you and I; to control the Bant and the z-machine, wherein you reside to bridge us together.”

Nils thinks about what this might entail. What could require a god, the Bant, and the z-machine? Can he really say no to Huitzilopochtli? Clearly not.

“It would be my honor,” he says this time with no hint of sarcasm. Having glimpsed the true power of Huitzilopochtli has changed his feelings.

Huitzilopochtli steps from his throne. As his feet touch the ground, small trees spring up from beneath his footsteps, leaving a trail of jungle in his wake. He crosses the short distance quickly, shrinking as he approaches until he stands in front of Nils looking him eye to eye.

“Bind me, mortal, with the Bant,” Huitzilopochtli reaches out his hand, and Nils grasps it at the elbow, resting their forearms with the Gant between them. Huitzilopochtli reaches into his pouch and produces a codex looking similar to the one given him by Tez.

“Take this back to my people to fulfill your end of the bargain. Once you are back in your corporeal form, we shall begin our work.”

“We? Can you reach me there?” Nils questions. “The bond created by the Bant af Garn will allow me to communicate with you while you are in the Z-Machine. This device, created by my people, will allow you to share my power to use the Bant af Garn briefly, to its full potential,” Huitzilopochtli explains.

Huitzilopochtli looks into Nils’ eyes. “Know this, Nils, no mortal has ever shared this bond, and none ever shall again.”

He takes a ring from his finger, engraved with an Eagle and a Jaguar, and gently places it in Nils’ hand. He steps back and makes a hand gesture, of the sun rising and setting, speaking loudly, “Xochiyaoyotl!”

Nils is back inside the machine. While he is physically inside the machine, at the same time, he feels himself floating in space surrounded by the immense stellar nursery. He feels every star at some level of consciousness he did not know he possessed.

“It is quite a feeling, I imagine, to share the senses of Huitzilopochtli, neh?

Nils, you must now focus, the Bant af Garn is your key to manipulating the fabric of the cosmos. Our first task is to find and extract a primordial black hole, you will find it hidden within the heart of a supergiant star,” Huitzilopochtli instructs.

Nils gazes at the vast collection of stars. “There are countless supergiants here. How do we find one with a primordial black hole at its core?” he wonders aloud.

“We must search for gravitational anomalies. Supergiants have a more precarious relationship with gravity. The accretion disk internal to the sun will upset the gravity, search for the difference in the gravitational waves. The right one will harbor our ancient friend,” Huitzilopochtli explains.

Nils searches with the Bant af Garn covering millions of stars until it focuses on one, a massive supergiant with the mass of billions of suns. Its power beyond belief.

“This one... its gravity is... inconsistent,” Nils observes.

“Indeed. Initiate the extraction with the Bant af Garn. Differentiate the matter from the darkness, this black hole is as old as the cosmos itself, it will feel more compact, less prone to change,” Huitzilopochtli advises.

Nils channels the Bant’s power. The star wobbles, but the black hole remains hidden.

“It’s resisting... like it’s shrouded by the star’s own gravity,” Nils notes.

“Then we’ll have to tip the balance. Use the Z-Machine to amplify the star’s fusion processes. Force the lighter elements into the center, push it to go supernova,” Huitzilopochtli suggests.

“Trigger a supernova? The energy…” Nils is shocked by the suggestion.

“It’s the only way. The supernova’s force will tear away the star, leaving the singularity exposed,” Huitzilopochtli states gravely.

Nils hesitantly manipulates the Z-Machine. The supergiant star explodes in a blinding supernova, revealing the ancient black hole.

“The power... it’s incredible!” Nils exclaims in awe.

“Now, quickly! Hold the supernova’s energy with the Bant af Garn. Consume every atom around the singularity, we will need it to pierce the dark energy veil,” Huitzilopochtli instructs.

Nils works furiously. The supernova’s energy flows through the relic, striking the black hole. Its accretion disk converted into pure energy, held like a massive capacitor by the Bant.

“It’s working! The disk is vanishing, but controlling this energy is like holding a star in my hands!” Nils exclaims, struggling to control the immense power.

“Steady, Nils. You are witnessing the raw power of creation,” Huitzilopochtli reassures him.

The accretion disk is gone, leaving a naked singularity. Nils sighs in relief.

“Now, for the anti-black hole of dark energy. It’s less about extraction and more about... coaxing it into existence. Use the energy of the Supernova, but balance it into matter and anti-matter. Search for the veil and once you have it, allow the opposite particles to interact to coax it open. When you feel the slightest crack you must channel everything into holding it open. Then bring the dark energy into a single point, calculating it to match the force of the primordial singularity to the quark. The Bant knows how but you must pay careful attention that each step is perfect. I will guide you,” Huitzilopochtli outlines the next steps.

“Coaxing a singularity made of dark energy... How do we even begin?” Nils is overwhelmed by the task.

“Dark energy is the counterpoint to all we know – it’s not just matter undone, but gravity inverted. Use the Bant af Garn to create a focal point for dark energy convergence,” Huitzilopochtli explains.

Nils feels the god guide him as he adjusts the Bant’s focus, his face a mix of concentration and uncertainty.

“I’m reversing the gravitational polarity... but there’s resistance, like it’s repelling reality itself,” Nils struggles with the task.

“That’s its nature. Dark energy defies the physics you know. It’s the universe’s underlying tension. Now do you feel the crack?” Huitzilopochtli probes.

“I feel it like a tiny ridge on an endless sea,” Nils describes the sensation. “Pour everything into that ridge,” Huitzilopochtli commands.

Nils unleashes the power of the Supernova, annihilating all of the energy in a single action. After several tense adjustments, a dark void begins to form, pulsating with unseen energy.

“It’s forming... an anti-black hole, pure dark energy,” Nils observes the phenomenon.

“Now, align both singularities. The ancient black hole and its dark twin. Balance them with the Bant af Garn,” Huitzilopochtli instructs.

Nils carefully maneuvers the two singularities into alignment. They stabilize, forming a binary system of immense power.

“They’re... stable. Opposite forces in harmony. It’s like they were always meant to be together,” Nils notes the perfect balance.

“Close the ridge! [With a hint of dark humor] Let’s hope they enjoy a long and peaceful coexistence,” Huitzilopochtli jokes. “We did it. We’ve bent the universe’s rules and witnessed its deepest secrets,”

Nils is exhausted but exhilarated by their success.

“We are not done, Nils. We shall embark on a task that defies conventional understanding. We will condense these cosmic titans into a form that belies their immense nature – into the ring you now wear,” Huitzilopochtli plans their next move.

“Looking at the ring, then at the massive singularities, ‘Shrink them? Into that? But their size, their power…’” Nils is baffled by the notion.

“In the realm of higher dimensions, size and scale are but mere illusions. Your perception is limited to the four dimensions you understand. In the realms unseen, the rules as you know them are... malleable,” Huitzilopochtli enlightens him.

“So, in higher dimensions... size is irrelevant?” Nils seeks confirmation.

“Precisely. Think of the singularities not in terms of spatial dimensions, but as points in a vast tapestry of multidimensional reality. In this context, their size can be... adjusted without diminishing their essence,” Huitzilopochtli elaborates.

Huitzilopochtli motions towards the singularities. Nils hesitantly focuses the Bant af Garn on them.

“And this ring... It can contain them?” Nils questions the feasibility.

“I have crafted it to resonate with higher-dimensional frequencies. It’s more than a mere ornament; it’s a bridge to realms beyond your perception,” Huitzilopochtli assures.

Nils focuses, and the singularities begin to compress, their immense forms spiraling into the ring. The process is intense, waves of gravity spinning out faster and faster as they swirl.

“It’s incredible... They’re folding into dimensions I can’t even perceive!” Nils is amazed by the process.

“You are witnessing the dance of the cosmos on a scale unimagined. Within apparent randomness lies an underlying order. What seems chaotic in four dimensions can be harmonious in the higher ones,” Huitzilopochtli explains the cosmic dance.

The singularities vanish into the ring, which now glows with a soft, otherworldly light. Nils looks on in awe.

“They’re... gone? No, not gone – just beyond,” Nils realizes the new reality.

“They exist within the ring, in a state unfathomable to the human mind. You’ve achieved a feat that bridges the gap between mortal understanding and divine capability. You and the Bant are the living Bridge. Inside that ring lives a universe as diverse as your own, but parallel. You may hold within it any reality from your own and you and only you may traverse it and return using the Bant af Garn,” Huitzilopochtli reveals the ultimate truth. “To hold such power... it’s both terrifying and exhilarating,”

Nils reflects on the immense responsibility. “With great power comes a responsibility that will rest with you throughout eternity. Now, You have fulfilled my desire and I have placed upon you a great gift. I will leave you with a thought. ‘To see more we must forget what we know.’ The thought echoes in his mind,”

Huitzilopochtli imparts a final piece of wisdom. “The scales are balanced and our time concluded. What you’ve achieved today will echo through the cosmos forever and our bond will remain unbroken. Such is the power of the Bant af Garn, Nils Verin. I bid you farewell as we shall not again meet in this life,” Huitzilopochtli bids farewell, leaving a lasting impact on Nils.

Nils feels the god leave him and a great empty chasm opens in his soul. He sits in the now oppressive silence of the z-machine, staring at the ring upon his finger, overwhelmed with loneliness. He is taken from his reverie by a notification from his AI. {System alert} guards returning to station machine in 4 minutes.

Nils is on his feet, bringing the armor from social to high function communications. He engages the navigation and chooses the quickest route to the Solaris Aztlan transport, noting that it leaves in thirty minutes. Considering the time to the port he can make it with ten minutes to spare. He moves quickly down the stairs to the floor of the main cargo chamber, his eyes nervously dart between service workers looking for a hint of recognition.

He has to walk across two hundred meters of wide open area. He can almost feel automatic targeting on his back and restrains himself from breaking into a run. The closed hallway of the access tunnel he enters feels like a temporary safety after the wide open space of the cargo bay and he briefly increases his pace, while scanning the upcoming corridors for pursuit.

As he rounds a corner a he comes face to face with a security team of four. His heart races as they simply nod in acknowledgment as he passes. He lets out a sigh of relief and continues. Another five hundred meters and he will be at the ship. He ducks through a maintenance passageway that skirts the outside of a mess hall, close enough that he can hear the chatter of maintenance personnel through the thin grilling. He exits the other side and can now see the access gate for the ship. A pair of guards in full armor are posted on either side of the access portal. He counts the seconds as he approaches the guards.

“Access code,” the guard states impersonally, stepping forward and blocking the access passage.

His visor is not set to transparency, giving his request a mechanical feel Nils opens his heads-up display and feeds the access token he has generated in Tez’s room, holding his breath. The guard accepts the token and pauses and steps back to the side of the door, mirroring the second guard and indicating for Nils to enter.

He takes a step forward and every part of his body freezes. He struggles to move but the armor has become completely inert entombing him like cast iron. The heads-up display refuses to interface with the suit and he realizes he is a prisoner. The Tlatoani Ixachitlan steps out of the access portal from the ship in full battle armor save for the faceplate which is translucent. She stands only centimeters from him, staring into his immobilized eyes.

“Nils Verin, you look so good in my clothes. If I had but known we could have had so much more fun,” Tez smiles in that impish way like an innocent pre-teen if it were a predator. “Very sad to see you leaving so quickly, although in light of all things I can see why you would choose to do so. But we have a small amount of unfinished business.”

He feels the right arm of the armor retract, leaving the arm naked save for the sleeve of his robe and the Bant af Garn. She retracts her own right arm, revealing nothing beneath. She reaches out and grasps his arm at the elbow, exactly as Huitzilopochtli has done. She is binding them with the Bant af Garn.

“I used to leave a small article of clothing to those I wish to be remembered, but this is so much more spiritual, isn’t it?” again she gazes into his eyes as he struggles to speak, but the armor holds his jaw firm. The armor again covers his arm, holding him in a vice-like grip.

She then retracts the middle section, the area beneath his nipple to just above his pubic hair exposed. “What the hell?” Nils thinks to himself.

“I think this belongs to me,” she reaches toward his crotch smiling, then at the last moment moves her hand to his right side, extracting the data codex given to him by Huitzilopochtli. She places it into a panel that quickly opens and closes on her armor.

“Guards, take this man back to the interrogation center.” The two guards move from the doorway, each takes a side of Nils and lifts him from the floor. He is looking back, straight at Tez as they lift him and begin walking away.

After a few steps, Tez points toward the back of the first guard, a panel between her left elbow and wrist opens, and a small tubular barrel protrudes and clicks into place. A nearly invisible beam lashes out twice in quick succession and the two guards fall to the floor as Nils plummets, still paralyzed, onto his back looking straight up at the ceiling. He hears Tez whisper in his ear.

“You have two minutes to get through that door, Nils. Do not disappoint me.” Nils feels the armor retract from his body completely, leaving him laying in his robe upon the floor. He jumps to his feet in time to see Tez round the corner at the far end of the corridor from which he came. He looks to the ship and sees the flashing strobe of the pressure lock closing. He sprints as fast as possible toward the door, diving at the last moment through the small aperture of the closing airlock.

Tez stops and turns back, walking quickly to the two dead guards; she listens to the sound of the ship departing behind the closed launch port doors. A contingent of four armored guards with Xoc in their center comes racing down the corridor, coming to a stop just short of Tez. The four guards move into defensive combat positions, weapons ready.

“Tlatoani Ixachitlan! What happened?” Xoc exclaims.

Tez stands and sweeps her hands, indicating the two dead guards. “He got away!” she exclaims.

Max crashes through the group of picnicking men, the collision scattering plates, cups, and what feels like every condiment known to humankind. Flat on his back, he stares up at the sky for a moment, catching his breath. What the hell just happened? His limbs ache, but as he carefully checks himself over, relief floods him—nothing broken. Well, except maybe my dignity.

He props himself up on an elbow, grimacing as he takes in the chaos around him. Food is smeared everywhere—on him, on the grass, even on what remains of the men’s carefully laid picnic. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin, sticky with something yellow and unidentifiable. Great. I’m a walking condiment.

His attention shifts to the group of men, now glaring at him with expressions that range from irritated to outright furious. Max raises a hand, fumbling to apologize. “Uh, sorry about… all this.” His voice wavers as he pulls a plate off his leg, its surface coated in the same sticky yellow mess. Why does it feel like everyone in the universe already hates me?

One of the men gestures angrily, and Max freezes, unsure whether to drop the plate or hand it over. Opting for self-preservation, he places it gingerly on the ground, mumbles another apology, and bolts, weaving through clusters of people lounging in the grass. The men shout something after him, but their voices blur as adrenaline takes over. Fantastic first impression, Max. Real smooth.

He slows near a viewing platform, his heart still racing, and leans against the railing. His breath catches as he takes in the sight below. Encased in shimmering domes, a city sprawls beneath the ocean, glowing with an ethereal light that pulses gently against the blue-green backdrop of the sea. How is this even real? he thinks, awe washing over him. The city’s curves and sleek lines feel alive, organic, like it grew there rather than being built. Transparent pathways crisscross between structures, teeming with life—pedestrians and shuttles moving in a graceful dance. Beyond the domes, massive cliffs rise, their surfaces scarred and shaped by eons of ocean currents. It’s like the ocean decided to hold its breath and let us live inside.

For a moment, the chaos he left behind fades, replaced by pure wonder. He imagines walking those pathways, living in a place so far removed from anything he’s ever known. This is the kind of thing you see in movies, not something you stumble into covered in mustard.

His thoughts are interrupted by a sharp, high-pitched sound. Turning, he finds himself face-to-face with a drone—a sleek, spherical machine with a single glowing eye and an appendage extending toward him. Its presence jolts him back into the moment. Nope, nope, nope. Without thinking, he swings a punch. His fist connects with the drone, which wobbles, emits a metallic screech, and crashes to the ground with a sad electronic whine. Max freezes. Oh, crap.

He glances around. People are pointing, whispering, their stares turning him into a spectacle. Run. His feet move before the thought fully forms, carrying him toward a row of elevators. He leaps into the first open one, gasping for air, only to find himself face-to-face with a family—a woman wrapped in translucent garments and three wide-eyed children. The mother immediately pulls her kids close, her eyes filled with suspicion. Fantastic. Just what I need.

“Uh… could you tell me how to get to the city center?” Max asks, his voice strained as he tries to sound normal. One of the children stares at him with open curiosity, but the mother backs away, her protective stance clear. Yeah, great move, Max. Definitely not a threat.

He turns to the window, desperate to appear less threatening. The view outside is breathtaking, the city’s glowing pathways stretching out beneath them. But he can’t enjoy it. His heart pounds, the weight of the family’s stares pressing into his back. The elevator glides to a stop, the doors sliding open.

Waiting for him are two identical drones, their glowing eyes fixed on him. Max swallows hard, his thoughts racing. I’m really not cut out for this.

“Identification,” comes from a metallic voice.

Max tries to dodge past the drones when he feels an electrical shock which paralyzes him.

“You will report to retention center 1001. You have thirty minutes before the toxin becomes lethal,” the metallic voice fades and the two drones unceremoniously fly away.

The sudden sting of compliance, delivered via a dart to his calf, leaves him reeling from the realization of his predicament.

“It fucking poisoned me?” he thinks.

“What is retention center 1001?” he begins to panic.

“Calm down, calm down, calm down,” he starts to breathe long, slow breaths.

He hears the chime of the elevator door closing and is brought briefly back from his panic. Nearby he sees a building guarded by two men in uniforms that shimmer like liquid leather.

“Well, I need information,” he thinks. He approaches them; the nearest man steps forward, blocking Max’s path to the door with a posture that mixes ease with authority.

“What can I do for you?” The guard scrutinizes Max with an expectant look.

Max, feeling somewhat out of his depth, manages to stammer out his predicament. “I could use some help, please? Some floating robot just shot something into me and told me to head to center 1001, but I’ve got no idea how to get there. Could you point me in the right direction?”

The guard’s gaze turns curious, and he exchanges a silent, sub-vocalized conversation with his colleague. Following this silent exchange, the second guard aims a device at Max, emitting a blue light that scans him from head to toe.

“You’ve been red-tagged, my friend. You need to follow your HUD to the 1001 adjustment center now,” the scanning guard informs him.

Max’s confusion deepens. “Yeah, about that... I don’t know what a HUD is, and I’m not sure where that center is either.”

After another silent consultation, the first guard directs, “Answer that,” seemingly instructing the HUD to engage with Max.

Suddenly, Max notices a blinking red light at the periphery of his vision. As he focuses on it, his vision shifts, revealing a detailed interface complete with a luminescent array of information and graphics floating before his eyes. The HUD’s crisp, vivid display overlays Max’s surroundings with digital information, as intuitive as it is comprehensive.

He explores this new digital overlay, marveling at its responsiveness to his gaze and commands. It’s an immersive experience, with every blink or focused look bringing new information or options to the forefront of his vision.

A priority message catches his attention, explaining the urgent need to navigate to the adjustment center within a tight deadline to avoid severe consequences. His acknowledgment of the message activates a navigation beacon on the HUD, which provides a visual guide through the city’s vibrant streets.

He thanks the two guards who are left with a combination of amusement and curiosity as he walks away.

He follows the guide light deeper into the city, as he’s enveloped by the sounds of cascading water and the sight of iridescent buildings. The architecture, inspired by the natural flow of water, and the citizens, adorned in shimmering, mood-responsive attire, create an atmosphere of hedonistic elegance.

As he navigates through this aqueous wonderland, Max’s HUD leads him to a narrow industrial alley ending at a nondescript doorway. As he approaches, the door scans him with a familiar blue light. He hears an internal rotation sound and a hallway appears. He steps into the hallway, walks a short distance, and finds himself in a detention suite that contradicts every notion of confinement he’s known. The transparent, comfortably furnished room offers a calming ambiance, far removed from the cold sterility of traditional holding cells.

Among the detainees is a diverse trio: a young artist absorbed in digital sketching, a business professional managing affairs via communicator, and a reveler from the previous night, still adorned in party regalia and a ridiculously tall top hat, strewn with an uncountable number of paraphernalia dangling about his head. His heads-up indicates he should wait, so he sits in an unoccupied spot near the man in the top hat and waits.

A short time later, the artist and businesswoman depart, called by some silent signal. Max is left with the flamboyant party-goer, who eventually breaks the silence.

“Crazy night, huh?” His tone suggests an attempt to find camaraderie in their shared predicament, a small comfort in the uncertainty of their situation. The partier, lounging casually in the nondescript confines of a police holding cell, extends an offer with a laid-back charm that seems incongruous with their surroundings.

“Hi, I’m Zach, want a hit of keif?”

Max, perplexed by the offer and the term itself, queries, “What is Keif?”

Zach’s puzzled look fades as he realizes Max’s genuine ignorance. “Keif? It’s a short-term psychoactive. Good for passing the time.”

Max, still grappling with the bizarreness of his situation, can’t help but question the wisdom of indulging in a holding cell. “Do you think that’s a good idea here?”

Zach’s response carries a hint of amusement. “Here? Veletian law’s pretty lax. They’d rather bore you into submission than punish you. It’s all about the lectures.”

Max, further bewildered, asks, “Veletian?”

Zach, now fully engaged in this curious conversation, probes deeper. “Who are you, and how do you not know about Keif and Valetians?”

Max, feeling a strange sense of trust despite their bizarre meeting place, decides to divulge his tale. “My name’s Max. And my story? You’d probably think I’m making it up.”

Zach, intrigued, encourages him. “Try me.”

Max, with a hesitant breath, launches into his tale. “A few days back, I was just another guy on a dairy farm in Idaho. Then, out of nowhere, a computer message and a meteorite whisk me away to an Egyptian death world. Fast forward through a space portal mishap, a picnic crash landing, a robotic poisoning, and discovering a built-in user interface in my head... and here I am, clueless about where or even when I am.”

Zach, taking in Max’s story with a mix of skepticism and fascination, decides his day could use a bit of lightening. “Dude, you definitely need some Keif.” He deftly rolls a joint, ignites it, and passes it to Max.

Max, figuring his day couldn’t get much stranger, accepts the joint. The effects hit him almost instantly, leading him to quickly hand it back to Zach, who smokes it with a relaxed satisfaction.

“What are you doing here?” Max asks.

“Ahh, the Veletian authorities like to pick me up about once a month. They enjoy the lecture, and I get out of the house,” Zach shares with a casual acceptance of his routine run-ins with the authorities, only adding layers to the mystery surrounding him.

“Veletian?” Max asks, puzzled.

“Ahh, yeah, you are on Vodanis, in the capital city of Nizhny Navilok of the Veletian empire,” Zach explains.

“It kind of looked like we are on the bottom of an ocean?” Max probes further.

“Yeah, Vodanis is an ice world, well, ice covering a massive ocean. The entire city is built on the floor of its largest ocean, buried under eight thousand meters of ice.” Max staggers to digest the reality of where he is and how he got here.

“You’re really from Earth?” Zach asks with a slight sound of disbelief.

“Yeah, it was until a little while ago the only place I thought existed,” Max replies, still trying to grasp his new reality.

Zach ponders the implications of Max’s experience, touching upon myths and the very fabric of galactic history, mentally noting the specific details.

“Hey, you need a place to crash while you figure this out?” Zach offers.

“Well, first I am kind of concerned that I am going to die from a poison dart, but yeah, short of that, I could really use one,” Max responds.

“Ahh, no worries, the poison was rendered inert the moment you passed the door to the retention center here. You must have really pissed them off to get darted,” Zach reassures him.

A short, efficient man enters the room and bows to Zach. “Zenhaari, all arrangements have been made for your departure.” Zach nods at the man. “I need you to clear Max here; he will be coming with us.”

The man nods and leaves the room, returning only moments later. “It is as you have instructed, Zenhaari, your transport is waiting on the roof.”

“Hey, Max, follow me; you have been cleared to leave,” Zach says with a casual command, providing Max a sliver of stability in an otherwise incomprehensible journey.

Zach pats Max on the back, “Let’s roll, daddy-o,” and rises to leave, assuming Max will follow. He notes that the man remains with his eyes to the floor as they pass him in the hallway.

They ascend several flights of stairs, the steps echoing faintly, until they emerge into sunlight on the rooftop. The brightness momentarily blinds Nils, but his eyes adjust quickly, drawn to the elongated craft waiting ahead. Its design is sleek, reminiscent of a helicopter but clearly more advanced. A man in a dark suit of armor stands nearby, signaling them to board. Nils feels a faint unease at the figure’s silent efficiency but pushes it aside as he follows.

Stepping inside the craft, the door slides shut behind them with a whisper, and the outside world falls away. The roar of the rotors diminishes to an almost imperceptible hum. The contrast is disorienting, the sudden quiet pressing on his ears like a vacuum. How do they make it this silent? he wonders, the thought mingling with the odd sense of detachment the craft induces.

The interior is stunning, a deliberate balance between functionality and indulgence. High ceilings and panoramic windows make the space feel vast, as if the boundaries between the cabin and the sky outside have blurred. Nils settles into one of the seats, which seems to shift beneath him, molding itself to his body. The sensation is subtle but unmistakable—a warmth at his back, gentle pressure at his shoulders. This seat knows me better than I know myself, he thinks wryly, though the massage feature is a welcome surprise.

The lighting catches his attention next. It’s soft, unobtrusive, emanating from panels hidden in the walls and ceiling. The glow feels… thoughtful, almost like it’s adjusting to match his mood. He wonders for a moment if that’s intentional. Is it reading me? Or am I reading too much into it? Either way, the effect is calming, the perfection of the atmosphere unsettling in its precision.

What strikes him most, though, is the silence. It’s not just quiet—it’s a complete absence of sound. No engine hum, no mechanical vibrations. The lack of auditory feedback feels unnatural, like being inside a bubble suspended in time. Even silence shouldn’t be this quiet, Nils thinks, his unease prickling beneath the surface of his calm.

He notices a small bar in the corner, stocked meticulously with drinks and snacks that seem untouched, almost too pristine to disturb. The surfaces around the cabin shimmer faintly under the ambient light, each detail polished to an understated perfection. They thought of everything, didn’t they? Nils muses, though he can’t quite decide if it’s impressive or unnerving.

A glance at his heads-up display pulls his focus. The information about the craft is startling—its capabilities extend far beyond the air, designed to operate underwater with the same ease. Of course it does, Nils thinks, a mix of admiration and fatigue washing over him. This machine, like everything else he’s encountered lately, feels more than extraordinary. It feels like a reminder of how far he’s come—and how much further there is to go.

“Nice ride? This thing is cool,” Max remarks.

“Ahh, yeah, glad you like it. So, another Keif?” Zach has already rolled another spliff and offers it.

“Why the hell not,” Max accepts, taking a drag from the spliff which he feels immediately.

After a few short minutes of flight, the helicopter begins losing altitude toward the sea below. The craft begins a stunning transformation. Its rotors retract, it seamlessly transitions into a sleek, powerful submarine, which dives beneath the water. The transition is almost magical in its fluidity.

As the craft dives beneath the surface, Max sits quietly, his eyes fixed on the ocean’s shifting hues outside. The dome they approach is breathtaking, a massive sphere of clear, impenetrable material that seems to hold back the weight of the world. He catches his reflection faintly in the glass—a reminder of how out of place he feels in all of this.

When the craft begins its ascent into the dome, reconfiguring itself back into a helicopter, Max’s thoughts race. What kind of world is this? Who lives like this? The transition feels seamless, but to him, it’s another reminder of just how far removed this place is from anything he’s ever known.

The mansion comes into view, clinging to the cliffside like it was grown there, not built. It’s beautiful, sure, but it’s also intimidating. The glass, metal, and stone blend perfectly into the environment, an impossible balance between art and engineering. Max wonders briefly how many people worked to design it, and how many lives were spent making it a reality. For someone to live here? To host parties while the rest of us scrape by? The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but he keeps it to himself.

As the helicopter lands, Max’s eyes catch the security emplacements hidden among the cliff’s natural features. They’re discreet, but not so much that he doesn’t notice. Rocket emplacements, guard towers—this isn’t just a mansion; it’s a fortress. Who are they expecting to show up? And who’s worth protecting this much? The thought leaves a pit in his stomach, a subtle warning he can’t shake.

The doors open, and the energy of the party hits him immediately. Music and laughter spill across the grounds, mixing with the heady aroma of exotic flowers. Everywhere he looks, there are people—beautiful, extravagant, and dressed in costumes so elaborate they could double as art. Max hesitates, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer vibrancy of it all. This is a different planet. It has to be. Or maybe I’ve just been living on the wrong one.

Zach hops out, his stride confident, as if this is the most natural place in the world to be. Max scrambles to keep up, trying not to look as out of place as he feels. The mansion’s towering entrance looms ahead, its doors opening to reveal a foyer that radiates opulence. Sculptures and artwork line the walls, each piece so captivating that Max barely notices the soft, natural light filtering in from above. He feels small here, insignificant—a shadow among giants.

The party spills into every corner of the mansion. Guests lounge in elegant disarray, their once-perfect costumes now slightly rumpled. Empty glasses and plates vanish, replaced almost instantly by unseen staff. Max watches the precision of it all, the way everything seems to flow effortlessly, and it unsettles him. This isn’t a party. This is a machine. A well-oiled one.

His attention drifts to the crowd, where clusters of people gather around different spectacles. A sunrise simulator casts its glow over one group, their awe at the artificial dawn both genuine and strange. Another group laughs and gasps in unison as they dive in and out of a virtual reality experience. Max can’t help but think about how much money it takes to create something like this, to craft an illusion of eternal celebration.

The dance floor is a chaotic swirl of bodies, some moving with reckless abandon, others swaying dreamily to the music. The air vibrates with their energy, an almost tangible charge of hedonism and escape. Max feels like an intruder, an outsider peeking into a world he was never meant to see. This is what people chase? he wonders. This endless pursuit of now?

Before he can dwell too long, a man approaches. He’s taller than the one they met at the holding center, but dressed in a similar style—clean, sharp, and purposeful. Max straightens instinctively, unsure if he should feel relief or dread. Beside him, Zach’s expression remains unreadable as they’re met in the vast entry hall. Whatever’s next, Max thinks, I’m not ready for it.

“Your holiness,” he speaks as he approaches, then mimics the former man by looking at the ground, avoiding eye contact:

“Show our new guest to a west hall guest room. Approve him for full access and then bring him to join me in the cuddle puddle when he has freshened up. Oh, and have one of the clothiers attend to him,” he indicates to me.

 “Immediately, sir. If you will please follow me,” he gestures for me to follow.

Max steps gingerly over a man sprawled on the floor, snoring like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Just as Max clears him, the man stirs, yelling, “That’ll show them who’s got the biggest bag!” His fist shoots out clumsily at some invisible foe, narrowly missing Max’s ankle before he flops back down, instantly snoring again. Max freezes for a moment, then keeps moving, stifling a laugh. What the hell kind of party is this?

The uniformed man ahead weaves through the chaos effortlessly, as if he’s done this a hundred times before. Max hurries to follow, trying not to step on anyone or anything, but the scene is absurd. Guests are draped over furniture and sprawled across the floor like exhausted toddlers after a sugar-fueled rampage. One guy has his head resting in what looks like a bowl of guacamole, and Max has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. This is not real life. No way.

They reach a staircase, and the moment they pass through a subtle barrier, the noise from the party disappears. Max stops mid-step, the abrupt silence throwing him off balance. All that remains is the muffled sound of their footsteps against the thick carpet. He glances back, half-expecting the noise to rush back in like a wave, but it doesn’t. How does that even work? he wonders, feeling like he’s stepped into some kind of surreal dream.

At the top of the stairs, the man gestures toward a line of strange bicycle-like contraptions. Without a word, he climbs onto one, demonstrating the controls with a casual flick of the joystick. The device glides forward smoothly, and Max’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay, that’s new.

He climbs onto another, gripping the joystick tentatively. The seat is surprisingly comfortable, and the balance is so perfect it feels like the thing is alive. When he pushes the joystick forward, it glides easily, responding to the slightest movement. This is kinda awesome, he admits to himself, even as he struggles to shake the growing sense of how out of his depth he is.

They speed up, the machines moving faster than he expects, racing down corridor after corridor. Max tries to track the turns, to map out where they’re going in his head, but the endless twists and intersections blur together. I’d get lost in five seconds if I was on my own, he thinks, gripping the joystick a little tighter.

Finally, they stop in front of a massive wooden door. It’s so intricately carved it looks like it belongs in a museum, and Max can’t help but stare at the shimmering details. What kind of person even has a door like this? he wonders, a nervous flutter building in his chest. The man dismounts smoothly, nodding for Max to do the same. With a deep breath, Max steps off his bike, standing in front of the door. His palms are sweaty, his mind racing. Okay, Max, whatever’s behind this door can’t be weirder than what you’ve already seen… right?

“Please enter here. Someone will be along to attend you shortly,” he passes his hand over the door, and it retracts silently. As the door to the room—or rather, the luxury suite—swings open,

The sheer scale of the suite hits Max like a wave, momentarily stopping him in his tracks. It’s vast—easily the size of half a football field—and every detail seems crafted with an almost obsessive precision. It feels too perfect, like stepping into someone else’s dream.

His gaze is drawn immediately to the glass wall that dominates the space, revealing a canyon that plunges a thousand meters below the ocean’s surface. The view is mesmerizing—a living, breathing painting of marine life weaving through shafts of dappled light. For a moment, Max feels like he’s floating, caught between the vast alien beauty outside and the surreal perfection within. This isn’t just a room—it’s a universe, he thinks, overwhelmed.

The bed catches his eye next. It’s massive, piled with pillows and blankets that look impossibly soft, like something conjured from a fantasy. It’s not just a bed; it’s a promise of comfort so indulgent it borders on absurd. Around it, everything is meticulously arranged—sleek nightstands that hum with hidden tech, a concealed entertainment system waiting to descend from the ceiling, and lighting so precise it mimics the glow of a setting sun. Who even designs a room like this? Max wonders, running his hand over the edge of the bedframe. It’s all so far from anything he’s ever known.

Off to one side, he spots a walk-in massage center, complete with a professional-grade table, rows of neatly arranged oils, and a sound system playing soft, almost imperceptible notes. The lighting is low, casting a gentle glow over the serene art on the walls. This feels like something out of a movie, Max thinks, stepping closer. He can almost hear his own disbelief echoing in his head. Am I really here?

A gym stretches further along, filled with state-of-the-art equipment. Virtual reality treadmills, sleek weight systems, and yoga mats are all strategically placed to overlook the underwater canyon. Even the idea of exercising here feels surreal, like the view would swallow him whole. Max imagines running on the treadmill, the ocean stretching infinitely around him. It’s more like being part of a simulation than a workout.

At the far end, a pool glimmers in the soft light, its water so clear it looks like glass. The lounge area beside it is dotted with plush chairs, each angled perfectly for relaxation. Nearby, a bar gleams, its shelves stocked with bottles of unfamiliar shapes and colors. Even the drinks here probably cost more than my car, Max thinks, half amused and half intimidated.

As he wanders through the suite, he can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here. Every surface—from the plush carpet to the cool polished stone—feels too soft, too smooth, like it’s been crafted for someone else’s world. Sculptures and art pieces are scattered throughout, each one deliberate, each one a reminder that this is a space meant for a life far removed from his. Above it all, the ocean looms, vast and alive, a quiet but powerful backdrop that seems to swallow the luxury whole.

A soft chime pulls him from his thoughts, and a voice announces the arrival of a clothier. A what? Max barely has time to process before the door slides open. A tall woman steps in, draped in a multicolored sarong that flows like water as she moves. She’s poised, serene, and utterly at ease in this place that feels so alien to him. Max stands there, unsure of what to say or do, acutely aware of the gap between this world and his own. What the hell happens now?

“Hi, my name is Liora Vellucci. Zach asked me to help you pick out some clothes,” she does a little half bow and smiles. “You can call me Liora. Can you follow me, please?” She indicates a door recessed to the side of the island-sized bed.

Max follows Liora across the room, feeling more out of place with each step. The door slides open, revealing what can only be described as a wardrobe for gods. It’s massive—rows upon rows of clothing stretching on for what feels like forever, separated into sections marked “Formal,” “Sporty,” and “Wild Costumes.” Hats, shoes, capes, scarves, pants, shirts—everything imaginable is here.

Max tries to take it all in but ends up overwhelmed. Do people actually need this many options?

“Shall we start with house outfits?” Liora suggests, her tone professional but warm.

Max shifts awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, not really sure what people wear here. Could you maybe just, you know, suggest something that works?”

Her eyes light up. “It would be my pleasure. Zach specifically mentioned you should have a hat. We can build from there. One moment, please.” She grabs a small cart and disappears into the labyrinth of clothes, muttering to herself as she moves.

Max watches her go, feeling like an awkward kid in a fancy boutique. He debates whether to stand or sit, eventually deciding to fidget in place. He tries not to think about how ridiculous this all is—he’s gone from being chased for his life to standing in a fashion wonderland in what feels like no time at all. Is this how rich people live? Just endless choices and perfectly tailored moments? He catches sight of himself in a nearby mirror and almost laughs at how out of place he looks.

Liora returns with the cart piled high with hats. “Please step over here,” she says, gesturing to a full-length mirror.

The first hat she tries on him is a baseball cap, but instead of a normal brim, it has a flat, duck-bill-shaped extension. Max stares at his reflection, baffled. “Not really my style,” he says, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Good, we can establish some guidelines. Next.” She places a colorful beanie with a spinning propeller on his head. Max snorts. “Still not me.”

They go through a parade of increasingly bizarre options—a fishbowl hat filled with glitter and fake fish, a candle-laden candelabra helmet, even a foam-finger monstrosity that looks like it belongs at a sports game. Max tries to keep a straight face, but he’s losing the battle. Is this what Zach thought I’d want?

“Maybe something more like a cowboy hat?” Max suggests, trying to steer things toward something a little less absurd.

Liora pauses, clearly intrigued, and pulls out a small data pad. After a few quick taps, she grins. “Wait, wait, I think I have it.” She disappears down the aisle and returns triumphantly holding a black leather hat. “Try this.”

She places it on his head, and Max freezes. It’s perfect. A black leather steampunk top hat, edged with rattlesnake skin, complete with the rattles themselves. An antique coin gleams in the band. He straightens his shoulders, feeling taller, stronger. This is me. This feels right.

“That’s it,” he says, grinning for the first time since he entered the room. “That’s the one. Can you match it with an outfit?”

Liora beams. “Of course, of course.” She dives into the clothing aisles, muttering again as she pulls pieces. Max leans against the mirror, catching his reflection and laughing softly at how surreal it all feels. How did I go from running for my life to a hat that makes me look like a steampunk sheriff?

Liora returns with a black coat made of shimmering fabric, fastened with silver buckles across the chest. “Futuristic opera conductor in steampunk,” she proclaims proudly.

Max slips into the coat, the material fitting perfectly, as if it was made for him. He steps back to the mirror, turning slightly. The person looking back at him feels like someone new—stronger, bolder, maybe even capable.

“Final touches,” Liora says, handing him a pair of matching black cowboy boots. Once he’s fully dressed, she leads him to a case of accessories, picking out rings and a golden bracelet. Max accepts them wordlessly, too caught up in the transformation to question anything.

“Zach asked that I send you back to the party as soon as we have the first outfit picked,” Liora says as she steps back to admire her work. “If you don’t mind, I can prepare additional options for you to review later.”

“Thank you,” Max says, his voice more genuine than he expects. “This… this is amazing.”

“It is an honor, sir. So pleased to have you join us.” She gestures toward the auto bike at the room’s entrance. “The route is already programmed. The property can be a bit confusing.”

Before Max can respond, Liora turns and leaves, her movements as graceful as her words.

He sits down for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror. The reflection looks surreal—like a character from one of the books he used to read late at night. A few hours ago, I was dodging death. Now I’m dressed for a party that feels like it belongs in another universe. What the hell is my life? He sighs, standing up and adjusting the coat one last time before heading for the bike. Might as well see where this ride takes me.

“Summon the primary rune keeper,” Zach commands.

“The Rune Keeper is on sabbatical on Cigna 12. Establishing a comm link,” responds a calm disembodied voice. The left wall opens from the top, with a panel sliding into the floor revealing a large screen. On the screen is a man dressed in religious-looking robes in a temple filled with small statues and incense.

“Zenhaari, you grace me. How may I serve you?” the Runekeeper greets Zach.

“I just met a guy who told me he is from Earth and has been to Necropolara,” Zach explains.

“Zenhaari, do you believe him?” the Runekeeper inquires.

“I do!” Zach asserts.

“Zenhaari, where is he now?” the Runekeeper asks further.

“He is here on Vodanis at my summer palace,” Zach replies.

“Zenhaari, the teachings are clear. You cannot let him know! I am uploading the main reference. Please read it again. I will get you all additional information as soon as possible.” The screen indicates a secured file has been received.

“Thank you, Runekeeper. Fuck, this cannot be real,” Zach exclaims in disbelief.

“Does he have the relic?” the Runekeeper asks urgently.

“I don’t know,” Zach answers.

Zach closes the communication and provides authentication using his highest-level security code. The document shows up on his heads-up display.

A reading from the book of the Reveled 1-21

Hearken unto the whispers of the aeon, for there shall arise an heir from the lineage of ancient wisdom, the breath of the Zenhaari. His soul, a vessel of enlightenment, traversed through the cycles of samsara to emerge in an era of tumult and revelation.

And lo, from the bosom of Terra shall journey a pilgrim, touched by the shadows of the death gods’ domain, bearing an artifact of yore, an enigma wrought in the forges of time, its power veiled in the mists of his understanding.

Behold, when these two souls converge, the tapestry of destiny shall quiver. The man of Earth, cloaked in the riddles of ancient might, and the reincarnate, beacon of ages past, shall stand at the precipice of time. Their meeting shall herald the murmurings of the end of days, a twilight of the spheres whispered in the annals of the eternal.

For if the guide in the mantle of the Zenhaari falters, if wisdom’s light wanes before the dusk of ignorance, then shall the heavens tremble and the earth mourn. Fire shall dance with water, air shall consort with the dust, and the stars shall dim in their celestial abode.

Thus, let the one true line of Zenhaari gird himself with the armor of foresight and compassion. Let him be the shepherd to the wanderer, the flame amidst the shadow. Only through his guidance shall the relic’s mystery unfold into salvation new perdition.

The eyes of the cosmos watch, the ancients hold their breath, for upon this nexus pivots creation and cessation. Pray, children of the morrow, that balance prevails, and peace reigns over the precipice. For in the dance of these two souls hangs the fate of all that is, and all that ever will be.

Zach sits down in a chair looking ashen.  A feeling he has avoided his entire life hits him like a physical wave.  Fuck!, Responsibility.

Max exits the suite into the hallway and finds the scooter where he left it. As he climbs on, it chimes and begins moving forward without his assistance. He holds on as it accelerates down the hallway. He realizes after nearly falling off on sharp turns that the seat gives a vibration indicating the direction of the next turn.

After two or three quick turns, he learns to anticipate and move his body to counter the force of the turn. It reminds him a lot of driving his motorcycle around the farm when running errands for his dad. He thinks about his family and wonders what they must be thinking.

He feels like he should have left a note, especially for his mom, as she will be worried sick. It’s not like he had any idea he was going to be kidnapped by an asteroid. He wonders where his car is now. Then he laughs to himself. Like he has no bigger concerns at the moment.

The scooter slows and comes to a halt by the stairway overlooking the room he entered. He walks down the stairs, and as he passes the threshold of the last step, the noises of the party abruptly fill the room.

A few of the people lying about on couches now seem to acknowledge him. He realizes it is the outfit and feels pretty good about it. His stomach growls, and he realizes the last time he ate something was on the death world over a day ago. He approaches one of the many bar-looking areas and waves for the attention of the smartly dressed staff. A young man in a pressed white uniform approaches him.

“How may I assist you, sir?” the man makes a similar bowing motion to the clothier earlier.

Max responds, “Well first up, no one calls me sir. I’m Max. Could I get something to eat and drink, please? Oh, and by the way, how do I pay for it?”

The man looks at Max as if he is a child.

The bartender says, “I take it this is your first visit?”

Max replies, “Uhh, yeah, I just arrived.”

The bartender continues, “Well, according to your scan, you can have anything you want. And well, for the record, no one pays for anything around here. At least not in the last eleven years. So, what shall it be?”

“Could I get a sandwich and something sweet to drink? I have no idea what the names of any of this stuff are.”

The waiter pours a sky-blue liquid into a tall glass filled with ice and hands it to him, then disappears into a doorway behind the counter. A few moments later, he returns with a plate holding some reddish-orange bread with slices of what Max thinks might be meat. He picks it up and takes a big bite, groaning in ecstasy. His mouth explodes with flavors he has never tasted before.

He follows it with a drink from the blue beverage, which is equally delightful. He piles into the food, eating voraciously as his dormant hunger comes full to life. He is just about to finish the last bite when he sees a flash of red and green to his right.

A body flies into him, careening him over and into a nearby table and chairs. He feels someone holding him tightly in a bear hug and looks up into the eyes of the most beautiful face he has ever seen. The face looks stricken in surprise. Two things occur to Max at that moment: the person who has tackled him is gorgeous, and she has mistaken him for someone else. He slowly starts to disentangle himself from the girl, and she starts frantically gesturing and trying to apologize.

“Oh shit, shit, shit, I thought you were... well, uh, are you okay?” she continues, looking horrified.

Max finally extracts himself from her grip and awkwardly climbs out from under the table, standing to face her. What looks back at him is that looks like a model from a magazine. She has golden skin and her eyes are different colors, one pupil is emerald green and one is deep navy blue. Her blond hair is dyed pink and green and styled into a mohawk, and she is wearing red dragon earrings. He just stands there staring stupidly. She stares back at him.

There is an awkward passing of seconds.

“Hi, my name is Rachel, but my friends call me Rocky,” she says.

Max stammers, “Err, uh, my name is sorry, and I am Max. Err, sorry, no, I mean my name is Max, and well, I guess I am not who you thought I was.”

Rocky asks, “What makes you think so?”

Max replies, “Well, do you normally tackle strangers?”

Rocky says, “Now that you mention it, yes. And since your name is Max, you’re clearly not a stranger. Also, the rules of civility do not apply at Zach’s parties. Or are you new here?”

Max says, “Very new”

“Ahh, that explains it, follow me,” Rocky says as she grabs his hand and starts pulling him away from the bar toward a group who are lying in various positions on a giant square couch.

Max cannot help but notice how soft and warm her hand is as he struggles to keep up.

Rocky announces to the group, “Hey guys, this is Max. First time and first day.”

A man in a brightly lit-up cape and fishnet shirt lying with his feet on top of the couch says, “No chance he will ever catch up, so welcome aboard. 8 years, 4 months, and 12 days.”

Rocky admonishes, “Pay no attention to Peters. He is a one-trick pony.”

Peters retorts, “Envy does not suit you, Rocky, but then let’s get the lowdown on fresh meat.”

Rocky, still holding Max’s hand, steps over the edge of the couch and drags him after her, causing several people to scramble out of the way. They fall together into the sofa and struggle around for a few seconds to sit right side up. Max finds himself lying halfway against a cushion with Rocky resting her back on his lap. He thinks to himself, “Do not, do not, do not get a boner.”

Rocky asks, “So Max, our newest guest, what’s your story and how do you know Zach?”

Max replies, “I met him in an adjustment center, and he brought me here in some helicopter submarine thing. I do not, in fact, know him. Maybe you could fill me in on who he is and where I am?”

Peters interjects, “This, my friend, is the greatest party ever thrown. It has been going nonstop for just over eleven years.”

Rocky interrupts Peters, “Yes, yes, Peters, you’ve been at this party without leaving for eight years, four months, and twelve days. So, as to Zach. Zach is actually Zachariah Jigme Dorje Tenzing Lachungpa, but through no fault of his own, for the last nineteen years, he is The Zenhaari, undisputed leader of the most devout religion in the galaxy.”

“It’s a reincarnation thing. Zach is the 107th iteration of The Zenhaari and only the second to ever be chosen from outside the native race of Janusians. Usually, the Chronotheons choose a baby at birth who is then trained into the role.”

“In the case of Zach, they did not find him for fifteen years as his soul was cleverly hidden in a Veletian hedonist. You’re currently in his summer palace, where he generally chooses to reside as the winter palace is full of Chronotheons who he tries to avoid at all costs.”

“Zachariah Jigme Dorje Tenzing Lachungpa is also the grandson of the current Shak-ta, the hereditary family that has lead Veletia for the past 1500 years, and finally, via the matriarchal line, the current sole heir to one of the largest mining and transport conglomerates in the galaxy.”

“So, in short, Zach is either the successor to the longest hereditary dynasty on this planet, the imminent heir to one of the galaxy’s greatest fortunes, or the reincarnation of the infallible leader of two hundred billion devout Chronotheons.”

Peters adds, “Or just the luckiest sperm in the history of insemination. Now, whose turn is it to get us some libations?”

Rocky says, “I got ‘em last time.”

Peters responds, “I went the time before.”

There is a chorus of denials from the other people strewn about the couch.

Rocky suggests, “Spit for it?”

There is a general groan from the other folks on the couch as Rocky lifts herself up off of Max, placing her hand very near his privates to do so as she rises to a standing position.

Rocky points and says, “See the green plant on the far table. Okay, points for Style, Consistency, and Distance.” She then makes a deep snorting sound in her throat, throws her head back, and then jumping forward, spits a loogie across the room.

Peters judges, “I will give you seven for distance, eight for consistency, and four for style.” He then makes an equally unpleasant snorting noise, drops into a forward roll, and emerges using his momentum to spit into the distance.

Rocky comments, “A little short, but I will give it a six for distance, six for consistency, and nine for style.”

Several other people on the couch carry on with different spitting styles, each rating one another when Rocky turns to Max. “You in or out, new guy?”

Max stands, pulls a huge snort from the back of his throat, aided by the remainder of the sticky blue beverage, spins around twice, and launches a huge spitball which arcs out into the distance, rotating slowly and glistening in the light.

Rocky exclaims, “And we have a winner,” as she hugs Max, who flushes bright red.

Peters motions to the loser, who sidles off to get a round of drinks.

Rocky asks, “So, where were we? Ah yes, top catastrophes in history?”

Peters responds, “Easy, the Great Divergence!”

Rocky reminds him, “You know the rules, Peters, gotta justify your choice.”

Peters explains, “It literally broke time, causing all realities to intertwine and time to become irregular. Interesting conspiracy side note, not the first time it has happened.”

Rocky acknowledges, “Bit predictable, but we will accept it. Anyone else?”

A girl in a toga, bikini bottoms and high heels, who had been quiet up until now, pipes in.

“I have to differ. No one is really sure if the Great Divergence is actually a catastrophe or not. I am going to go with the destruction of the Kagama Deux solar system. Forty billion people wiped out as well as access to the Grav capacitor. Perhaps the greatest single loss of life in history, not to mention the resources of an entire star. All by a single person. Making Nils Verin the greatest mass murderer in history.”

Rocky counters, “A solid entry, but I think I can top it. The Huitzicalan wars. They killed just south of two hundred fifty billion people and almost ended Galactic civilization. They were barely stopped and still only kept in check by mining their sun. To this day, it is only Omiyukian fortitude that keeps them from annihilating everyone else in civilization.”

The girl in toga probes, “Well, almost everyone else?”

Peters asks for clarification, “Explanation for ‘almost’?”

Linea speculates, “Well, we cannot rule out that the Cynoptians are truly gone. I think everyone can agree that even the Huit would be children comparatively.”

Rocky agrees, “Yeah, yeah, but no one has ever actually seen anyone from the death world, so they don’t count?”

Max has been passively listening along becoming more concerned with each description.

Max queries, “Death world? Who are the Cynoptians?”

Peters chides, “You have never heard of the Cynoptians. What rock did you climb out from under, new guy?”

Rocky notices that Max seems anxious.

Rocky explains, “The Cynoptians are an ancient race that seems to have disappeared before any other sentient races showed up. We have artifacts scattered about the galaxy from them. They hailed from a home planet called Necropolara that is referenced in some of the ruins, but no one has ever found it. It is even rumored that they may be responsible for constructing some of this universe.

The materials and cosmological references that have been obtained from their relics either pre-date or reference a time or place outside our own understanding. A good deal of the technology of our combined civilizations comes from the study of the remnants of theirs. They seem to have been some kind of death worshippers.”

Max looks like he is about to say something then stops himself.

Rocky turns to him and whispers, “Hey, are you all right?”

Max hesitates, “Uhh, I need to, ahh, I need to walk for a bit.”

Peters encourages, “Hey, you sure, new guy? The music gets rolling in just a bit, and the pool opens.”

Max stands and steps off the couch and starts walking away.

Rocky considers for a moment and then  jumps up and follows him.

Max starts jogging back toward the stairs. Rocky jumps over a row of plants to catch up with him at the base of the stairs. She can see Max has tears in his eye and looks panicked.

Rocky calls out, “Hey, Max,” as she grabs his hand and continues with him up the stairs.

She notes that the sounds of the party below muffles as they pass some invisible barrier.

Max sits down on the stairs with his head down, trying not to cry and failing, with whimpers coming from his throat as he attempts to muffle his sobs.

Rocky, started by his sudden display of emotion, reaches out and and hugs him.

Max stammers, “I am su..su.. sorry. It’s just that I have no idea what I am doing here and if I can ever go back, and this just seems, my mom and my friends and fuckkkkkkk.”

Max forces himself away from her in an angry motion and starts walking blindly up the stairs. He loses his balance on a step and slips falling face first and hitting his head hard against the handrail. There is a sharp pain, and he rolls over disoriented as a trickle of blood flows down his scalp and into his eyes.

Rocky approaches him warily.

Rocky asks, “Dude, you have hurt yourself. Let’s get you some assistance. Please nod if it is okay for me to touch you?”

Max nods his head and grimaces as he begins to feel nauseous with a high-pitched ringing sounding in his ears.

Rocky gently lifts one arm, and Max stands up and allows her to help him to the top of the stairs. She gestures to one of the staff in uniform, who sees the situation and enters some information into a small data pad as they approach.

“We will have a medic here in five minutes. Please, can you sit him down?”

Rocky and the man each take an arm and help Max sit down against the wall. He is just starting to move some of the blood out of his eyes when a small floating cart capable of transporting two people arrives.

“I see that you have a private suite. Please climb aboard, and we will have a medical unit meet you at the suite.”

Rocky and the man help Max sit on the cart, and just as it is about to leave, Rocky pauses and turns and hops on the back. The cart accelerates away slowly. Unlike the earlier bikes, the cart seems to have a dampening field, and there is no feel of inertia as it navigates its way back to Max’s suite.

The trip seems to take longer as Max feels nauseous, and the ringing in his ears gets louder. They arrive at his suite, and the door opens automatically to admit them. The cart comes to a stop next to a sophisticated-looking floating box.

Rocky hops off, and the box extrudes a pair of silver cylindrical objects over the cart that hum gently, levitating Max from the cart to a small bed that has opened from the side of the box. There is no sensation of motion as he is moved. Once on the table, the box shines a blue light from his feet to the top of his head. The ringing in his ears stops instantly.

The unit again levitates him and floats him across the room, placing him on the large bed resting against the pillows on the headboard. It then retracts the table and the cylindrical objects and silently leaves the room. Rocky sits down on the bedside next to Max.

Rocky asks, “Are you okay?”

Max responds, “I’m fine.”

Rocky probes, “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

Max declines, “No, not really.”

Rocky stands and starts walking away.

Max calls out, “Wait!”

Rocky turns and looks back at Max expectantly, “Well, what?”

Max pleads, “Would you mind not going...please?”

Rocky stands looking at him, not sure if she should stay or go.

Max apologizes, “I am sorry. I just kind of freaked out when that guy started talking about the death world. You see, I have been there.”

Rocky steps forward, a bit curious, “Come again?”

Max confesses, “That place your friend was talking about, the Necropolis. I was just there.”

Rocky jests, “Well, at least you are entertaining. Maybe I should get the med bot back as I think you must have done some damage to your noggin.”

Max asserts, “I’m serious, and I can prove it.”

Rocky responds skeptically, “Okay, this should be good,” as she walks back to the side of the bed and sits down close to Max.

Max muses, “Wow, she is beautiful.”

Max explains, “Look, about a half a day ago, I was on that world. Before that, I was at home on Earth. I am not sure how or why, but something pulled me from my world to that one and then to here. I have this crazy alien thing on my arm, and it told me how to get from the death world to here, but I didn’t know where here was.

Now I’m stuck here, and I have no idea how to get back and even less idea of why I am here. I am supposed to be contacted by the person who teleported me there, and well, frankly, I am just tired of being shifted around with no explanation of what the fuck is happening to me. All I know is that this thing on my arm occasionally talks to me and...” He trails off, realizing how it sounds, “Holy shit, I sound like a crazy person.”

Rocky inquires, “Thing on your arm? Show me.”

Max pulls back his sleeve and shows her the Bant af Garn. She reaches over and puts her hand on it.

Suddenly, an electric current passes between them, and the room seems to shift into different shades. Time stops as visions of multiple instances of themselves moving in multiple directions.  All at once the instances converge powerfully and  they are jerked back into the reality of the moment. Each feels a tremendous mutual emotion of love, desire, and shared purpose.  There eyes lock for a moment with s shocked intensity.

Rocky yells “What the fuck was that?” Jerks backward, nearly toppling off the bed. Max reaches to catch her, misses her arm, and grabs her shirt. The two of them counterbalance on the edge of the bed for a panicked moment before coming to equilibrium.

Rocky requests, giving Max a lopsided smile. “Would you mind letting go of my breast?”

Max, now horrified, realizes that he is holding her breast in his right hand and immediately lets go, causing Rocky to overbalance again and plummet to the floor.

He scrambles to the edge and sees her lying on the floor face down making muffled whimpering noises. Quickly jumping off the bed, he bends down to try and help her and realizes that she is not crying, but laughing hysterically.

It is so contagious that he begins to laugh as well. They keep laughing, each one at the other until they are both lying on their backs exhausted and out of breath.  They finally pull themselves to a sitting position, each thinking to themselves that something significant has changed, but neither prepared to acknowledge it.

Rocky comments, “Well, Max, you are entertaining. What the fuck just happened when I touched that thing?”

Max admits, “I really have no idea. It has never done that before.”

Rocky suggests, “Well, can I make a suggestion? Maybe you should keep that thing covered. The next girl you lure back to your room might not be so understanding.”

Max again looks mortified.

Rocky reassures him, “Max, I am just playing with you.”

He looks relieved.

Rocky suggests, “Maybe you can tell me what happened to you a little slower this time.”

Max gets up from the floor and offers Rocky his hand. She looks at his hand it for a moment with apprehension then takes it and stands up next to him, uncomfortably close. He turns and sits down on the edge of the bed and suddenly feels very tired.

Max confesses, “Hey, I am sorry, but I am feeling...really tired.”

Rocky explains, “I take it you have never had accelerated healing before?”

Max admits, “Not sure what that is.”

Rocky elucidates, “The med bot increased the speed of your natural healing abilities to clear the confusion and heal the gash you had on your head. It takes a lot of energy out of you. I am surprised you’re still awake. Now, why don’t you run me through how you ended up here with that thing on your arm again.”

Max recounts the events leading up to his arriving at the party. Rocky only nods along, occasionally asking for simple clarifications. She seems remarkably unfazed by what he is telling her, up to the point when he starts to describe the death world.

Rocky opines, “Max, I gotta tell you, that is a pretty crazy story. I am not a theologian, but a couple of things you should be aware of. First, Earth was lost to ecological disaster over three thousand years ago, well before the great divergence. Second, the death world you are speaking about sounds like Necropolara. It is the galaxy’s biggest mystery.

Much of the technology that was used to create the galactic empire was created from studying ruins of an ancient civilization called the Cynoptians. There are a small number of references in their ruins of their home-world and capital city Anubidia. No one has ever been there in recorded history. The full mystery is it looks like the Cynoptians were builders, possibly from somewhere that existed before our universe. As near as anyone has figured out, they were constructing several megastructures in this universe when they simply disappeared. Some of their constructions, namely tunnels in the galaxy and the grav capacitor, still exist and work.

Also, a few outposts and frankly, a number of things no one understands. As near as anyone can figure, they have been gone over four billion years, well before human life existed anywhere else in the galaxy. We all learn this in our early schooling. The bottom line is no one really understands anything else, but if you are correct, you have seen something no one else ever has.”

Rocky notices that Max has fallen asleep while she is talking. She gently lays his head back on the bed and gets up to leave. She takes a few steps and turns back, staring down at him lying on the bed looking very vulnerable. She returns to his side and gently undresses him and rolls him until he is under the covers. Before rising, she plants a single soft kiss on his forehead. Then she gently pulls on the Bant af Garn, which slips easily from his arm.

“Sorry, Max, you seem like a nice person,” she murmurs as she places the Bant in a small hidden pocket, gets up, and quietly leaves the room.

“To see more, we must forget what we know,” Huitzilopochtli’s final words to Nils turn over in his mind for the thousandth time.

His escape from Solaris Aztlan had been perilous and long. A month of uncomfortable hiding and close calls. He had skipped from port to port, taking random charters and assuming fake identities to elude his Huitzicalan pursuers.

Only upon reaching Kagamitera in Omiyukian space does he feel a degree of safety. The Omiyukians, holding the keys to destroying the Huit empire, enforce a strict policy that precludes Huit craft from entering their space.

More precisely, they have been holding the Huit at bay for centuries with the threat of complete destruction should they engage in any aggression. It is a tenuous agreement that concluded the Huit wars nearly six centuries ago.

The Omiyukians had placed antimatter mines in the core of the stars around which their major worlds orbit. These mines are a dead man’s switch that would destroy the majority of Huitzicalan worlds in response to aggression. Ironic for a people dedicated to pacifism.

He subvocalizes the command, and the observation window shifts from opaque to transparent as he begins the descent. Below, Terunokyo unfurls, a vast and intricate vision of architectural beauty woven with nature. It’s surreal, almost dreamlike. From up here, the city shimmers—a mosaic in sync with the sun, the goddess it honors.

The Reflective Edifices catch his eye first. Each building is like a polished mirror, capturing the sky and the world around it. As we descend, the angle shifts, and these structures transform, each one reflecting the gradual fade from deep blue atmosphere to the vibrant colors of the ground below. It’s mesmerizing, a living gallery.

Then Nils notices the Solar Structures. The rooftops gleam, covered in green gardens that thrive under the sun. They’re engineered to capture solar energy, a seamless blend of technology and life. The green against the metal shines like a pledge to preserve, to sustain. This city doesn’t just sit on the land—it’s part of it.

Scattered throughout, he spots the Shrine Complexes. Modern echoes of ancient Shinto temples, they’re easy to find from above, each marked by Torii gates, surrounded by gardens and still pools of water. They look like peaceful enclaves, places of reflection amid the bustle, each a spiritual pause in the city’s flow.

Above it all, delicate Glass Bridges connect the skyline, pathways suspended high, crystalline threads uniting the city in a shimmering web. From here, they’re like streams of light, weaving openness and connection into the urban fabric.

As the shuttle nears the landing pad, He’s struck by how naturally everything flows—the waterways reflecting the sky, the gardens blooming with energy from the sun. This place isn’t just built here; it belongs here, integrated into the earth.

Looking down at Terunokyo, he feel a deep respect for its people. Reflective, sustainable, spiritual, and connected. This city is their soul, in harmony with both the cosmos and the land they cherish.

It takes Nils little time to clear the port authorities and exit the port. He takes one of the rapid underground transports to the temple district and checks into a simple hotel, again using fake credentials. Nils spends the most satisfying eighteen hours of sleep he can remember, curled up on a tatami mat on the floor of his minimalist room. He wakes in the pre-dawn glow feeling renewed and slips quietly from the hotel, noting the sleeping attendant in the lobby as he passes.

The streets of the Temple district are quiet at this early hour. He randomly chooses a series of small side streets before merging onto a broader stone path that leads to one of the more prominent temples.

The path is an experience in itself. The approach is lined with flowering trees, their delicate blossoms casting a soft, fragrant carpet underfoot. The air is filled with a gentle, soothing aroma, setting a tone of tranquility and reverence as he draws closer to the temple.

The temple’s architecture is a harmonious blend of traditional and modern design, embodying the Omiyukian ethos of balance and serenity. Its exterior is a masterful interplay of reflective surfaces and natural elements. The walls, made of a mirror-like material, reflect the surrounding gardens and sky, creating an ever-changing tapestry that blurs the lines between the structure and nature.

As he nears the entrance, the sound of water becomes more pronounced. A series of small, meticulously designed water features flank the pathway, their soft burbling adding to the temple’s serene ambiance.

 The water, catching the light, creates a dance of reflections on the surrounding surfaces, enhancing the sense of walking through a sacred space.

Stepping inside the temple, the interior opens up into a spacious, light-filled hall. The ceiling is high, and the walls are adorned with delicate, ethereal art that seems to float in the space. The interior maintains the reflective theme, with polished floors and columns that capture the light streaming in from the large, open windows.

In the center of the main hall stands a serene statue, likely a representation of a deity or a symbol significant to the Omiyukian faith. It is surrounded by a ring of candles, their flickering light casting a warm, inviting glow. The statue’s presence is calming, and it seems to watch over the space with a gentle benevolence.

Off to the sides of the main hall are smaller, more intimate spaces for prayer and meditation. Each of these alcoves provides a personal, private area for contemplation and connection with the divine. Soft cushions and mats line the floors, and the subtle scent of incense wafts through the air, further enhancing the meditative experience.

The outside world feels distant.

As he walks through the temple, the sense of being in a sacred, otherworldly space is palpable. He cannot help but feel the dichotomy between this place of reverence and the pyramid of Huitzilopochtli.

Is Amaterasu the Omiyukian deity a being like Huitzilopochtli? Is this god real?

He looks at the temple with newfound respect. It is not some construction to an ethereal concept but a corporeal representation of some greater force in the universe. What does he really understand when he himself has stood in the presence of not one, but two gods? Is he not at this moment engaged in a task assigned by a god, in possession of two divine artifacts? The immensity of the reality is hard to hold and still function. He can still feel the gaze of Huitzilopochtli. Nothing could have prepared him for the measure of time he briefly glimpsed in his presence. Even the memory blurs the lines between his imagination and the reality of his surroundings. Can he really be holding a universe upon his finger, two perfectly balanced singularities?

“Welcome seeker to our temple. Would you be so kind as to join us for breakfast?” A young man in a simple Kimono approaches him.

Nils declines, “No, thank you. I am just enjoying the peacefulness.”

The monk responds with a smile, showing genuine satisfaction, “Ahh then you bring us pleasure by enjoying our labor. Thank you.”

Nils inquires, “Would you be so kind as to give me a little overview of your faith?”

The monk replies gently, “I would not call what we do faith…perhaps more accurately, it could be called a dance. We see reality as but a tapestry woven from the collective memory of all sentient beings. Each thread is a perception, a memory, a moment experienced by those who walk this universe.”

Nils asks, “Are you saying that our individual experiences shape the very fabric of reality?”

The monk confirms, “Precisely. Every thought, every dream, every memory contributes to the grand design. Reality as you know it is a chorus of countless voices, each singing their unique part in the symphony of existence.”

Nils wonders, “But how can we discern truth in such a complex weave? How do we know what is real?”

The monk explains, “Truth, like reality, is a matter of perspective. It shifts and changes as new voices join the chorus. Our purpose is to support the Rulianna, the keeper of divine knowledge here on Kagamitera.”

Nils inquires further, “The Rulianna, the keeper? What role does she play in this tapestry of reality?”

The monk describes, “The Rulianna is the guardian of memories and knowledge. Her role is to preserve the chorus of the past, to maintain the harmony of the universe’s song. Through her, the memories that shape your reality are kept and protected.”

Nils ponders, “Does she hold the power to alter our perception of reality then?”

The monk laughs cheerfully, “She holds not the power to alter, but to enlighten. Rulianna’s purpose is to ensure that the past is remembered, that the experiences of all beings are acknowledged. She is a custodian, the librarian of the cosmos’ history.”

Nils reflects, “So, our understanding of reality is constantly evolving, as we contribute our own experiences and learn from those of others?”

The monk affirms, “Indeed. Your reality today is different from yesterday’s and will change again tomorrow. Embrace the fluidity of existence, for in understanding the nature of reality, you understand the very essence of life itself.”

Nils is curious, “Where is The Rulianna to be found?”

The monk reveals, “The forty eighth Rulianna lives on our most sacred site, the Crystal Palace on Fuji mountain. It is not possible to see her directly as she lives in isolation from the contamination of the physical world, as has been the case for thousands of years.”

Nils muses, “The keeper of cosmic knowledge might understand Huitzilopochtli! To see more, we must forget what we know.”

He thanks the monk, “Thank you for the lesson.”

The monk departs with a blessing, “May your reflection be pure and your purpose clear.”

Nils takes a few moments to interface with the planetary network, a task made more difficult by continuing to obscure his identity. Fortunately, geographic information is the least privileged, and he quickly obtains the location of Fuji mountain. He is a little amused to discover it can quite obviously be seen with the naked eye in the distance, a massive mountain rising to the west of the city.

It takes Nils a little over an hour to use the rapid transit system to reach the base of the mountain. The Terunokyo transit system is impressive. You never need to change trains to reach any point in the system, including remote regional stops. You simply move between the last cars in advance, and they swap lines automatically. The transits never stop moving. When you approach your stop, you simply enter the final car, which detaches, allowing the remainder of the transit to continue at high velocity while your carriage delivers its passengers to the stop. It’s a small detail, but one that he appreciates.

He learns from the planetary system that tours of the lower levels of the Crystal Palace are given daily. He signs himself up for one starting in an hour and walks the remaining kilometer from the station to the tour start point.

There is a small crowd of people waiting for the tour. He scans the crowd, noting mostly Veletian and Janusian tourists along with a fair number of locals. A young woman wearing a stylish kimono with reflective patterns woven into the fabric approaches the group. Her hair is piled in layers, intertwined with an intricate mirror. She wears sandals with reflective inlays. Her voice is slightly amplified when she begins the tour.

The guide introduces herself, “Thank you for joining us today. My name is Aurina Luminelle, and I will be your guide today. If you can please gather around, I will give you some background on the Crystal Palace.”

The group moves closer to Aurina, but Nils lingers at the back.

Aurina begins, “The Crystal Palace, as its name suggests, is an architectural marvel entirely constructed from a super-hard, translucent crystal found only here on Kagamitera. This material is not only known for its durability but also for its captivating light qualities. As you can see, sunlight penetrating the crystal refracts into a spectrum of colors, creating the dance of light that plays across the walls and floors. We get distinct patterns based on the time of day and the seasons. If you will please follow me.”

She leads the group trailed by Nils into the palace.

Aurina continues, “Today we will be visiting the Philosophy Hall, where you’ll find a vast collection of writings and interactive exhibits detailing the evolution of Omiyukian thought and wisdom. We will also visit the History Viewing Center for a holographic journey through Omiyukian history, from their ancient origins to the present day. Finally, we will visit the Light Gardens.

You are all welcome to stay with me, or if you prefer to tour on your own, you can receive reference material from the planetary grid. I am now dropping the relevant reference to all of you. I wanted to mention because I always get asked, we are not able to visit any of the private areas of the Palace, though I am happy to answer any questions about them.”

One of the Valetian tourists raises a hand, “Could you tell us about the Secluded Sanctum?”

Aurina responds, “Sure! Within the Crystal Palace lies the Secluded Sanctum, the private quarters of the spiritual leader of the Omiyukians, The Rulianna. The Rulianna has been isolated from public contact for over two thousand years. The sanctum is said to be a place of intense spiritual energy, designed to facilitate deep meditation and connection with the divine.”

The tourist questions further, “She can’t be two thousand years old?”

Aurina clarifies, “No, of course not. The current Rulianna is the 48th of her line.”

The tourist asks another question, “How about The Chamber of Reflection?”

Aurina explains, “Ah yes! This is a sacred room where the spiritual leader spends most of their time in meditation and contemplation. It’s said that the walls of this chamber are lined with a special type of crystal that amplifies spiritual energy, aiding in the leader’s quest for enlightenment and cosmic understanding.”

Nils decides that a little investigation of his own is in order. He waits until the group enters the Philosophy Hall before he slips away. It is time to test out some of the power of the Bant. As soon as he thinks it, the Bant begins to respond to his requests. The instructions burned into his mind by Huitzilopochtli now come back to him almost as instinct.

He engages the first of the abilities, seeking out the Rulianna. He realizes that he can only find her if he knows what she looks like. He quickly makes his way to the History viewing complex. It looks a bit like a library but there are small cubicles that admit a single person for holographic viewing. He enters the first one, and it greets him verbally.

“Welcome citizen, what can I provide for you?”

Nils navigates his way through the voice menus, finally arriving at two useful bits of data. The first is an architectural overview of the Crystal Palace from the time of construction. He takes a virtual tour of the building of the Palace, which gives him an overview location and design of the private areas. He then does a holographic tour of the current Rulianna, which includes pictures. The data is enough to allow the Bant to locate her in the building.

As Nils strolls through the remainder of the public area of the Crystal Palace, his mind is already weaving a plan of deception needed to infiltrate the highly secure private area. He comes to the end of a hallway, and his information tells him that the private area is straight ahead of what is clearly a dead end.

Nils lets his mind relax and feel the Bant. He gently coaxes the access capability. The room deepens in color as if the resolution has been turned up. He sees ingrained in the otherwise featureless wall an outline of a doorway superimposed on the rock surface. He gently prods it with his mind. The access control becomes child’s play to enable the door, which slides back, revealing a continuation of the passageway, which he continues down until he sees a security checkpoint.

Nils approaches the checkpoint, where a pair of guards stand alert. He knows he needs to be one of them, even if only in their minds. He focuses, channeling Bant power of subterfuge to project an image of himself as a fellow guard.

Nils greets them, “Afternoon. Shift change time already, huh?”

The guards glance at him, and in their minds, they see not a visitor but a familiar colleague. Nils subtly reinforces this illusion with a nod and a well-timed smirk, as if sharing an inside joke.

The first guard responds, “Evening. Didn’t see you on the roster today. Pulling a double?”

Nils replies casually, “Yeah, got called in last minute. You know how it is—never a dull moment in the Crystal Palace.”

His casual demeanor and the mental push of his illusion ease any lingering doubts the guards might have. They chuckle, each providing their keys necessary to opening the second gate and allowing Nils to pass.

As Nils moves deeper into the palace, he encounters a more challenging barrier: a lone guard standing before an advanced security system. Here, he opts for a different tactic, calling on the Bant power of Compulsion.

Nils greets, “Good evening. I need to pass through for a routine check in the Secluded Sanctum.”

The guard looks up, suspicion in his eyes. Nils locks gaze with him, channeling his mental influence like a subtle stream, weaving thoughts and suggestions into the guard’s mind.

The guard challenges, “Routine check? No one is allowed inside?”

Nils maintains eye contact, his mental suggestion growing stronger. He asserts, “I live inside the private area and you have made a mistake in allowing me to exit. Worse, any communication with me could contaminate me.”

As the words leave his lips, they are reinforced by the persuasive power of the Bant. The guard’s expression softens, his posture relaxes, and a look of understanding crosses his face.

The guard acquiesces, “Please enter quickly.”

Nils nods, offering a grateful smile as the guard disables the security barrier, allowing him access to the private area.

As he moves past the checkpoints, the weight of his actions sits heavy on his shoulders. He knows that the power of the Bant is immense; he vows to minimize its use as he can see the possibility of becoming addicted to the power. He justifies his need to reach the private area, to uncover the secrets held within the Secluded Sanctum as he moves into the heart of the Crystal Palace.

As Nils steps into the private quarters of the palace, the atmosphere shifts completely, as if he’s entered another world. Gone is the overwhelming grandeur of the public spaces; here, everything whispers of quiet, deliberate isolation. It’s a place meant for thought, not spectacle.

The corridor ahead glows softly, the crystalline walls pulsing gently, as if alive. The light here feels warmer, less ostentatious, like it’s inviting him to let down his guard. The shifting hues of the walls seem to mirror his own tentative steps, reflecting a tranquility that feels at odds with the storm of questions churning in his mind. Who designed this? Someone who knows what it means to need silence.

He moves forward, almost hesitantly, as the hallway opens into a lounge that seems made to cradle its occupant. A low, circular couch dominates the center, its fabric luxurious enough to tempt him into sitting. Holographic displays float unobtrusively nearby, the technology so seamlessly integrated it feels invisible. Nils wonders how long it’s been since he truly sat down, let alone in a space like this. This room could erase a lifetime of worry in minutes, he thinks, almost bitterly. If only it were that simple.

The next space—a dining area—draws his eye with its understated elegance. A crystal table gleams softly, surrounded by chairs that look both sturdy and impossibly comfortable. He imagines meals here, quiet and solitary, with only the hum of the automated serving station to break the silence. He wonders if anyone has ever truly enjoyed such a meal, or if this too is just another part of the palace’s carefully curated illusion of peace.

Farther down, he finds the sleeping quarters. The bed is almost otherworldly, hovering just above the floor, its edges lit by a faint, warm glow. The linens appear so soft they seem almost unreal, as if they could dissolve under touch. For a moment, Nils imagines collapsing onto it, letting the weight of his thoughts evaporate into its embrace. But he knows himself too well. Sleep wouldn’t come—not here, not now. Peace like this is for people who don’t carry the kind of weight I do.

He continues, drawn deeper into the quiet. The more he walks, the more the palace feels like it’s conspiring to make him forget why he’s here. He knows he should feel comforted, but instead, the calm only sharpens his awareness of how out of place he is. This isn’t my world. It never will be.

As he approaches a doorway framed by intricate wooden paneling and delicate sculptures, he catches the faintest hint of movement. Pausing, he peers inside and finds a library unlike anything he’s ever seen. Streams of holographic data shimmer in the air, intertwining with shelves of ancient, leather-bound tomes. It’s a meeting of past and future so seamless it takes his breath away.

At the center of it all, a lone woman sits, her focus entirely on the hardcover book in her hands. She seems untouched by the room’s technological marvels, grounded in the simplicity of her reading. Nils hesitates, caught between the urge to step inside and the gnawing sense that he doesn’t belong here. Who is she? he wonders, and more urgently, What does she know? The questions linger, heavy in his mind, as he edges closer to the threshold.

He steps inside.

The woman looks at him, not with the expected alarm but with a calmness that disarms him.

“Hello, who might you be, child?” a voice inquires with an odd choice of address.

“Child? What an odd means of address,” Nils remarks. “My name is Nils, may I inquire as to your own?”

“I am The Rulianna, but I am curious how you come to be here and not know that?” she questions, her voice filled with both intrigue and authority.

“You will have to pardon me. I am not of your world and new to its Lore,” Nils responds, trying to ease the tension.

“You are my first…visitor. Why?” The Rulianna probes further.

“I come with questions I believe that only you might have the answers to,” Nils explains, hoping to gain some insight.

“Pray tell,” she urges, seemingly unconcerned by his presence.

“I was given something of a riddle and I would like to know if you can help me to understand it,” Nils admits, noticing her calm demeanor.

“If I am able, and if in doing so, I do no harm. What is your riddle?” The Rulianna asks, now more alert and interested.

“I was told, ‘To see more we must forget what we know.’” Nils reveals, watching her reaction closely.

“Where did you hear these words?” she inquires, her interest piqued.

“I think you would have a hard time believing the answer,” Nils hesitates, unsure of her reaction.

“You would be surprised at what I can believe. Nevertheless, the words you speak concern the nature of the Universe. Or more correctly, the nature of our universe,” she reflects, looking at Nils as if evaluating him.

“Please continue,” Nils encourages, intrigued by her knowledge.

“Do you know why I am called the Rulianna?” she asks, making a decision to continue.

“I would appreciate hearing it from you directly,” Nils requests, eager to learn more.

“Centuries ago, a relic of the race that created our reality was discovered. Its original purpose is speculative, but we have reason to believe it held the blueprint for our reality. We call it the Grav Capacitor.

When The Great Divergence happened, it broke the flow of time, creating loops, non-linear reality compounding chaos. In order to stabilize our reality, we made use of the Grav Capacitor to copy the thoughts of every living being, providing a database if you will of our shared experience from a point in time. This database is the reference point for all living beings that defines our reality in the Ruliad,” she explains.

“What is the Ruliad?” Nils inquires, seeking deeper understanding.

“A little patience if you will. Some background is essential. There is what is known, what we know we do not know, and the unknown unknown. Do you see the small desk there?” The Rulianna points to a small end table next to her.

“Yes,” Nils responds, following her gaze.

“If that is everything in our reality, then everything else in this room and the rest of the Crystal palace is the Unknown Unknown. That is the Ruliad. The entangled limit of everything that is computationally possible. My role as The Rulianna is to make sure that the flow of computational information into the Grav Capacitor is complete,” she details, her voice carrying the weight of her responsibility.

Nils, fueled by curiosity and a touch of skepticism, uses the Bant af Garn to compel complete honesty from The Rulianna.

“So, Rulianna, if I understand correctly, you’re saying our entire universe is some sort of giant computer program?” Nils seeks confirmation.

“Precisely, Nils. Imagine an infinite web of possibilities, each strand representing a different outcome, a different reality. Our choices, our experiences, they all weave into this vast cosmic tapestry,” The Rulianna elaborates, her expression revealing the depth of her understanding.

“Like we’re living in a giant video game? Player One, ready!” Nils jests, trying to lighten the mood.

“A more complex analogy, but one that works. Our lives, the emotions we feel, the decisions we make – they’re all part of this cosmic calculation, constantly evolving,” she affirms.

“And this Grav Capacitor thing, it’s like the save point for the whole universe?” Nils probes further.

“It’s much more than that. The Grav Capacitor is a repository of the collective experiences of all living beings. Imagine a grand library storing not just information, but emotions, thoughts, sensations – the entire experiential database of existence,” The Rulianna expounds, emphasizing the significance of the Grav Capacitor.

“It is not the entire universe per se. It is our point of view of the Ruliad. In order to tie together our civilization to allow faster than light travel, we required a shared reference point. The Grav Capacitor is our point of reference when viewing infinity. It defines ‘what can be’ within the greater framework of reality.

Within this reference, we are able to move between points because all other beings with the same point of view agree collectively to recognize the new coordinate points,” she concludes, providing a thorough explanation of the complexities involved.

“So, everything I’ve ever felt or thought is in there? Even that time I…” Nils starts to ask, intrigued by the implications.

“Yes, even that time,” she chuckled. “The Grav Capacitor archives the full spectrum of living consciousness. It sets the parameters for what we perceive as reality. Without it, our understanding of the universe would be unmoored, untethered from the experiences that define our existence. It became necessary after the Great Divergence,” she confirms, acknowledging the critical role of the Grav Capacitor in maintaining the stability of their reality.

“That’s… overwhelming. What would happen if this Grav Capacitor, you know, broke?” Nils wonders about the potential consequences of such a failure.

“If the Grav Capacitor were to be destroyed, we would lose our anchor to the current framework of the universe. We would revert to the conditions of the Great Divergence. Only worse, as the great divergence has evolved outside of our frame of reference,” The Rulianna explains the dire potential outcomes.

“The Great Divergence, I was never quite clear as to why it happened,” Nils admits, seeking further clarification.

“No one knows why. What we do know is that after the Divergence, our time became irregular and segmented. Without the Grav Capacitor providing our own bubble of stability, any timeline could simply end, or worse loop. To be perfectly frank, we are not certain that this possibility had been fully addressed. It is our primary mission to try and contain that eventuality,” she divulges, highlighting the ongoing challenges they face in managing the aftermath of the Great Divergence.

“You’re telling me that at any moment time could simply end? If the Grav Capacitor failed?” Nils asks, grappling with the magnitude of the risks involved.

“We would suddenly be open to aspects of the universe previously inaccessible to us. A change that might elevate our understanding, but also one that could introduce a level of chaos we’re not prepared for,” she warns, painting a picture of both the potential benefits and dangers of such an event.

“Chaos? Like, annoying-neighbors-having-a-party chaotic or, like, whole-reality-collapsing chaotic?” Nils seeks to gauge the scale of the potential chaos.

“Somewhere in between, Nils. It would fundamentally alter our perception of reality. Imagine suddenly perceiving multiple dimensions or experiencing time in a non-linear fashion. It’s an intriguing prospect, but also a perilous one,” The Rulianna elaborates, emphasizing the complexity and unpredictability of the potential changes.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re here to keep an eye on it then, huh?” Nils remarks, appreciating her crucial role in maintaining the stability of their universe.

“Indeed, Nils. Our Order is dedicated to preserving the balance and order of our current understanding of the universe. The Grav Capacitor is the key to maintaining that balance,” she affirms, underscoring the importance of her duties as the Rulianna.

“So, how did we end up with this universe-defining Grav Capacitor? What was Marian Mandelbrot Yosmen’s role besides the discovery?” Nils inquires, curious about the origins of the Grav Capacitor and the individuals involved in its history.

“Ah, Marian Mandelbrot Yosmen was a brilliant physicist and explorer. She discovered the Grav Capacitor in a pocket dimension, guided by a Cynoptian inscription on an ancient ruin. You see, the Cynoptians were ancient beings who were instrumental, in some way we do not fully understand, in the creation of our universe.

We believe they used the Grav Capacitor to hold the blueprint, and when their work was done, they abandoned it in a hidden dimension,” The Rulianna reveals, providing insight into the historical and mystical aspects of the Grav Capacitor’s origins.

“Wait, so we’re living in a universe designed by ancient gods? That’s… wild,” Nils reacts, astounded by the revelation.

“Indeed, it is a profound truth. Now, Marian knew the immense power of the Grav Capacitor. To ensure it wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands, she devised an ingenious way to serialize access to it,” she continues, leading into an explanation of the security measures implemented to protect the Grav Capacitor.

“Serialize access? How’s that work?” Nils asks, intrigued by the concept of serialized access.

“She used a complex encryption based on chaos math. The idea is that small changes in initial conditions can lead to vastly different outcomes. Marian’s encryption required information from all possible outcomes of her life’s decisions – every path she could have taken, every choice she could have made,” The Rulianna explains, detailing the sophisticated encryption technique used to secure the Grav Capacitor.

“So, she turned her life into a key? How does that even work?” Nils probes further, fascinated by the integration of personal life choices into a cryptographic system.

“Marian used a fractal algorithm, similar to the Mandelbrot set in chaos theory, which represents infinite complexity. She encoded this into the Grav Capacitor’s access protocols. The algorithm generates a decryption key based on the entirety of her life’s potential paths, making it virtually impossible to replicate or predict,” she elucidates, highlighting the complexity and ingenuity of Marian’s encryption method.

“But if only she could access it, how do we send our experiences to the Grav Capacitor?” Nils wonders about the practical implementation of such a system.

“That’s the key to her design. The encryption allows for one-way transmission into the Grav Capacitor. All living beings, through their consciousness, continuously feed their experiences into it. However, manipulating or accessing the core computational framework of the Grav Capacitor requires the decryption key tied to Marian’s life’s potentialities. In essence, she became an integral part of the Grav Capacitor itself,” The Rulianna clarifies, describing how the system accommodates both input from all living beings and restricted access to its core functionalities.

“So, we’re all contributing to this grand cosmic database, but nobody can play God with it. Clever. But what if someone tried to recreate Marian’s life? Could they crack the code?” Nils ponders the possibility of circumventing the encryption by replicating Marian’s life choices.

“Theoretically, it’s possible. But practically, it’s near impossible. The level of precision required to replicate every possible outcome of her life, down to the smallest decision, is beyond our capability. It would be like trying to predict the exact path of every raindrop in a storm,” she responds, emphasizing the practical challenges and near-impossibility of breaking the encryption.

“Sounds like Marian was one smart lady. And thanks to her, our universe’s remote control is basically locked behind an unbreakable password,” Nils concludes, impressed by Marian’s foresight and the robustness of the security measures in place.

Nils is thoughtful for a moment, then asks, “Do you have an accessible copy of her life?”

The Rulianna looks uncomfortable with the request, and Nils feels her momentary resistance to the Bant.

“Yes, we keep a copy here to train the next Rulianna,” she reluctantly admits.

“Get it for me, please,” Nils requests more firmly, sensing her hesitation.

Nils again feels the resistance to the request, but he puts more desire into the Bant, and she begins to comply. She spends a few moments on her terminal before removing an optical data cube and handing it to Nils.

“This is a copy of her entire life before it was committed to the Grav Capacitor,” she informs him, handing over the data cube.

“Please continue; you were describing how her contribution has preserved our reality,” Nils prompts, eager to learn more about how Marian’s work impacts their current existence.

“Precisely, Nils. Her work ensures that the Grav Capacitor remains a tool for sustaining our universe’s balance, not for dominating it,” The Rulianna continues, reiterating the importance of the Grav Capacitor in maintaining the stability and balance of their universe.

“Who else knows the information about the Grav Capacitor?” Nils inquires, curious about who else is privy to such critical information.

“Only myself and my successor, Substrate, who will replace me when I am too old to fulfill the mission. As it has always been,” she reveals, indicating the continuity of knowledge and responsibility within their order.

“Can you please have the Substrate join us?” Nils requests, interested in meeting the successor.

“Of course, I am sending her a summons,” The Rulianna agrees and activates a communication device.

The chamber door slides open, and a young girl enters. With long hair and blue eyes, she looks strikingly similar to The Rulianna, albeit younger. Wearing the same white cotton robe, she surprises Nils, who had expected someone older.

“She looks just like you,” Nils observes, noting the striking resemblance.

“Of course. She is an exact genetic duplicate, ensuring her understanding will parallel my own as she develops and assumes my role,” The Rulianna explains, highlighting the methodical approach to ensuring continuity in their roles.

“She already possesses your knowledge at such a young age?” Nils asks, impressed by the young girl’s apparent readiness to assume such a significant role.

“Yes, we pass on the knowledge as soon as she is able to memorize. Her understanding of it will, of course, change over time, but the raw knowledge is already a part of her,” she clarifies, emphasizing the foundational knowledge imparted to the Substrate from an early age.

The girl addresses them, her voice filled with youthful excitement. “Greetings, friend, I am Substrate. It is very unusual and so nice to have a visitor. The Rulianna, it is a pleasure to be with you. How may I serve with joy in my heart?” She makes the standard greeting while forming the heart sign over her chest. It’s clear she’s struggling to control her emotions, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Rulianna, thank you for the information you have given me. Please know that I am very sorry for what must happen now,” Nils says, hinting at a significant and perhaps unsettling course of action about to unfold.

Nils feels a pang of guilt as Rulianna’s face contorts in fear. He glances at the young girl, Substrate, who watches with unreadable eyes, her face a blank slate. She seemed too innocent, too young to be privy to such information and to witness such a horrific fate.

“I understand,” Nils says to her, his voice a low rumble. “But for the greater good, both of you must be silenced. No one can know what you have told me”. Nils pulls a small metallic device from his satchel. He activated the device, and a beam of shimmering energy shoots forth, bathing Rulianna and Substrate in a cold, red light. Rulianna screams, her body convulsing as the energy coursed over her. 

“But our mission...” she croaked, “It’s sacred, Nils. The grav capacitor...it’s the key to order, without it we are all lost.”

Substrate remains silent, her gaze fixed on Nils, her young hands clenched into fists. Even in her stillness, Nils can sense a fierce defiance, a flicker of rebellion against this cruel fate.  Nils insides churn. He hates this, hates the role he is forced to play. But the cold, harsh logic of his mission resonates within him. This is a necessary, a sacrifice he has to make for the greater good.

As the energy intensified, Rulianna’s screams turn into whimpers, then silence. Substrate follows, her gaze softening, a single tear rolling down her cheek. When the light finally fades, the room is filled with an oppressive silence. Rulianna and Substrate lay still, their faces pale, their bodies lifeless. Nils stares at them, tears blurring his vision. His hands shake as he deactivates the device, the metallic coldness a stark contrast to the heat of guilt that burns within him.

He has taken two lives, extinguished two flames that might have illuminated the path to a better future. But his mission is now clear, his purpose unwavering. He knows what he has to do, even if it means carrying the burden of their deaths for the rest of his days.

Tears streaming down his face, he approaches the lifeless bodies, gently closes their eyes, and whispers the ancient blessing, “Rune vefur.”

Max wakes up to a buzzing in his ears and confusion as to his whereabouts. He is ravenously thirsty, which leads him to jump out of of bed. Once standing, he realizes that he’s wearing no clothes, and is awkwardly embarrassed, wondering what happened.

He hears the buzzing again and realizes that there’s somebody at the door. His voice dry from thirst, he croaks “Go ahead, come on in!” as he looks desperately for something to drink. He spots a small refrigerator unit and hastily grabs the first bottle he sees—a pink-looking liquid—pops off the top, and downs it in one go. His thirst abates, but he instantly feels dizzy, and wonders what was in the drink.

Zach waltzes into the room and says, “Oh, sorry, man, I didn’t realize that you weren’t ready for anyone yet. Do you want me to come back?”

Realizing he’s standing naked, Max runs back to the bed where his clothes from the night before are laying carefully folded. He slips on a pair of pants and a shirt and yells, “Hey, no problem, man. Sorry, come on in!”

Zach walks into the room with a smile of amusement on his face. He’s wearing the same outfit from the day before, and the ridiculousness of his giant hat, adorned with a thousand small items, adds a comical touch to the situation.

“Hey, I need to talk to you. I hope it’s OK. Do you have a few minutes?” Zach asks.

“Dude, it’s your house, whatever you want,” Max replies.

The two of them walk over and sit down in a pair of comfortable chairs.

Zach, with concern in his voice, asks, “Are you OK? Are you settling in alright? I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to follow up with you since we got to the house.”

“Here, take this,” Zach says, pulling out a pouch and rolling a new spliff. He lights it up and hands it to Max.

Max, already feeling a bit wobbly and suspecting that the drink he downed was some sort of liqueur, decides to push the embarrassment aside. He reaches out, grabs the spliff, and takes a deep hit. The combination of the drink and the spliff instantly makes him feel like he’s floating slightly outside of his body. He slumps back into the chair, feeling as if he’s speaking to Zach from a distance.

“Look, I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” Zach starts, “and a couple of things seem pretty amazing. I wanted to ask you a few more details if you don’t mind.” He pauses and waits for Max to nod before continuing.

First of all, the place you went to that you called the death world, did you see anything else there that might be, you know, more descriptive?”

“Yeah, I saw a whole bunch of things,” Max responds. “I came to an area where there were three doorways. One of the doorways said ‘Love,’ one said ‘Death,’ and this one that was scary as shit said there was a place where you would know neither love nor death. I went to an armory, had some kind of medical procedure done on me, which made me see a whole bunch of things.”

“Medical procedure? Can you maybe describe that a little bit?” Zach asks.

“Yeah,” Max says. “I sat down in a chair. I was in, like a warehouse, that had thousands of packages but nothing was labeled. All the items had language that seemed foreign, I couldn’t really understand anything. Then I sat in some chair, and this system ran a kind of blue light over me. After that I had—I think you guys call it a heads-up, you know, some sort of interface that goes in front of my eyes that sort of explains things to me.

Then this ‘Bant af Garn’ thing asked me to go and interact with one of the boxes, which I did. Then on the way out, I stopped to play with another box because it seemed interesting. But neither of them seemed to do anything. But when I got back down out of this place, it seems that the box had made it so that I could now access one of the portals.”

“Portals, you say?” Zach seems intrigued. “Can you describe what you mean by the portals?”

“Yeah, there were these archways that were out in the courtyard, and one of the archways, when I walked towards it, I would start slowing down, like I could never actually get to it. There were sort of two sections; one that was all red like you weren’t allowed entry there, and it was super violent and unpleasant to try to get near those. But the other ones, they had these inscriptions and different symbols on them. They looked like artwork from different civilizations, like stuff from ancient Earth, well my ancient earth not yours. 

Anyway, after I had gone through this kind of process that the ‘Bant’ suggested, I was able to walk towards one and it let me through, which kind of let me out on this world.”

“You’re talking about something called the ‘Bant.’ Would you mind describing what that is?”

“OK, so this is the wildest part of the story, I guess. This is some sort of quasi-intelligent artifact thing. Since I’ve been on this adventure, you know, I received this message on Earth through my computer, and it told me to go to this astronomical museum at a specific time and stand by a meteorite, and that’s when it teleported me to the death world. And when I got there, I ended up with this thing on my arm.

It’s kind of a leather band, but I think it’s actually an intelligent artifact, and that’s the ‘Bant.’ Then I had a weird dream where I was in a taxi cab, and the driver was explaining to me, and I think that the driver and explanation was actually the thing on my forearm, which is called the ‘Bant af Garn,’ which is apparently some sort of unique artifact that in the right circumstance can talk.”

Zach seems more interested now. “Would you mind showing me that thing?”

“Yeah ok,” Max says, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt to find..Nothing!… What the Fuck!

“Holy shit,” exclaims Max, panic evident in his voice. He begins to look around frantically, dashing across the room back to his bed. He rifles through his clothes, pulls up the covers, and looks all over the place in a frenzied state.

“What the hell, man? What the hell? Where the fuck is it? Where is it? Where is it?” he mutters to himself, his agitation growing with each passing second.

He feels sick to his stomach, unable to believe that it’s gone. In his mind, a panicked thought repeats over and over: “Oh no, oh no, oh no... she fucking stole it.”

Zach stands and walks over to where Max is looking frantically. He begins to ask him questions in a concerned tone.

“Hey man, can you explain what’s going on? Do you have the artifact or don’t you?” Zach inquires, trying to understand the situation.

Max turns to him and says, “Look, I had it yesterday before I hit my head and got knocked out. And I was with some girl, and then, I don’t know... I don’t have it on now. I don’t know what the hell happened. I think she must’ve stolen it.”

Zach queries with concern, “Who must’ve stolen it?”

Max replies, “Rocky! er.. Rachel, the girl I met with the spiky hair, the mohawk, and super hot... I don’t know, some girl. She was helping me because I hit my head, and she came back to the room with me. She was with me when the medical thing fixed my head. I don’t know, suddenly I was just super tired, and I kind of passed out. I had the Bant af Garn on my arm when I went to sleep last night. Well, to be frank, I was wearing my clothes too, so I’m not really sure what happened after that. But do you think it’s possible this girl stole it? She seemed so nice and everything.”

Zach looks at him properly amazed and amused, thinking to himself, Oh my God, is this guy for real. But what he says out loud is, “We can look into it. I’ll have my security check and see if we can find it. You say this was Rocky? I know Rocky.”

Zach discreetly uses his implant to send a message to his head of security, who arrives only moments later as if he had been waiting patiently right outside the door.

The man addresses Zach, “How may I serve, Zenhaari?”

Zach responds, “I need you to find a girl who was here at the palace last night goes by the name of Rachel or Rocky. She was here in the apartment last night with Max. Please let me know if she’s currently on site.”

The security man looks at his data pad for a moment keying in short commands. He quickly comes back with a response, “The girl left on a transport late last evening. It looks like she was headed to Chloridian free space.”

Zach blinks, processing the information with a hint of concern. “Chloridian space? That’s not good, not good at all,” he mutters.

He turns to Max and says, “It looks like she left the Summer Palace and she’s on a transport to another planet. If you would like, I would be happy to help you try and get in touch with her or track her down. I think it’s very important that you get the…relic… er Bant thing back.”

For the first time since the conversation started, Max feels the effects of the beverage he drank begin to wear off. He feels suspicious. He turns to Zach, “Exactly what is your interest in the Bant, and why are you being so nice to me?”, he says slightly more accusatively than he intended.

Zach sits down takes a long drag from his spliff, then offers it to Max.

“Look, there are some things that I can tell you, and some things that I can’t. I know you have no reason to trust me because we’ve only just met, but I can tell you that our meeting is very important and I will do anything I can to help you with regard to the artifact.”

He hesitates for a moment, then goes on. “There is some writing about the artifact that I can’t go into complete details about, but I believe that it’s very important to me and the people that follow me. As far as helping you, well, you seem like somebody who is in need of help, and I have the means to do so. And frankly, I think you and I are meant to be friends.”

The honesty in Zach’s look and the way he speaks make Max take a pause, Is this true?

He feels a little overwhelmed. He had such trust in Rocky and an expectation that she was a decent person. Maybe this is all a mistake, but he’s received nothing but kindness from Zach in the time he’s known him. I guess I have to trust someone. He seems like a decent human being, whereas this Rocky person seems like someone who’s taken advantage of his trust. He feels a sense of loss, as though he had a real connection with her, and now she’s turned around and ripped him off.

Max says out loud to Zach, “Look, man, this has been the most confusing couple of days of my life, but I know that it’s very important that I get that thing back. So, if you could help me, I would really, really appreciate it.”

Zach says, “Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find,” in a very humorous way. He then turns to his security chief and instructs, “I need you to prep Max to be at the same security protocols as me.”

The security chief looks mildly apprehensive. “Sir, are you sure?”

Zach responds firmly, “Yes, I want you to initiate the protocols, and I want you to include him at the same level as though it were me. Is that clear?”

The security chief stands at attention and salutes. “Yes, sir. The arrangements will be made immediately.”

The security man looks to Max and says, “Sir, if you would be so kind as to follow me, there are some preparations that we need to make.”

Max looks mildly confused. Zach turns to him and explains, “There are some things that you’re going to need to survive in this time, and I don’t have a lot of time to explain to you. But if you’ll go with my security chief right here, he’s going to do a couple of things that are preparatory for you to be able to operate. It’s going to take you a couple of hours, and I understand that you’re in a hurry to get after Rocky, but I believe it is all necessary. Would you mind following my security guy and trusting me?”

Max thinks about it for a minute and realizes that he’s more or less alone and has very little understanding. He needs to take any help that he can. He makes the decision and says to Zach, “Yeah, of course,” and follows the security guard out of the room.

The security guard leads him out into the hallway, where they hop onto two of the small floating bikes. The security chief assures him, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. Just follow me.”

They begin accelerating away. Max realizes that his bike is being controlled by the security chief. He simply holds on as they rocket down a series of hallways, finally arriving at an area that looks much more utilitarian than the rest of the palace.

They dismount the bikes, and the security officer approaches a doorway, keying in some information. A brief flash of light later, the doorway opens to reveal a room dominated by a large machine. The machine has a clear transparent top covering an area just large enough for a person to lay in. There is a pillow and the outline of a body in the material.

The officer turns to Max and explains, “By the way, my name is Brian, this machine here will allow us to get a good base medical read on you. He gestures to the device, “you’re gonna lay in for about the next hour. What it’s going to do is scan your DNA and learn each system in your body, creating a record so that we have a baseline.

This means that in the future, if you’re injured, we’ll have an exact set of data on how to fix you. It’s the first in a series of protocols Zach has asked to implement for you. You must be something special. No one has ever been given this level of security other than Zach, so I’m sorry it’s going to take a little bit of time to put you into all of the same protocols that he has.”

He looks at Max seriously. “I need your consent in order to do this initiation, as it’s going to be somewhat invasive, and it’s going to give us a complete copy of your DNA. Please indicate verbally if this is acceptable to you.”

Max says, “Yeah, I think I understand. Is this anything that’s gonna hurt me?”

“No,” the man reassures, “there’s nothing that’s gonna hurt you. Quite honestly, this is the only way that we can properly keep you protected, going forward from here. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that I wouldn’t do myself and hasn’t already been done to Zach. Is that OK?”

Max understands that he doesn’t really have a lot of reason to object and agrees. “Yeah Brian, that’s fine. Let’s do it.”

The man opens a transparent cover and gestures to Max. “Sorry, man, you gotta take off all your clothes.”

Max strips down naked, once again feeling uncomfortable and half steps half slides into the bed. As he places his hands by his side, he is momentarily startled to feel himself sinking into the material.

The security chief turns to him and says, “This is going to be a little weird. It’s going to cover your nose and mouth. The trick is not to freak out. You’re gonna be breathing through your lungs but not taking any breaths in or out. This material is going to fill every empty part of you, including your lungs, ears, and eyes, but it has the ability to allow oxygen to be extracted directly from the alveoli in your lungs.

It’s going to be the weirdest thing you’ve ever experienced because you’re not going to be able to breathe in and out, but oxygen and respiration will still be passing back and forth. So, all I can tell you to do is be as calm as you possibly can.”

Max looks on the verge of panic. “Man, I don’t know... I’m totally claustrophobic.” Brian says,

“Hey, that’s no problem. I think I can solve that for you.” He walks over to a nearby cabinet pulls out a bottle and extracts a white pellet. “Here, take one of these and tell me how you feel.”

He hands it to Max, then walks over to a sink, fills a small glass of water, and returns. Max takes the pill and swallows followed by the water. Instantly he feels the calmest, most relaxed he has been in his entire life. It’s as if it wouldn’t matter if the entire place were to burn down; he would be completely fine with that.

He lays back and sinks into the material until his eyes, nose, and mouth covered. He feels the material begin to run down his throat like a steady stream of warm liquid until he is completely immersed. He has never felt this way before. He can feel his heart beating, but there is no sensation of respiration. His body doesn’t seem to be breathing. At first, he tries to breathe, but there is no way; his throat is completely constricted. But then he realizes, oh, this is completely fine, as he doesn’t feel any need or any absence of oxygen.

He hears a high-pitched humming sound, and slowly consciousness fades.

“What is your evaluation?” Zach asks Brian.

“A couple of things. We found some tech in him that is unlike anything we have ever seen. Our attempts to examine it ended up blowing out all of our probes and most of the support systems. An enormous cost I might add,” Brian reports.

“How many times must I tell you?” Zach responds, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Never tell you what it costs. Very sorry, sir,” Brian quickly apologizes.

“Anything else?” Zach probes further.

“Yeah, something that may be nothing but it is pretty weird,” Brian adds.

“What is it?” Zach inquires, intrigued.

“His telomeres, which are protective caps on the end of his chromosomes. As cells divide over time, telomeres shorten, which is a process associated with aging. At seventeen, he would generally have shorter telomeres compared to when he was a baby. But his are exactly like he was born yesterday,” Brian explains, highlighting the unusual finding.

“Understood, how has the rest of the prep gone?” Zach asks about the progress of other preparations.

“We have a complete map of his biology and we have loaded him with the data and some support. If he is injured, short of death, we should be able to bring him back. Our attempts to update his internal net systems were a complete failure. Honestly, I do not think there is a point. Whatever tech he has in him seems pretty superior to anything we have,” Brian details the situation.

“Financial?” Zach asks about another aspect of the preparations.

“We have given him access to your slush account. Short of buying an Island, he should be able to travel freely. I need you to tell him, Zach, there is something else,” Brian hesitates, indicating more serious news.

Zach, slightly taken aback by his security using his first name only, prompts, “Yes, what is it?”

“We pulled a match on his quantum signature. Forgive me, but this seems a little impossible,” Brian cautiously begins.

“Spit it out,” Zach demands.

“He is a 100% match for Nils Verin,” Brian reveals the shocking result.

“What the fuck? That’s not possible. For one, Nils is dead and besides that, he is, or was much older. Are you certain?” Zach reacts with disbelief.

“Believe me, sir, I checked it multiple times. As far as any official organization in the galaxy is going to be concerned, that kid in the tank is the largest mass murderer in history,” Brian confirms the disturbing news.

“Can you mask his signature?” Zach quickly seeks a solution.

“We can with a subdural implant. It would hold up to cursory inspection but not to any deep analysis. He would be able to travel, but any significant run-in with authorities would likely end tragically for him,” Brian explains the limitations of their options.

“Do it, and tell him nothing,” Zach decides on the course of action.

Max wakes up lying on a comfortable cot being attended by several medically uniformed staff. A middle-aged brunette woman introduces herself, “Hi, I am Leata Ford. How are you feeling?”

“Uhh hi Leta, I feel a little groggy to tell you the truth. How long have I been unconscious?” Max asks, still disoriented.

“You have been out for about four hours. Sorry if you did not get a warning. We do not like to do things this way, but there always seems to be a little lack of communication between medical and security. Please drink this; it will help,” Leta explains as she hands him a small glass of greenish-looking liquid which he swallows expecting the worst. It has almost no taste, but he begins to feel more alert.

“Wow, you’re not screwing around with that stuff,” Max comments, feeling the effects of the drink.

“Well, now that we have a complete map of your DNA and biome, we are able to tailor everything precisely to you. Should make any future issues much easier to handle,” Leata explains the purpose of their earlier procedures.

“What exactly did you do to me?” Max inquires about the specifics.

“Pretty standard stuff, really. We mapped your complete biology and created a baseline. Then we placed some monitors that will keep track if anything changes. In the event of some alteration, nanites will be released to return you to baseline,” Leta details the procedures they performed.

“Uhh, what’s a nanite?” Max asks, unfamiliar with the term.

Leata looks at him a bit puzzled, “For the sake of argument, just pretend I am an idiot.” Max adds.

Leta laughs and smiles at him, “I am sure that is not the case, but happy to oblige. Nanites are nano-machines, a mechanical or electromechanical device whose dimensions are measured in nanometers (millionths of a millimeter, or units of 10^-9 meter). In the case of medical nanites, they are swarms of these machines that can be released in your bloodstream. They are controlled by a central system that uses them to repair or return your system to normal in the event of damage. In effect, they deal with bacteria, phages, viruses, and toxins that you may encounter.

They can also isolate individual bio systems and provide by-pass in the event of injury. It is exceedingly odd that you do not have a set of them already. I would love to inquire, but Brian has indicated that you’re here for the updates, not inquiry. I can tell you this much. While you did not have any nanites in you, you do seem to have a control system for them that is unlike anything we have ever seen. Same goes for the network interfaces. If the time and opportunity ever come up, I would love to spend some time examining you thoroughly,” she explains.

She suddenly realizes the double entendre and blushes, “Sorry, not exactly what I meant.”

“I think I understand,” Max responds, acknowledging her explanation.

The door opens, and Zach enters the room. “Is our patient all ready for prime time?” he asks.

“He is as up to spec as we can make him,” Leta confirms.

Zach hands Max a half-smoked spliff, which he accepts and takes a drag.

“Is that really necessary?” Leata questions Zach’s decision.

“Is anything I do really necessary?” Zach, retorts.

She rolls her eyes, “Please take good care of him. We have a date with a room full of spectroscopic gear.”

She places a hand on Max’s shoulder and smiles, “Be safe, Max, it has been a pleasure.”

Zach indicates for Max to follow him and repeats the oddly assumptive action of turning to leave without waiting to see if he agrees. Max hurries to catch up to him as they leave the medical area. They walk for a short distance as Zach monologues over his shoulder.

“I have some intel on where Rocky is likely to have gone. We have cross-referenced her known locations and the likely transit spots based on the transport she left on. If we move quickly, we just may be able to beat her to her next destination. I will fill you in as we go,” Zach informs Max.

“You’re going with me?” Max inquires.

“Would not want to miss it. After all, I am not taking kindly to people stealing from my guests,” Zach sighs.

As Max steps through the massive hangar door, the sheer size of it dwarfs him, leaving him momentarily stunned. It feels absurd, like a scene pulled straight from his imagination. When his eyes land on the ship, disbelief floods his senses. Holy fucking shit, he thinks, his brain scrambling to process what he’s seeing. A spaceship. An actual spaceship. Not just any spaceship—a masterpiece.

He takes in every detail, his heart hammering. The sleek lines, the black and silver hull shimmering under the hangar lights, the way it seems to command the space around it. It’s a ship built for speed, for power, for dominance. The gold accents catch the light, adding a touch of arrogance, like it knows it’s the best thing in the room. Max can’t help but stare, his mind racing. This isn’t just a machine; it’s alive. A beast, waiting to leap into the stars.

The hangar buzzes with activity, but it’s all a blur to him. Crew members move with practiced precision, their focus sharp. Engineers work over glowing holograms, and pilots stand by the cockpit, their calm professionalism almost surreal to Max. He wonders if they feel it too—this awe, this overwhelming sense of standing on the edge of something extraordinary—or if it’s just routine for them. The thought makes him feel both envious and a little ridiculous.

“Sorry about this,” Zach says, breaking Max’s trance. “My main ride’s out for upgrades, but this one should get us there.” His tone is casual, dismissive, as if this ship were anything less than a miracle.

Max struggles to keep up as they follow the illuminated path toward the ramp. Each step feels heavier, like he’s crossing into a story he doesn’t belong in but desperately wants to. The ship towers above him, the reality of it pressing down, and yet it’s all so surreal that it could vanish if he blinks too long. When they step inside, the world shifts. The noise of the hangar fades, replaced by a hum so subtle it feels like it’s coming from the floor itself.

The grand foyer opens before them, and Max has to stop himself from gaping. It’s… perfect. Warm light pools around polished surfaces, every line sleek, every detail carefully curated. It’s not just a ship; it’s a work of art, a space meant to remind you how small and human you are compared to the vastness outside. Does every ship look like this? he wonders. Or did I just luck into the universe’s best-kept secret?

As they pass through the engineering section, the mood shifts. Here, it’s all about precision, function, efficiency. Panels blink, holograms flicker, and the low hum of machinery vibrates in the air. Max watches the engineers work, their movements quick and purposeful, and feels like an outsider, staring at a language he’ll never fully understand. This ship breathes, he thinks, almost laughing at the absurdity of the thought. It’s alive, and I’m just tagging along.

The command center leaves him speechless. He steps into the massive, circular room, and his gaze is drawn upward to the domed ceiling. A real-time map of space spirals above them, a living tapestry of stars and movement. For a moment, he feels like he’s floating, the enormity of it pulling at him. The stations surrounding the command chair are sleek, glowing with quiet power. The crew’s calm nods to Zach make Max feel like he’s stumbled into a rhythm he doesn’t quite understand, but desperately wants to.

Then they reach the viewing area, and everything else falls away. The entire wall is glass, a window into the endless stretch of stars and galaxies. Max stands frozen, his breath catching in his throat. The universe feels impossibly close, vast and intimate all at once. He sinks into the plush couch Zach points to, and it feels like being cradled by the ship itself, weightless and secure.

Staring out at the stars, Max feels a quiet awe settle over him, wrapping around his chest. It’s not just the view—it’s the realization that this is real. The stars aren’t just distant points of light anymore. They’re here, reachable. His whole life feels impossibly small compared to this, and yet, for the first time, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. How can anything compare to this? he wonders, watching the universe unfold just beyond the glass.

“Do you need to strap in?” Max asks, looking around the cabin of the spaceship.

Zach looks a little puzzled at the question. “Ahh no, we have inertial dampers, you won’t feel a thing,” he explains.

As he settles into a seat, the reality of traveling through space aboard such a magnificent vessel truly sinks in. I am on a spaceship!

“Spliff?” Zach offers, having already rolled a new one.

“Why the hell not,” Max responds, taking a deep drag. By the time he turns back from looking at Zach to the screen, he can see they are already leaving the atmosphere.

Max feels a slight vertigo as they transition from atmosphere to space, an odd sensation to be terrified, exhilarated, and dizzy all at the same time. I am in fucking space!

“So, Zach, you’re seriously telling me you guys can go past light speed now? Isn’t that, like, breaking some fundamental cosmic speed limit?” Max inquires, a mix of skepticism and awe in his voice.

Zach chuckles. “Oh, man, yeah. We found this cosmic detour. Imagine the universe has all these speed bumps, right? And we just... float over them.”

“But physics, Zach. Physics says nope to faster than light,” Max counters, recalling the lectures from his tenth grade physics class.

“Max, it’s all about bending the rules without breaking them. We’re not speeding; we’re making space do the hustle for us. It’s like... you know when you pull a rubber band back and let it go? It’s kinda like that, but with the fabric of reality,” Zach explains, taking a slow blink.

“A rubber band. We’re in a cosmic slingshot now. And what about all the scary stuff, like getting squished or turning into human spaghetti?” Max asks, curious about the safety of such travel.

“Nah, it’s chill. Because we’re not really moving, we’re more like... dancing with space. We don’t get the spaghetti vibe. It’s smoother, like... butter sliding over hot toast,” Zach laughs softly, reassuring Max.

“And the power for this space dance?” Max probes further.

“We tap into this quantum foam stuff, it’s all fizzy and popping. It’s like dipping into an endless energy soda, and we just take a sip,” Zach describes, painting a vivid picture of their energy source.

“Quantum foam. So we’re riding the bubbles now?” Max summarizes, trying to grasp the concept.

“Exactly, the universe is totally cool with it. It’s like we asked for permission, and it said, ‘Sure, take the cosmic jet ski for a spin.’ Honestly, no one really understands it. We borrowed the tech from the guys whose world you visited. To be fair, we borrowed a lot of the stuff that allows us to be a galactic civilization from them,” Zach explains, nodding, still amused by the discussion.

“I thought no one has seen them in billions of years,” Max remarks, referring to the mysterious civilization.

“Yeah, they left a few things around. It kind of seems like maybe they left in a hurry. It’s “THE” mystery of the ages,” Zach shares, adding to the enigma.

“Do you think we can catch up with Rocky?” Max asks, his tone turning sad as he thinks about her.

“We can’t get there any faster. The one advantage we have is that if she is on a commercial craft there will be significant time to clear docking and entry. If our intel is correct, she is headed for Chloridian space. The Chloridians love customs like Veletians love sex,” Zach explains, outlining their strategy.

“What’s a Veletian?” Max asks, unfamiliar with the term.

Zach just stares at Max, not quite sure what to make of him.

A soothing voice fills the room. “We will be entering Jump momentarily.”

Zach hands Max the remainder of the Spliff. “First-time jump can be a little off-putting, I suggest you finish that. It helps.

Max takes the remainder of the spliff and takes a drag.

As the warp drive activates, Max has an initial moment of disorientation, a feeling akin to the stomach-dropping sensation of a roller coaster’s first descent, but without the gravitational pull. Suddenly, the universe outside seems to stretch and distort in impossible ways, as if reality itself is being pulled through the eye of a needle.

He expects a violent jolt or a sonic boom, but instead, there’s an overwhelming calm, a silence that envelops him like a blanket. The stars elongate, transforming into brilliant streaks of light that paint the cosmos in a blur of colors he’s never seen before.

The sensation of speed is there, but not in the way he understands speed to feel. It’s not a rush of wind against his face or the ground blurring beneath him; it’s more profound, more elemental. He’s moving, yet also still, as if he and the ship have become a single point of consciousness darting across the fabric of space-time.

As he adjusts to the warp, a feeling of weightlessness washes over him, not unlike floating in water, but a sense of boundless freedom and infinite possibility. He feels a moment of pure, unadulterated awe, witnessing the laws of physics bending around him, making the universe accessible in ways once thought impossible.

He feels a cocktail of exhilaration, fear, wonder, and a deep, humbling connection to the vastness of the universe. Max feels he has a new understanding of reality, travel, and his place in the universe. He knows in this moment that he is forever changed, with a new perspective on what it means to be a part of this vast, mysterious cosmos.

“Off-putting, you call that off-putting! Congratulations on the greatest understatement in history,” Max comments, clearly overwhelmed.

“I aim to please,” Zach chuckles internally. I really like this kid, but I am not sure I can afford to.

“We will be entering Chloridian space shortly,” the soothing voice again fills the room, signaling the next phase of their journey.

The transition out of warp is abrupt and without excitement. One second they are in warp and one second later they are back in the world of familiar physics.

“Time to docking approximately 22 minutes,” the voice updates them on their progress.

“Just a heads-up, the Chloridians are a little specific,” Zach warns, prepping Max for what’s to come.

“Specific? What exactly does that mean?” Max asks, intrigued and a bit anxious about the upcoming encounter.

“The Chloridians based their entire civilization on plant technology, including to a greater or lesser degree themselves. Take a look,” Zach suggests, indicating the viewing portal, offering Max his first glimpse of the unique civilization they are about to interact with.

As Max stares out the viewport, he can hardly process the scale of what he’s seeing. A massive transparent bubble, floating out there in the vastness of space—over a hundred kilometers long. It’s surreal, like something out of one of his old sci-fi books. He feels a rush, realizing he’s actually looking at a city inside this bio-dome, its own self-contained world drifting in the vacuum.

His eyes trace the enormous plants that make up the city’s structure. Trees as thick as buildings with leaves spread wide, reaching toward the dome’s center like they’re holding everything together. It’s like the whole city is alive, thriving on these gigantic trees. Between them, he catches glimpses of bridges made from vines, flowering plants bursting with color. The place feels alive in a way that he’s never felt back home.

He notices how the vegetation forms layers, almost like a vertical ecosystem. High up, he can see clusters of fruit-bearing plants and flowers. Not just pretty, he realizes—they’re probably food and air purifiers. It all seems too perfect, too coordinated, like nature and design blended seamlessly. Further down, he spots small dwellings carved into the trees, homes nestled up in the branches. The people here, the Chloridians, actually live inside these giant plants. How does anyone even come up with this? he thinks, shaking his head in awe.

As they approach the docking port, Max sees that even this part of the city is organic—a massive branch, hollowed out, forming an entry for incoming ships. It’s like everything here grew exactly where it was needed. A ring of glowing flowers surrounds the entrance, casting a gentle light, almost like the city is welcoming them.

The closer they get, the more he realizes that every part of this place serves a purpose. The plants don’t just hold up buildings—they’re the city’s life support, recycling air, water, food. And above, an artificial sun filters light through the leaves, casting it across the dome. Max can hardly wrap his head around it. A living city, he thinks, feeling a strange mix of wonder and envy.

Zach remarks that the Chloridians may seem primitive, but they are among the most sophisticated technological civilizations in the galaxy. He adds, half-jokingly, that their green and fit appearance makes swimming pools a whole new experience.

“We have a private communication request coming from the port authority, Zach,” a soothing voice announces, originating from no discernible source.

Zach instructs, “Patch them through.”

The port authority greets him warmly, “Greetings, Zenhaari. We are honored to have you visit. We have made arrangements for private docking immediately. May we prepare a formal greeting?”

Zach replies, “Port, I appreciate it, but my visit today is of a private nature. May I kindly request that no formal greeting be provided? I would be happy to have a private audience later.”

The port authority responds, “Of course, Zenhaari. May we offer you complementary accommodation?”

“Thank you, that would be acceptable. Please also, I would like to ask for diplomatic status for myself and my traveling companion,” Zach requests.

“Of course, Zenhaari. Please pass the basic description of your companion, and we will make the arrangements,” the port obliges.

“Gracious of you and appreciated,” Zach acknowledges.

“May we be of service in any other way, Zenhaari?” the port inquires.

“No, thank you, port. You honor me,” Zach concludes the communication.

Max is overwhelmed by the deferent manner in which the port authority speaks to Zach.

“Do you get treated this way everywhere?” Max asks.

“Honestly, that is as easy as it gets. Most of the time, it would take me days of formal engagements to enter a city. The Chloridians are private and respectful to a fault. It kind of goes with their unorthodox philosophy,” Zach explains.

“Which is?” Max probes.

“They are extreme individualists and believe that governments and rules are for other people. They are, in some regard, anarchists. A real thorn in the side of the empire, but way too technologically important to be ignored. My kind of people, if you must know,” Zach shares.

As the docking clamps secure their craft with a gentle thud, Max feels a surge of anticipation. The voyage through space had been nothing short of miraculous, a blur of stars and void that now culminates in this moment: stepping into a Chloridian city for the first time. He follows Zach, trying to match his friend’s composed stride, though his heart races with excitement.

Exiting the craft, Max is enveloped in the warmth and vibrancy of the docking port. The structure around them is alive, literally; the walls pulse gently, a soft, green luminescence guiding their path. Max marvels at how the floor beneath them feels spongy yet firm, made of moss that springs back with each step.

They are greeted by a Chloridian, whose skin has a soft, emerald hue, and eyes that sparkle with a friendly light.

“Welcome, esteemed guests,” the assistant says, their voice melodious, like wind through leaves. “We’re honored to have you under diplomatic status. Allow me to take care of your documentation.”

The process is smooth and efficient, with the assistant expertly handling devices that seem to be grown rather than manufactured. Max watches, fascinated, as stamps bloom onto their documents, forming intricate patterns that signify their clearance.

Once everything is in order, the assistant guides them to what can only be described as a living vehicle. It resembles a large, open pod, cradled by branches that move to accommodate their entry.

“This will take you to your accommodation,” the assistant explains, initiating the vehicle with a gentle touch to a leafy panel.

The ride is surreal. The pod glides along a network of vines, weaving through the city with ease. Max gazes out in wonder at the sprawling metropolis around them, a symphony of plant life that functions as homes, shops, and public spaces. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and the sound of rustling leaves, a constant reminder of the city’s organic nature.

Their destination is a towering tree that pierces the dome’s apex their hotel is seamlessly integrated into the tree, its rooms and suites nestled within the branches. Their suite, the penthouse, is accessed via an elevator made of interlocking stems that spiral upwards.

Stepping into the penthouse suite, Max’s breath is taken away. The space is vast and luxuriously appointed, with furnishings that mimic natural forms, soft and inviting. The walls and ceiling are transparent in places, offering views of the city and the stars beyond.

The centerpiece is a swimming pool, ingeniously integrated into the top of the giant tree. Its waters are clear and inviting, bordered by flowering plants that release a soothing fragrance into the air. The pool seems to blend into the sky, a boundless edge that invites contemplation and relaxation.

Max turns to Zach, a wide grin spreading across his face. “This,” he says, “is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Zach laughs, clapping Max on the shoulder. “Welcome to the future, my friend. I am trying to imagine what you must be feeling but frankly, I am sure I cannot. While I would love nothing more than to show you around, but time is against us,” Zach adds as he expertly rolls a spliff.

“Spliff?” Zach offers.

“How many of those do you smoke a day?” Max inquires.

“Never counted. Never cared. Why?” Zach responds.

Max takes the spliff and inhales deeply. “Just a question. Some people at the party gave me a pretty interesting background on you. Frankly, most of it was just names I did not recognize. You’re some kind of religious leader, right?” Max asks.

“Ah yeah, I guess I am. Was not something I asked for,” Zach admits.

“It’s a hereditary thing?” Max continues.

Zach pauses with an out-of-character look on his face. “No, not hereditary.”

“And your parents are some kind of royalty?” Max probes further.

“My parents died when I was four years old,” Zach reveals.

Max feels awkward. “Hey man, I am sorry, I just kind of wanted some idea of who I am trusting. The last person I trusted did not work out so well,” he confesses.

“I can appreciate that,” Zach responds, taking a long drag off the spliff.

“Look, it’s okay; it has been a long time. I am just not usually so keen to talk about the parents, you know, but I can appreciate your situation. So yeah, my family were...are the hereditary rulers of Veletia, the planet you just left. My grandfather is the Sovereign and well, if my dad were alive he would have been next in line. My family is a little messed up. My parents were an arranged marriage and their dying is something of a ridiculously public event that I try not to be involved in,” Zach shares thoughtfully.

“You see, the thing that killed my parents was pretty important. A guy named Nils Verin was trying to destroy an important piece of Galactic tech. When it went wrong, he ended up destroying an entire star system including my parents,” Zach explains.

“Wooooh! What the hell. How do you destroy an entire star system?” Max is shocked.

“Not without a good bit of effort. He killed about twenty billion people as well. It makes him pretty much the biggest murderer in history.” Should I tell him?  Zach ponders.

“Man, I am so sorry. I feel like there is something you are not telling me,” Max senses.

“I have had some time to get used to it,” Zach acknowledges.

There is a soft chime at the door.

“Let me get that,” Zach says as he walks to the door, opens it, and speaks briefly to someone before returning with a small package in his hand. He opens the package and takes out a small clear crystal. He then sets his data pad on the table and places the crystal on it.

A holographic image of Rocky appears above the table. It is so realistic that Max briefly thinks she is in the room. He feels excited, then ashamed and sad in quick succession.

Data begins to flow next to the image.

Rachel Mirrormont, aka Rocky, aka Indira, aka Moonshine, aka Leticia…

The list of aliases continues for more than two dozen lines.

Age: 19

Father: Martin Mirrormont - Academic at the Intergalactic University of Xanadrix (Deceased)

Mother: Natasha Mirrormont - Colonel: Galactic Defense Fleet (Deceased)

Known affiliations: Rex Vlaan Leader Cosmos Cross crime syndicate

Interpol Report on Rachel “Rocky” Mirrormont

Location: Unknown

Charges:

Unauthorized Access to Secure Data Networks - Not convicted.

Smuggling of Classified Information - Not convicted.

Piloting Without a License in Restricted Zones - Not convicted.

Forgery of Galactic Passports - Not convicted.

Theft of a Military-Grade Stealth Ship - Not convicted.

Illegal Modification of Ship’s Transponder - Not convicted.

Transportation and Sale of Banned Substances - Not convicted.

Hacking into the Intergalactic Banking System - Not convicted.

Evading Capture Through Wormhole Manipulation - Not convicted.

Impersonation of a Galactic Officer - Not convicted.

Bribery of Spaceport Officials - Not convicted.

Breaking and Entering a High-Security Research Facility - Not convicted.

Theft of Ancient Artifacts from Xanadrix Museum - Not convicted.

Sale of Stolen Quantum Encryption Codes - Not convicted.

Sabotage of Competitor Smuggler Ships - Not convicted.

Illegal Wiretapping of Galactic Senate Members - Not convicted.

Forgery of Historical Documents for Profit - Not convicted.

Destruction of Evidence Related to the Cataclysm of Eridanus - Not convicted.

Interference in Galactic Elections - Not convicted.

Assault on a Galactic Enforcement Agent - Not convicted.

Quantum Encryption Theft: - Warrant outstanding Terunokyo

Smuggling Exotic Matter - Warrant outstanding Vaikunthapuri

Black Market AI Trafficking: - Warrant outstanding Esotropolis

Illegal Terraforming Agent Distribution - Warrant outstanding Tenochtitlan Prime

Stellar Artifact Looting - Warrant outstanding Porta Aeternum

Note: Rachel “Rocky” Mirrormont is wanted on several worlds in connection with various criminal activities, spanning from data smuggling to the illegal sale of interstellar artifacts. Despite numerous charges, she has not been convicted of any crimes due to a combination of skillful evasion, lack of conclusive evidence, and the intricate webs of corruption she navigates. Her current whereabouts are unknown, and she is considered highly dangerous and extremely cunning. Authorities advise against engagement and recommend immediate reporting of any sightings or information regarding her location.

“Max, you really know how to pick them! She even has warrants outstanding on Tenochtitlan Prime. I’ve never heard of anyone who managed to piss off the Huit and live,” Zach jests, fully impressed.

“Fuck you, man, she was at your party!” Max retorts, feeling a bit defensive.

“Dude, everyone is at my parties,” Zach quips, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand.

The two of them look at each other for a moment and then break out laughing. Several moments pass as feel the relief of the moment.

“Man, I needed that,” Zach admits, still chuckling.

“Yeah, me too,” Max agrees, feeling a bit more relaxed.

“If she is here in this Chloridian city, we are going to have to look for her through less formal channels. The Chloridians are the center for most of the illicit activities in the Galaxy. They aren’t particularly criminal themselves; they just have what I’d call a very healthy respect for individual choice. Well, that and the fact that they scare the shit out of just about everyone short of the Huit. No one is in a hurry to search their ships,” Zach explains their next move.

“Max, there are some things I probably need to tell you, but for some very good reasons, I am not,” Zach hints at deeper secrets.

Max thinks for a minute. “Would my life be better if you told me?”

“Probably not,” Zach responds bluntly.

“And your reasons for not telling me are important?” Max probes, seeking clarity.

Zach nods in affirmation.

“Then, if either of those things change, you will let me know,” Max concludes, setting terms for their continued partnership.

“Yeah, that seems fair. I’m not sure I could do the same if the situation was reversed,” Zach admits, acknowledging the complexity of their situation.

“Let’s see if we can track down Rocky and see if she has an explanation,” Max suggests, still hopeful for some resolution.

“You still aren’t willing to face the fact that her reason is that you are an easy target?” Zach challenges, pushing Max to consider a less favorable possibility.

“It’s just, you know, I kind of feel like it might be a mistake,” Max admits, grappling with his feelings.

“So she really got to you?” Zach observes, noting Max’s emotional investment.

“Yeah, I guess she did,” Max concedes, feeling a mix of frustration and attachment.

Zach smiles and reassures him, “So we aim to stun.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Max agrees, gearing up for what may come next.

“Well, first things first, we are going to need to blend in,” Zach states as he takes the crystal from his data pad, causing the hologram to disappear. Max feels a slight sense of loss as having her in the room somehow made him feel better. Zach types a few quick commands and then stows his data pad. Moments later, there is a chime at the door.

“Come on in, the door is open,” Zach calls out.

Two young people enter the room wearing bikinis made out of leaves. Both have skin that is light green, and Max can not tell their gender.

“Greetings, Zenhaari. I am Neena and this is Alucia. May we begin?” one of them introduces.

“Yes, please do. We will need day and night outfits, something that will work well in your after-hours scene, please,” Zach instructs.

Neena adjusts a wrist band, which shines a pale green light over Zach, then looks at Max expectantly.

“Ahh, go ahead,” Max permits somewhat reluctantly.

She shines a similar light on Max, moving her hand gently to shine the light up and down his body. There is no sensation as the light passes over him, but he still shivers a bit with expectation.

Moments later, the door opens, and a gliding tray with outfits similar to those worn by Neena and Alucia comes into the room. Neena approaches Zach and begins taking his clothes off. Zach seems quite casual about this.

“Ahh, is it not your custom to be assisted? Perhaps you would prefer some privacy?” Alucia inquires, noticing Max’s hesitation.

“Max, live a little!” Zach encourages, taking the situation in stride.

“Uhh, yeah, I will just take mine and handle it myself,” Max replies

Alucia hands him the two small garments, which he notes are about the size of a few strands of dental floss. Max walks into the nearest chamber, just out of sight of the others, and removes his clothes. He puts on the bikini bottom, which runs up the crack of his ass, and slides the translucent top over his head and shoulders. He glances in the mirror and realizes that he would feel less naked, naked.

“Hey, are you coming?” Zach yells from the other room.

Max breathes deeply a few times, closes his eyes for a moment, and imagines himself fully clothed, then walks back into the other room, hoping that no one can see the scarlet red of his face.

“Mr. Valkith, you look amazing. I hope you enjoy your stay with us. I have placed your day outfit in the dresser. Please let us know when you are ready to change, and we will be back to assist you. Is there anything else we may do for you now?” Alucia offers, complimenting his new look.

“Thank you for the help. We are quite well now,” Zach responds as the two turn and unceremoniously leave the room. Max tries awkwardly not to look at Zach, in a matching bikini bottom and translucent shirt.

“Really, this is what they wear around here?” Max asks, still trying to adjust to the local customs.

“Look, if you photosynthesized in a high humidity, high temperature jungle environment your whole life, wouldn’t you wear as little as possible?

I take it old Earth was more formal?” Zach explains, trying to make Max feel more at ease.

“I’m not even sure how to answer that,” Max replies, still feeling out of his element.

“Well, trust me, you would stick out like a sore thumb in what we were wearing before. Now, footwear optional. I would go barefoot. Their entire civilization is built to accommodate it,” Zach advises, encouraging Max to embrace the local customs.

“Okay, that much I am used to,” Max concedes, feeling slightly more comfortable with the idea of going barefoot.

“Let’s go. I have a lead on someone who may be able to help us, but it’s in the under-city nightclub area,” Zach reveals, setting their next course of action as they prepare to dive deeper into the Chloridian nightlife.

Max follows Zach from the room trying very hard not to look at his mostly naked ass.

Stepping out of the hotel, Max’s senses are immediately overwhelmed by the life buzzing through the city. It’s nothing like the quiet fields and open skies he’s used to back on the farm. Here, everything breathes, everything pulses. The buildings aren’t built—they’re grown, made of towering trees and sprawling vines that form an entire metropolis alive in every way.

The air hits him, thick and warm, a tropical humidity that feels almost like it’s hugging him. Light filters down through the translucent dome above, scattering across the path in patches that shift and dance. Nothing on Earth looks like this, he thinks, feeling both amazed and out of place. They’re heading to some under-city nightclub, but even the path feels surreal, bordered by glowing flowers that seem to light up just for them.

Zach moves ahead, but Max’s gaze wanders to the city’s inhabitants. Their clothing—or is it grown right onto them?—is minimal, almost like something from a Brazilian carnival, but here, it’s natural, in tune with everything around them. Leaves, petals, thin vine-like strands wrap around them, moving with a grace that captivates him. He tries to figure out the people themselves, their looks so varied that gender seems almost irrelevant here, fluid in a way he’s never seen before.

As they weave through the streets, Max notices an elevator system for moving through the city’s layers—organic platforms held by massive leaves that glide up and down through the canopy. When they step onto one, it lifts them without a sound, as if they’re floating on air. Max feels a strange thrill, the city’s heartbeat all around him, the sense of being part of something massive, alive.

The music catches his ear next—a rhythm that’s both alien and oddly familiar. The beat feels like samba, with the depth of bossa nova, and he realizes the musicians play instruments grown straight from the city’s genetic roots. The music winds through the air, energizing him, a constant pulse that seems to mirror the city’s life itself. It’s overwhelming, but he can’t help but think, Maybe this is what a living city is supposed to feel like.

Their destination, a nightclub called “The Pollination Station,” sits deep in the city’s roots, hidden in the veins of this living metropolis. As they descend, the music thickens, a steady bass pulling them down into a place of shadows and strange, glowing light. Max feels his pulse sync with it, like the beat itself is guiding him. The entrance glows with patches of fungi and flowers, casting an otherworldly light that seems to draw people in, a promise of mystery and excitement.

For Max, every step is an unfolding wonder. The air, thick with the scent of flowers, the humid warmth that feels more like a greenhouse than a city—all of it clashes with everything he knows, but in a way that pulls him forward. Technology, nature, identity—everything here challenges his sense of what things are supposed to be. It’s a strange world, but one he realizes he wants to understand.

Inside “The Pollination Station,” his senses are hit with a wave of alien beauty. The club pulses with bioluminescent light, the walls themselves seeming to breathe with it, the colors shifting to the rhythm of the music, which is both electronic and deeply human, thanks to live drummers who drive the beat. It feels wild, yet intentional, every sound and flicker of light feeding into a vibrant energy that Max can feel in his chest.

The floor is soft beneath his feet, cushioned like moss, and he notices people moving over it like they’re in a trance, lost in the rhythm. Overhead, the ceiling is a canopy of leaves and branches, with delicate flower-shaped lights hanging down, their glow flickering like fireflies in sync with the music’s pulse. The air is thick with a sweet, floral scent, an intoxicating perfume that makes the atmosphere feel sultry, almost dreamlike.

Around him, the crowd is a blur of colors and motion—some people with green or blue-green skin, their minimal plant-based garments clinging to them like a second skin. Max can’t tell one gender from another here, and it doesn’t seem to matter. Everyone moves with confidence, their bodies adorned in hues of deep purples and greens, petals and vines blending with their movements. It’s like the whole place is alive, and everyone in it is a part of that life, a single heartbeat in this pulsating space.

Zach nudges him, and they start moving through the crowd, heading toward a quieter section of the club. Here, the music fades to a soft echo, and the lights shift to a warm, golden glow. Max glances at the booths lining the walls, grown directly from the club itself, their seats cushioned with moss and velvety leaves. It’s a place for whispers, for secret exchanges away from the intense energy of the dance floor.

At the back, they approach a service doorway where the noise dims almost entirely. Two guards stand at the entrance, nearly identical, their eyes sharp and expressions unyielding. Unlike the others, their plant-based attire has an edge of intimidation—broad leaves form armor over vital areas, and their muscles look almost exaggerated, like they were made to be impossible to ignore. Max’s gaze flickers up at them, feeling a mix of awe and wariness. He’s never seen anything like this.

As Zach and Max approach, the guards cross their arms, a clear sign of authority.

“Identifications,” one of them rumbles, his voice deep and resonant. The request isn’t aggressive but firm, an indication that beyond this point, the casual revelry of the club gives way to something more exclusive, perhaps more dangerous.

Zach, ever the diplomat, smiles and presents their IDs with a practiced ease, engaging the guards with a confidence that comes from navigating countless such situations.

Max, still in awe of everything he’s witnessed, can’t help but feel a thrill of anticipation. What lay beyond this guarded doorway in “The Pollination Station” was yet another mystery in this incredible city of living architecture.

Zach says, “We are here to see Melfie. Please tell her it’s Zach. Muny sent us as we have something he believes they will be interested in.”

The guard subvocalizes and stands waiting. A number of uncomfortable minutes pass. Finally, the guard steps aside and the portal behind him irises open, just enough to allow them to pass single file. Max follows Zach inside.

As the door closes behind them, the noise of the club subsides to a dull roar. They are standing in a square room, uncharacteristic to what they have seen, made of an alloy that looks like steel. A voice addresses them.

“What can I do for you?”

Zach responds, “Muny sent us.”

“That much I already know. Now what can I do for you?”

Zach replies, “I guess we have wasted our time. We will be going.”

Zach turns and begins walking back the way they came, to the confusion of Max. He knocks on the door that they just came through.

“Hey wait a minute, wait a minute.”

As they step through the internal door and walk down the hallway, Max feels a surge of curiosity and apprehension. The wooden door at the end is half-open, and when they push it fully, he’s struck by the scene inside.

Behind the cluttered desk, an imposing Chloridian sits, a mix of raw strength and excess, muscle and mass. Max has never seen anyone like him—a deep blue-green giant with wild, sun-streaked hair that looks almost alive, like light filtering through water. The Chloridian’s size and presence are intimidating, but there’s something about his focus that fascinates Max. The man looks like he’s both fully here and somewhere else entirely, lost in his work.

The room around him is a mess. Half-assembled tech and gadgets cover every inch of the space, spilling over tables, shelves, and even the floor. Max’s mind reels at the chaos; it’s a strange contrast to the usual Chloridian elegance. Vines drape over screens and equipment, some glowing softly, others pulsing in time with the tech they’re entangled with. It’s like nature and machinery have merged in a way that feels half-mad, half-genius.

Max’s eyes are drawn back to the desk—a small island of calm amid the chaos. Scattered projects catch his attention: a strange device wrapped in vines that glow with energy, a transparent sphere with tiny creatures moving inside, and a disassembled engine that seems part organic, part mechanical. Each item is unfinished, mid-creation, like a glimpse into a mind that doesn’t stop to organize but just keeps creating.

The Chloridian’s fingers, surprisingly nimble, swipe and adjust a holographic display with ease. Max feels a strange respect for him—this mix of brute power and delicate precision. He realizes this isn’t just an office; it’s a workshop, a lab, a place where the rules don’t matter. This Chloridian isn’t just an engineer or scientist. He’s a creator, and the room reflects that—an extension of a chaotic, brilliant mind.

Zach asks, “I take it you are Melfie?”

Melfie responds, “Depends on who is asking.”

Zach inquires, “You know who I am?”

Melfie exclaims, “Fuck me, Zenhaari, everyone knows who you are.”

Zach questions, “Then why the stupid questions?”

Melfie explains, “Hey, calm down, okay? We get a lot of strange shit around here; can you blame me for being careful?”

Zach replies, “No, however, I can and will blame you for being rude.”

Melfie apologizes, “Look, I am sorry. We have had some rather tense situations around here recently, and it has everyone on edge. Also, your friend registers a few red flags.”

Zach thinks to himself, “Fuck, I had hoped this would go unnoticed.”

Melfie assures, “Look, his secret is safe with me. I got bigger fish to fry. Please take a seat; can I offer you anything?”

Max thinks to himself, “What secret?”

Zach suggests, “Let’s move the conversation. As it happens, if you have some Galactic Green Whisper, all is forgiven.”

Melfie smiles broadly and says, “Ahh, a fellow connoisseur, just give me a moment.” He reaches underneath his desk and fiddles with something unseen for a few moments before returning with a small clear container filled with a dried green plant. “Want to do the honors?”

Zach agrees, “Sure.”

Melfie opens the container and hands it to Zach, who smells it and smiles. He then extracts a two-finger pinch and expertly rolls a spliff. He lights it, takes a deep drag before holding it out to Max.

Melfie instructs, “If you’re going to smoke with a Chloridian, it is two drags then pass.”

Zach takes the spliff back and takes a second slow drag, pausing with a look of pleasure as he slowly exhales before passing it to Max.

Max takes a drag, and the world around him starts to spin. He feels himself melting slowly into the floor. The next thing he knows, he is gasping for breath and coughing, completely disoriented. His hair is wet, and he feels cold water being poured over his head. He hears faraway laughter.

Slowly the cold water running down his hair brings him back to his senses, and he finds himself on his hands and knees next to a bathtub, where Zach is holding one of his shoulders while spraying water from a short hose on him.

Zach apologizes, “Uhh, sorry, guess I should have warned you, Galactic Green Whisper is a little strong.”

Max realizes that he passed out from the spliff and is now dripping wet with their attempt to bring him back to consciousness by plunging his head into cold water. As he rises to his knees, he sees a very amused Melfie standing just outside the bathroom door; he is so huge Max imagines his body would not fit through the door.

 “Welcome to Chloridian space, my friend. The first one is always the roughest,” say Melfie, and he chuckles again.

Max collects himself and stands, still feeling very light-headed. Zach gently assists him out of the bathroom and down a short corridor, he doesn’t remember passing, before they arrive back in the office. Zach moves aside a jumble of electronic parts, making space on a small couch near the corner, and helps Max to lay down.

Zach suggests, “How about you stay put there while Melf and I finish talking.”

Max, uncertain if he could move even if he wanted to, agrees, “Uhh yeah, sure thing,” then closes his eyes and floats away.

There is a discussion between Zach and Melfie, which Max only catches fragments of.

“Cynoptian tech,” “Mirrormont the smuggler and Rex,” “Relic... tied to prophecy.”

Max feels himself being shaken and opens his eyes, surprised to find himself still in the office on the couch. He wipes a line of drool from his face and tries to look dignified. He momentarily sees himself from the outside, wearing a string bikini made of leaves, passed out on a couch covered in electronics. He thinks to himself, “What the hell am I doing?”

Zach announces, “Come on, Max, it is time for us to be going.”

Max is able to stand with some help from Zach, and they say brief goodbyes to Melfie, who is already deeply concentrated on the displays at his desk. They return down the hallway, through the irised door, and back into the nightclub.

Zach waves to a staff member, who guides them to a private cubicle tucked away from the intensity of the nightclub. As they step inside, Max feels an immediate sense of relief and awe. The space is a perfect blend of privacy and connection, like being in a hidden garden where the outside world’s rhythm still pulses softly around him.

The walls rise up in a lush embrace of intertwining vines and broad leaves, muffling the noise yet letting the bass and beat seep through just enough to keep them tethered to the club’s energy. Max takes in the soft, mossy floor beneath him—it feels like walking on a cloud, and he can’t resist the urge to kick off his shoes. The bioluminescent flowers tucked within the foliage give off a warm, pulsing glow that syncs with the music, casting a gentle light around them without overwhelming his senses. It feels alive, breathing with the rhythm, part of the club but also its own little world.

The furniture almost blends with the walls—a curved seat hugs the edges, cushioned with thick, velvety leaves. Max sinks into it, feeling the comfort and surprising softness of the plant fibers beneath him. Scattered pillows offer extra comfort, making him feel like he could stay here for hours. In the center, a low table, its surface a cross-section of a giant stem, stands ready for drinks and belongings.

As he takes a deep breath, the air surprises him—fresh and invigorating, laced with the subtle fragrance of night-blooming flowers and the earthy scent of the living greenery. It’s calming, but the faint bass vibrating through the walls adds an edge of excitement, a reminder that the club’s energy is just beyond. Max settles in, realizing he’s in a space that’s both a retreat and a part of the lively world outside, a balance he never knew could exist.

Zach orders a green steamy beverage, which is delivered by a naked man wearing only a headband of leaves.

Zach encourages, “Drink this; it will help.”

Max looks at him a bit skeptically but takes a tentative sip of the drink.

The drink sends a warm sensation down his throat which seems to expand to every limb in his body. He immediately feels more awake and alert.

Max exclaims, “Wow, what is that?”

Zach explains, “It is a stimulant and neutralizer. It will remove the effects of the stuff we smoked earlier. Which is, I may say, quite a shame and waste of good plant.”

Max drinks the rest, immediately feeling better.

Max inquires, “Did we get what we came for?”

Zach replies, “We have a lead on Rocky at least. She is known here and so it jibes with our intel on her destination. If she is trying to move the relic, then we know at least who the intermediary would be. It’s better than nothing.”

Max asks, “What did we give in return?”

Zach admits, “I let them scan your Cynoptian tech. Sorry, I would have asked you, but you were a little out of it at the moment.”

Max queries, “Cynoptian tech?”

Zach’s responds, “Yeah, when we did the medical scan on you back at my place, we noted that you are loaded with some tech we have never seen. In fact, we are pretty sure no one has ever seen it. Our best guess is that you picked it up in Anubidia, what you called the ‘death planet’.

You might also want to know that whatever happened there, it modified you. I would like to tell you more, but frankly, my best specialists are pretty much stumped. The tech inside of you might as well be magic. You know the saying, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ Well, that is you at the moment. Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

Max replies, “I will be seventeen in December.”

Zach responds, “Well, not according to your cells. According to your cells, you were born yesterday. Also, the stuff you are using to access our planetary systems and my data pod is, for all intents and purposes, invisible. It would take the most advanced system in the galaxy years to break the encryption on my personal device. You accessed it effortlessly back in the holding facility.

It may have been a mistake taking you here. The tech in you is pretty much priceless, and there are a lot of people who would like to have access to it, many of whom are very unpleasant. However, as interesting as all that is, the thing that Rocky stole makes your tech look like second-hand cheese. It is very important that you, well we, get it back.”

Max sits trying to digest what he is being told. He thinks that at some point, he will just accept the compounding absurdities, but for now, each one feels like getting off a crazy amusement park ride.

Max asks, “Zach, why are you helping me?”

Zach sits quietly, thinking, “How much can I tell him?”

Zach then asks, “What’s your view on free will, Max?”

Max replies, “Free wheel? I once got given four in a radio show contest; the first time it snowed, they ran me off the road like nobody’s business.”

Zach looks puzzled, then laughs, “That’s pretty good, will not wheel.”

Max then asks, “Do you know the Heisenberg uncertainty principle?”

Zach responds, “Yeah, but for the sake of argument, let’s pretend I am an idiot.”

Max explains, “The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle is a fundamental concept in quantum mechanics that says you can’t precisely know both the position and the momentum (speed and direction) of a particle at the same time. The more accurately you know one, the less accurately you can know the other. It’s like trying to simultaneously guess the speed and location of a fast-moving car at night based only on a quick flash of its headlights.”

Zach says, “I think I follow you, except, what is a car?”

Max explains, “A car was what we used to travel on earth. It was a metal box with rubber wheels that drove around on the ground and burned gasoline.”

Zach asks, “What’s gasoline?”

Max replies, “Not important. In answer to your question, I always liked the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. It’s this wild idea that says you can’t know both the position and the speed of a particle at the same time with perfect accuracy. The more you try to pinpoint where it is, the less you know about how fast it’s moving, and vice versa.

I like to apply the principle to free will. Like, if even at the fundamental level of the universe, things can’t be pinned down precisely, then you can never actually know the original condition of anything; so you can never accurately predict the future. Maybe that leaves room for free will. It’s like, if the universe isn’t strictly determined, if there’s this inherent uncertainty, then perhaps our choices and actions aren’t just the result of a predetermined script.

I like to think that the future isn’t set in stone, and our decisions could genuinely affect how things turn out. It’s a bit like having the freedom to choose your path in a world that’s not entirely predictable. Anyway, that is my thoughts on free will.”

Zach laughs, “So you have given it some thought.”

Max says, “I like the idea, like the uncertainty of the universe is the little monkey wrench thrown into creation to keep it all from being a Newtonian machine of cause and effect.”

Zach shares, “I have some news you’re probably not going to like.”

Max listens intently.

Zach continues, “We kind of figured out the uncertainty. Well, to be fair, we sort of killed it off a few thousand years ago. I am not the guy to explain this precisely. You can get much better explanations, but I will give it a shot.

There is an event that is going to happen about a thousand years from where we think you came from. It has a bunch of names but mostly we call it ‘The Great Divergence’. For some reason, the universe just sort of...shit itself one day and a bunch of different realities all bled into one another. Suddenly, there were places where time went crazy. Whole areas of space where time just seemed to end.

A lot of really bad things started to happen randomly. So the races who existed at that time used some of the leftover Cynoptian tech to create an area where there was no uncertainty. This modification is what allowed us to create faster than light travel and a few other core technologies that enabled a galactic civilization.

The bottom line is that there is no uncertainty, which is not to say that the level of complexity is such that you could really predict the future with any accuracy.”

Max asks, “What happened to the uncertainty?”

Zach explains, “Well, don’t take this too literally, but we all sort of collectively agreed to ignore it. Now, what I am telling you is not exactly common knowledge. In fact, counting you, about ten living people know this at any one time.”

Max exclaims, “Holy shit, I am living in a Douglas Adams novel.”

Zach responds, “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

Max explains, “A guy who lived before me had a series of radio shows that go made into a series of books called the ‘Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’. He had two very humorous ideas that you seem to have confirmed are reality.

The first is ‘SEP field,’ which stands for ‘Somebody Else’s Problem.’ According to Adams, an SEP field is a way of making something invisible by exploiting a peculiar disposition of human perception. Essentially, if an object or phenomenon is perceived as somebody else’s problem, people will choose to ignore it to such an extent that it becomes effectively invisible to them.

The second seems to be the Great Divergence. Douglas wrote, ‘There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.’”

Zach remarks, “Someone wrote that in your time?”

Max replies, “Yeah, he was my favorite author.”

Zach comments, “Weirdly prescient.”

Max says, “Yeah, I guess so. You don’t know any Vogons, do you?”

Zach answers, “Sorry, don’t follow.”

Max concludes, “Never mind. Just checking.”

Zach explains, “The reason I asked you about free will is the role that I have. You have heard me called ‘The Zenhaari’?”

Max recalls, “Yeah, some of the people at the party gave me a little overview of it. You’re like a modern-day Dalai Lama.”

Zach clarifies, “Again, no idea who that is. Anyway, what the people at the party probably do not know is that being the Zenhaari comes with some revelations, like the one I just told you. I personally have never been a believer in fate or destiny. I always figured the universe, with or without uncertainty, was simply too freaking complicated for anyone to make heads or tails. Especially when it comes to the future. Having said that, some recent events have made me call that belief into question.

So if you will indulge me a bit further. The reason I am helping you has to do with my being ‘The Zenhaari.’ You just might be the first thing that has given me any reason to believe that I have this role as anything more than a cosmic joke.”

Max realizes, “You’re saying I am some how related to your religious role.”

Zach confirms, “I am saying that having a time traveler with an ancient god-like relic show up in my life, that strikes me as a little bit odd. Let’s leave it at that.”

They both think simultaneously, “There is definitely more they are not telling me.”

Max inquires, “Okay then, where do we go from here?”

Zach proposes, “We go back to the hotel for now. I am trying to set up an introduction to the guy that Rocky is likely to contact. They are, to put it mildly, a little hard to get an appointment with.”

Max agrees, “Sounds cool to me. Let’s go.”

They walk back to the hotel without event.

Zach suggests, “You want to give the spa a try?”

Max, who has never been to a spa, is a little taken aback.

“Ahh, never been to one, what is it?”

Zach enthuses, “Pretty much the single best reason to go on living. Come on, I will show you.”

Zach leads Max through the opulent lobby of their high-end Chloridian hotel, toward the spa. Max, still adjusting to the wonders of this advanced society, feels a mix of anticipation and trepidation.

The spa’s entrance is framed by flowering vines that sway gently, welcoming them into a sanctuary of tranquility and rejuvenation.

As they enter, an attendant with skin that shimmers in shades of jade and emerald approaches them, her smile as warm as the ambient, soft light filtering through the leafy canopy overhead.

“Welcome to our spa, my name is Petal,” her voice a soothing melody. “We offer treatments designed to cater to a wide array of wellness. May I introduce you to some of our most sought-after experiences?”

Zach responds, “Sure, give us the rundown.”

Petal details, “Our most popular is a Chromotherapy Regeneration Bath. This immersive experience utilizes the pigments of rare Chloridian flora to recalibrate your body’s energy. Each color promotes different healing properties, from revitalizing tired muscles to enhancing mental clarity.”

Max blinks, imagining soaking in a rainbow of colors, each with its own promise of renewal. It sounded magical, albeit slightly unbelievable.

Petal adds, “We also offer Harmonic Root Acupuncture. By tapping into the vibrational energy of Chloridian roots, this treatment aligns your body’s frequencies with that of our planet. It’s deeply relaxing and has been known to induce states of profound meditation.”

The idea of roots vibrating him into relaxation was odd; Max pictured himself as a human tuning fork, unsure whether to be skeptical or eager.

Petal concludes, “And finally, Nectar Inhalation Therapy. Breathe in the essence of the most potent flowers, collected at their peak. This therapy enhances emotional well-being, clears the mind, and invigorates the body.”

The simplicity of the idea appealed to Max. Breathing in flower scents for health? That, he could get behind.

As the attendant detailed each treatment, Max felt like he was being offered a glimpse into a world where the boundaries of science and nature blurred into something utterly beyond his rural Earth upbringing. Each description left him more bewildered, curious, and, strangely, excited to try.

Zach, noticing Max’s hesitancy, leans in, “What do you say? Ready to dive into the deep end of Chloridian spa technology?”

Max hesitated for just a moment before nodding in agreement to the Chromotherapy Regeneration Bath.

The attendant beamed, her eyes twinkling. “A wonderful choice. Right this way, gentlemen.”

The concept was as alien to him as the planet he was on, but the promise of experiencing something wholly outside his frame of reference was too enticing to pass up. With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, Max follows the attendant, whose emerald skin seemed to glow even brighter as she led them deeper into the spa.

They enter a room that feels like stepping into a living organism. The walls are lined with a lush tapestry of moss and flowering vines, and in the center of the room is a large, clear pool filled with gently steaming water shimmering with a spectrum of colors. Max watches, fascinated, as the water transition smoothly from one hue to another, casting a kaleidoscopic glow on the walls.

“The Chromotherapy Bath is ready for you,” the attendant said, gesturing toward the pool.

“Each color you see is infused with the essence of Chloridian flora, optimized for different healing properties. Please, step in and let the water envelop you.”

Max, feeling slightly self-conscious but buoyed by curiosity, disrobes and stepped into the pool. The water is a perfect temperature, warm and inviting, and as he submerges himself, he feels an immediate sense of calm. The attendant leaves, and he is alone, surrounded by the gentle hum of the spa and the ethereal light of the water.

As the water cycled through its colors, Max feels the subtle shifts in his body and mind with each change. When bathed in blue, he feels a wave of tranquility wash over him, soothing any lingering anxiety. The green brings a sense of rejuvenation, invigorating his muscles and making him feel as if he could run for miles without tiring. Red seems to warm him from the inside, igniting a gentle fire in his belly that makes him feel alive and powerful.

Time seemed to blur as Max soaks in the pool, the colors and their associated sensations blending into a symphony of well-being that resonated through his very being. When the attendant finally returns to signal the end of the treatment, Max feels a pang of regret that it is over.

“Your treatment is complete,” she says with a smile. “How do you feel?”

Max emerged from the pool, feeling as if he’d shed layers of stress and fatigue he hadn’t even known he was carrying.

“I feel... incredible,” he replied, still marveling at the depth of the relaxation and rejuvenation he’s experienced.

As he follows the attendant back to the changing area, Max can’t help but feel grateful for Zach’s insistence on coming to the spa.

Petal informs, “Your friend finished a few minutes ago and suggested meeting you back in your suite. Please follow me; I will walk you to the elevator.”

Max follows Petal out of the spa and caught himself noticing how attractive her skin color made the curves of her body.

Petal directs, “Here you go, just hop in; the transport will automatically take you to your room.”

Max assumes he is entering an elevator, but once the doors opened, he sees only an empty shaft with a soft whistling sound. Looking down, he sees the shaft falling away into the darkness.

Petal notices his hesitation.

She inquires, “Ahh, you have never used a Chloridian transport, I take it?”

Max admits, “Uhh, yeah, no, I have not.”

“Would you like some assistance?”

“Yes, please.”

Petal reached out and gently takes his hand in hers. Max feels how soft her hand is and how nice it feels.

“Just follow me.” She walks with him and simply steps over the edge of the shaft.

Max’s stomach starts to fall as he steps over the precipice, and he feels himself holding onto Petal’s hand for dear life. He does not fall. He feels a gentle upward motion, and the two of them simply float upward on unseen support. Max, embarrassed, released his death grip on Petal’s hand. Petal only smiles and continues to hold his hand. They floated generally up and occasionally sideways for a few minutes before they exit the shaft.

Petal indicates, “Your suite is there on the left. It has been a pleasure assisting you. Please come back and see us soon.”

She steps back into the shaft and gently sinks out of view.

Max walks the last few steps to the suite and notices that the door is slightly ajar. Through the door, he can see a small section of the interior suite. It looks like it had been hit by a hurricane.

He hears sounds of struggle in the room. He drops to one knee and gently pushes the door back, revealing the rest of the room. There are two people that looked like soldiers in body armor emblazoned with engravings, methodically searching without regard for damage to the property. Max hears a now-familiar indication of an internal communication and he engaged his heads-up display. There is a single urgent communication from Zach.

RUN!

Max backs away from the door and quickly moves back toward the hallway from which he came. He dives into the shaft, and nothing happens: he finds himself standing in the air, unmoving. He can hear the noises of the soldiers starting to move closer to the door.

“Why am I not moving?” he wonders in frustration.

He realizes that he has not given any direction to the transport and quietly whispers, “Lobby.” He begins to sink downward. Just as his head passes the threshold of the floor, he sees the leg of a soldier emerging from the door of his suite.

The soldiers’ movements become a blur. One instant they are exiting a doorway twenty meters away, and less than a second later, an iron grip is holding Max suspended in the transport tube.

“Target acquired. Evac requested,” emanates from the soldier as a mechanical sound

The armored soldier lifts Max from the transport tube and places him against the wall, seemingly without effort. He feels his hands being bound and a covering placed over his head.

“Understood, bracing target for extraction,” the soldier confirms.

There is a loud explosive sound painfully close to Max just before all sound and light disappear. He feels himself being lifted upwards at high velocity before being placed in some kind of chair. The motion switches to horizontal as he sits in the darkness.

Max has lost all sense of time. His hands ache, still laced behind him, pressed uncomfortably under his own weight. When the craft finally stops, a sudden shift jerks him back to awareness. Strong arms lift him to his feet, more carrying than guiding him as they move through some unseen space. His hands are released, and he’s set down again, a hard seat beneath him. The cover over his head is yanked away, and he blinks, his vision adjusting slowly to the stark light around him.

As his eyes clear, Max takes in the room. It’s disturbingly pristine—a sleek, modern space where the walls seem to absorb light, creating an endless, unnerving depth. The ceiling’s ambient lights cast a cold, sterile glow over everything, leaving him with a sense of hollow quiet. Not even sound belongs here, he thinks, a shiver running down his spine. In the center of the room is a metallic table surrounded by simple chairs, one of which he’s already seated in. The seat molds to his back in an oddly comforting way, but the emptiness of the table only adds to the tension, like he’s waiting for something that hasn’t yet revealed itself.

Then he notices the guard, and a chill runs through him. The figure standing nearby isn’t menacing in a traditional sense; it’s the alienness that grips him, something about its otherworldly calm that makes his blood run cold. The guard’s armor is seamless, a pure exoskeleton that enhances every line of his imposing frame. Its reflective surface shifts in color, rippling like liquid metal under the sterile lights. Max sees no symbols, no markings—just the stark, unadorned efficiency of advanced technology. The sight leaves him speechless, facing a being whose very presence seems to defy anything he knows.

Max tries to wrap his head around the situation. He’s been captured, but by whom? His mind races with questions: Where am I? What do they want with me?

The guard stands by the door, a silent sentinel watching over the room. His presence is intimidating, not because of any overt display of aggression, but because of the sheer unknowability of his intentions. Max makes several attempts to communicate with the soldier to no avail. He also realizes that while he has a full range of motion in his hands, it is impossible to get up from the chair, though he sees no obvious restraint.

At one point, the soldier places a glass of a light brown liquid on the table within reach.

Some hours pass before Max’s thirst leads him to take a tentative sip. The beverage is without flavor, but his thirst and hunger abide after a few drinks. He notices that despite the passage of time, he has not had the urge to use the bathroom.

After an indeterminate period of time, the door opens and another figure, also in body armor, enters. The guard immediately defers to the new occupant, bowing his head and exiting the doorway, leaving only Max and the man in the room.

The man is in armor that is a deep blood red with a radiant sun emblazoned on the breastplate in gold. The helmet is adorned with brightly colored feathers and moves independently of the main armor. The armor seems to shimmer and translucence, revealing a fit man in his late fifties. He crosses the room, his posture and walk make Max think of a military officer.

“May I sit down?” the man inquires, though it sounds more rhetorical than a request.

“Make yourself at home,” Max replies, hearing the sarcasm in his voice but feeling that submission is not going to work with this man.

The man looks at Max for a few moments with a burning intensity that makes him think of religious zealots. He then takes a seat across from Max.

“My name is Xochitl Ohtli, pronounced ‘Zook’. You may call me Xoc. What, pray tell, may I call you?” the man introduces himself.

“A cab would be nice,” Max quips, maintaining his use of humor.

There is a pause.

“Ahh, yes, I see you intend to use humor. Please consider for a moment your situation, who we are, and for what we are known,” Xoc responds.

“You will have to excuse me, but I have no idea who or what you are, or what I am doing here, so maybe before I CONSIDER anything you tell me who the fuck you are and why I am here!” Max demands, his patience wearing thin.

With some astonishment in his voice, Xoc replies, “You truly do not know who we are?”

“Sorry, man, I am new to the place in a way that you would find hard to believe. So, if it is not too much to ask, maybe you could fill me in,” Max says, his tone slightly pleading.

“This is hardly what I expected. Perhaps I have been without manners. I am a member of the Huitzicalan military. You are currently a guest in one of our compounds,” Xoc explains, revealing his affiliation.

Max remembers his discussion with the people at the party at Zach’s mansion about the Huitzicalan wars. They killed just south of two hundred fifty billion people and almost ended Galactic civilization.

“Oh, you’re the guys that nearly ended Galactic civilization and killed two hundred and fifty billion people?” Max says, his voice laden with a mix of disbelief and accusation.

“I think I will kill him slowly when I have the information I need,” Xoc thinks to himself, not revealing his thoughts.

“We are the Huitzicalan, yes, in answer to your question, history is often written by idiots,”

“So, kidnapping your guests is definitely putting a positive spin on my understanding. I thought they mined your sun to keep you guys in order?” Max retorts, challenging the narrative presented to him.

The blow, when it comes, is so fast that Max does not even see it. One moment he is looking at Xoc, and the next his vision is blurred, and there is an explosive mass of pain on the right side of his head.

“I think you misunderstand the nature of our relationship, so let me make it clear to you. You have information that I seek. Should you further impede my receipt of that information, I will peel your skin off slowly using an arc electrification glove where you will experience a level of pain beyond your belief, but fear not, I will make sure you are unable to pass out or die even as you beg for it. Nod if you understand me,” Xoc threatens, his voice cold and menacing.

Max nods while holding his ear, which rings ferociously.

“Now, who are you, and what is your relationship to Nils Verin?” Xoc demands to know.

“My name is Max Valkith, and other than a reference to Nils that I heard at the same party that mentioned you guys, I have no relationship to and have never met anyone named Nils. Why do you ask?” Max answers, his voice strained.

There is another blinding mass of pain on the other side of his head. It takes a few minutes until his head clears, and he can see through the tears streaming down his face.

“You will answer when asked. The only questions will be from me to you. Do you understand?” Xoc clarifies the rules of their interaction.

“Yes, I understand,” Max replies, subdued.

“What is your relationship to Nils Verin?” Xoc repeats the question.

“I have never met him and do not know him,” Max reiterates, hoping to convey his truthfulness.

His vitals tell me he is not lying. How can that be? “How is it that you do not know who the Huitzicalan are other than a story from a party?” Xoc muses aloud, puzzled by Max’s ignorance.

“Look, I am from Earth, as near as I can piece together I am not supposed to be here. I got transported from home, and I really have no idea why,” Max explains, his frustration evident.

Suddenly there is a loud booming sound that shakes the room; the lighting flickers on and off, giving moments of complete darkness. Xoc’s armor fills in completely, and a wicked-looking serrated weapon appears on his arm. His legs become ringed with razor-sharp blades that look like they are made out of smoked glass.

Max is certain he could kill him instantly and without effort. He moves almost faster than Max’s eye can follow out the door. As he does, Max realizes that he is no longer tethered to the chair and stands up. He hears sounds of numerous small explosions nearby; each one sending a shockwave through walls.

Max moves to the door, which has frozen open about ten centimeters. He braces his shoulder against the door and pushes with all his strength, but the door remains in place. He sits down and is able to wedge his feet in the door and push with all his strength. The door moves a few centimeters and then a few more until he can wiggle through.

Max slips into a dim metallic corridor, the faint sounds of fighting echoing from his right. Instinctively, he turns left and takes off, sprinting down the hallway. He barely makes it ten meters before an explosion roars through the space, knocking him to the ground. He hits the floor hard as the lights go out, plunging everything into a disorienting darkness.

His hand finds the wall, and he uses it to guide himself, half-crawling, half-stumbling forward. The silence that follows the blast is almost oppressive, broken only by his own shallow breaths. His pulse quickens when he sees a faint light ahead, leading him to a right turn. Moving faster now, he rounds the corner and spots another door, just open enough for him to squeeze through.

Emerging from the dark corridor, he steps into a room that contrasts sharply with the dim passage behind him. Half-lit, bathed in a soft artificial glow, the room’s metallic surfaces glint in the subdued light. Shadows stretch and shift across the floor, and the space feels unsettlingly sterile, with a faint, unfamiliar scent—clean but somehow alien, like nothing he’s known before.

Max’s gaze sweeps over the room, taking in panels and screens along the walls. The symbols flashing on them are indecipherable, like alien hieroglyphs. Strange, sleek instruments are neatly arranged, each one unfamiliar and slightly menacing in its mystery. In the room’s center stands a table equipped with restraints, and above it, mechanical arms hang in waiting, each armed with tools he can’t begin to identify.

The far end of the room holds a large, opaque panel that flickers with light now and then. A window, maybe? he wonders, or something else he can’t comprehend. The half-light leaves parts of the room shrouded in shadow, adding to the unsettling sense that hidden corners and unknown technology are watching him, waiting.

He steps further inside, and a mix of awe and dread grips him. This place—it’s a medical facility, but not one he wants to imagine spending any time in. The advanced tech, the cold efficiency—it all speaks to a civilization that feels beyond his reach. The emptiness, the silence—no doctors, no beings, just him—heightens the eerie atmosphere.

At the far side of the room, another door waits, with a control panel beside it. Max approaches, edging carefully around the alien devices. The panel seems almost familiar, yet he doesn’t know why. As he looks at it, each step of how to use it becomes clear, almost like it wants him to understand. When a security screen flashes up, the device seems to guide him, providing options or hints until he unlocks it.

The door opens to reveal an airlock. Max slips inside, heart pounding, every second feeling like a countdown. He’s out—for now—but it’s a gamble, a thin line between freedom and being dragged back. The airlock’s stark walls are lined with body armor, similar to what he has seen Xoc wearing, a brutal reminder of his vulnerability.

His eyes are drawn almost against his will to the large view panel that dominates one wall of the airlock. It reveals a breathtaking and vertiginous drop of several hundred meters off a sheer cliff—a view both exhilarating and terrifying. The vast open air beyond the cliff’s edge is a reminder of his precarious situation. The airlock is clearly designed for exits via personal or small craft, a fact that hammers home the realization that escape on foot is not an option. He needs to be airborne, and quickly, if he has any hope of evading capture.

Max’s mind races as he approaches the panel, the sheer drop below igniting a spark of desperate inspiration. Flight is his only way out, yet the very thought of launching himself into the open skies, pursued by unknown threats, is daunting. The lined body armor suddenly seemed less like a military decoration and more like a lifeline, a means of survival against the odds stacked so heavily against him.

He understands now that the airlock is not just a boundary between the safety of the interior and the dangers of the outside world; it is the threshold between captivity and freedom, life and death. The realization that donning the armor and commandeering a craft is his only chance of escape gives him a grim resolve.

Max’s thoughts are a whirlwind of strategy and fear as he considers his next move. The knowledge that his pursuers can discover his location at any moment lends an urgent clarity to his actions. He needs to act swiftly and decisively, with the understanding that hesitation could lead to his recapture.

As he turns away from the breathtaking view, Max feels the weight of his situation settle around him. The airlock, with its armaments and promise of escape, represented his best chance at survival. The prospect of navigating the open skies, evading those who sought to reclaim him, is a daunting one. Yet, the alternative—a return to captivity and the potential for torture—fuels his determination.

In a desperate bid for freedom, Max scans the airlock for any advantage. His gaze settles on a dais positioned centrally, its purpose unclear until he notices the control panel adjacent to it. Understanding dawns on him - this might be the key to utilizing the body armor lining the walls. With no time to spare, he steps onto the dais, his mind racing with potential commands.

“Hack system,” Max whispers. Moments pass and he begins to see small wisps of the same smoke he encountered in the Necropolaran warehouse. Max concentrates on the control panel, his voice barely above a breath, fearing detection.

To his amazement, the panel flickers, and in response, the body armor begins to stir. Pieces detach from the wall, hovering in the air through some magical levitation, and methodically align with his body. With each piece that locks into place, a sense of empowerment washes over him, mixed with a growing urgency.

Once fully armored, a heads-up display springs to life before his eyes, a cascade of information and controls that momentarily overwhelm him. He frantically searches for a way to open the airlock, his fingers hovering in the air, gesturing to navigate the interface. Finally, the command appears, and with a spoken word, the door begins to open, revealing the dizzying drop beyond.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps Max back to his dire situation. Without hesitation, he launches himself through the open door, propelled more by fear than any coherent plan. As Gravity grabs him he begins to plummets towards the ground, the reality of his predicament hits him. The flight system - he has not figured out how to activate it. Panic surges as the earth rushes up to meet him. His thoughts race, a tumult of regret, fear, and desperate hope. “I’m not going to make it,” he realizes, a resignation settling in amidst the terror. “This is how I die.” He plummets into the foliage in an explosion of wood and earth.

“Am I dead?” Max wonders.

He stands up in a crater of glowing hot materials and realizes that he is unhurt.

“Freaking great armor, great armor, great great great armor,” he jumps up and down, yelling inside the helmet.

In that moment, a small flying craft pulls up over the horizon and begins moving toward him at high speed. Max thinks for a minute to run but realizes there seems to be nowhere to run. His next thought is weapons. He frantically tries to run through the unfamiliar console, just as he finds the weapons controls, the craft passes by him.

He feels himself jerked upward and sideways at high velocity after the craft, realizing it has captured him in a net, and he is being towed away at high speed. There is a moment of disorientation as the net constricts, wrapping him tightly. He struggles against the net, feeling the powerful armor as it begins to rip through the material.

Unfortunately, with each rip he makes, the material seems to flow back into place like it is half liquid, half steel. He continues this fruitlessly for several minutes before going back to review the weapons control systems. That weird unconscious thing happens again, and he instantly understands how to use the weapons. He chooses physical, and his armor extrudes the external blades he saw on Xoc as he left the interrogation chamber. With the blades active, he easily cuts through the netting, which leaves him hanging in space without any means of propulsion.

“Ah, fuck not again?” Again, he plummets toward the earth, this time with added side momentum.

When he hits, it is less of an explosion and more of a series of hard bumps as he bounces sideways and through a the wall of a building. A mass of items explodes around him, and the suit momentarily goes blank, leaving him in darkness and silence. He feels the suit adapt and start a reboot routine. In a few moments, he realizes that he is facing face down. He feels power return to his hands and feet, and he slowly turns over.

Above him, he sees a number of green puzzled faces. The heads-up display is a mass of error warnings. He searches for and locates the deactivation sequence and initiates the routine to exit the armor. In seconds, the armor simply falls from his body with the weight of tin foil. He stands surrounded by a number of scantily clad Chloridians and realizes that he has flown through the wall of a merchants shop.

“Uh, very sorry, really very sorry, uh, I gotta go,” he tries to apologize while stepping over strewn electronic items and the destroyed remnants of a display case. He makes it to the remains of a glass door and exits out the front. He is once again surrounded by more familiar trees and footpaths. He looks around and sees the craft that he had been netted by, parked a few meters away. The door to the craft stands open as if the occupant chose to leave quickly. He turns in the opposite direction to run when he hears a voice call out.

“Max, please stop. I am not here to hurt you.”

Max turns toward the voice. He sees a woman, her dress, an elegant cascade of shimmering fabric. Max had never seen clothing quite like it, an aura of ethereal light enveloping her.

Adorning her head is a complex headdress, with runes that glow softly. Her arms are encircled with cuffs of a similar design. Even her shoes were unlike anything Max had encountered, graceful and barely seeming to touch the ground, as if she was part of some otherworldly ballet.

Still catching his breath, he can only stare in a mix of awe and confusion. He has no context for her attire, no understanding of the Slygardian culture that she so clearly represented. To him, she’s a mystery, a being who seemed as if she had stepped out of a dream or a story from a world far removed from his own.

“Who are you?” he asks, the words tumbling out before he can think better of it.

The woman simply smiles, a kind, reassuring expression that somehow puts Max at ease despite his frantic state. Her gaze is penetrating, yet there is a warmth there that belied the potential threat she represented.

In that moment, Max realizes he is out of his depth, a stranger in a strange land, confronted with a culture and a people he knew nothing about. Yet, there was something about her, an allure that transcended the mystery and the fear of the unknown.

“Max, my name is Lyrina. I am a friend, and I would like to give you a better explanation, but right now we have zero time before a regiment of Huit comes over that ridge. I think you understand how bad that would be for you, but believe me, it will be worse for me. Can you please trust me? I promise you I mean you no harm,” she explains, her tone urgent yet soothing.

Max is so full of adrenaline that it takes all his willpower not to run. At the same time, something about her makes him feel like he can trust her.

“Look, Max, my craft is right here. There are two seats, and once inside, I can give you the time you need to think before we are both looking down the barrel of a Huit energy weapon, but we have to go now. We have no time!” Lyrina urges, her voice filled with a compelling urgency.

Max makes the split-second decision and follows her toward the craft. She moves quickly with an athletic grace he finds himself hard-pressed to match.

“Get in,” Lyrina says, indicating a small stepladder on the two-seat craft.

Max climbs the steps and settles himself in the passenger seat. She uses the same steps and jumps adeptly over him and into the driver’s seat, immediately focusing on the controls. The door closes, and the exterior sounds become muffled.

He feels the hum of power as the craft begins to rise. They are only a few meters into the air when the first Huit soldier appears amongst the greenery a few meters away. Max braces for the attack, but nothing happens. The soldier flies right past them as if they are not even there.

“They cannot see us,” Lyrina informs him.

The craft gains altitude and starts moving adeptly between the gigantic branches of the living ship below them. They fly in silence for several minutes as the foliage slides by beneath them.

“Okay, who are you, and where are you taking me?” Max asks, his voice filled with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“My name is Lyrina. I am an officer of the Slygardian Diplomatic Enclave. As to where I am taking you, well, frankly, anywhere you want to go. You’re not my prisoner. I have some questions that I hope you will answer for me, but if you want, you’re welcome to get out here, but I hope you will consider answering some questions for me, and if I can, I would like to help you,” Lyrina responds, her tone sounding sincere and open.

“Can I trust her? Man, can I trust anyone?” Max thinks to himself.

“What the hell just happened back there?” Max inquires, seeking clarity on the chaotic events he just escaped from.

“We just attacked a Huitzicalan facility hoping to get you out,” Lyrina reveals.

“Wait, you were the cause of the explosions?” Max asks, his surprise evident.

“Yes, it was a diversionary tactic which I am pleased to see worked. It was very smart of you to get outside the compound on your own. We were not as successful as we hoped to be on the assault. Not everyone made it out,” Lyrina admits, her tone tinged with a mix of relief and sorrow.

Max is shocked.

“People died back there?” Max asks, his voice reflecting the gravity of the revelation.

“Yes, Max, they did,” Lyrina confirms somberly.

“For me?” Max probes, struggling to understand the magnitude of the situation.

“No, they died because it was their duty, and it is part of something much bigger, but please, I need to focus on the flying for a minute. We are not yet completely out of harm’s way,” Lyrina explains, asking for a moment to concentrate on their safety.

“Do you know what happened to Zach?” Max asks, concerned for his friend.

“Your friend is alive, but I would recommend for the time being that you do not contact him. He is the vector that led the Huit to you. Whether intentionally or not, he is the most likely way they would find you again.”

“Your friend is, to put it mildly, a little too public a figure for someone in your precarious position,” Lyrina advises, highlighting the risks associated with contacting Zach.”

“My precarious position? Can anyone tell me exactly what the fuck that is?” Max exclaims, his anger bringing him almost to tears.

“Concentrate, you need to make sure he does not freak out,” Lyrina thinks to herself, aware of the need to keep Max calm and informed.

“Look, Max, I can see you’ve had a pretty rough time. I would like to tell you it’s going to be all fine, but I’m going to do you the courtesy of not lying to you. You’re involved in something I am not sure you comprehend. To be frank, I am having a pretty tough time with it myself. I promised you I would help you, and I am doing just that. It will be a whole lot easier if you will trust me a little bit longer.”

Gunner pauses for moment trying to put her thoughts in place so as not to scare Max.

“I have a safe place very near here, but I need to take an indirect route. It will be about ninety minutes, and I really do need to concentrate. Will you please stay with me until we get there, and I have some time to explain?” Lyrina pleads, hoping for Max’s cooperation.

Max feels like he has never been more lost in his life than at this moment. As the adrenaline fades, he feels a wave of physical and emotional exhaustion encompass him.

“Fine, do what you need to,” Max agrees, resigned to the situation and trusting Lyrina for the moment.

“He’s just a kid,” she thinks which makes her feel the pain of the loss of her own son making her feeling a protective instinct toward Max.

“Thank you, Max. You do not know me, but I am one of the good guys,” Lyrina assures him, hoping to reinforce his trust in her.

They fly on in silence for some time, with Lyrina deeply focused on the controls and the incoming data stream from her team. The reports are not good. They lost two people and have two more unaccounted for. “It’s almost like Xoc knew they were coming.

It’s always the same. Fucking paranoid Huit are always prepared. It’s their default state,” Lyrina muses internally, frustrated by the challenges they face against such a well-prepared enemy.

Lyrina looks over and sees that Max has fallen asleep against the window of the craft.

“Well, that makes things easier,” she thinks, relieved

The next few minutes pass in silence as she makes her final maneuvers toward her bungalow, nestled within the lush, living landscape. She takes in the sight of the structure, marveling at how the organic, plant-based architecture contrasts with the sleek metallic designs she knew on Slygard. The bungalow seems to rise naturally from the earth, seamlessly merging with the dense, green surroundings—a reminder of just how differently the Chloridians see and use technology.

Next to her, Max sleeps soundly, completely unaware of their arrival. She glances at him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Exhaustion has finally claimed him after everything they’ve been through. A pang of protectiveness stirs in her, an unexpected feeling for someone she’d only intended to assist as part of the mission. Strange, she thinks. Detached focus—that’s what I was trained for. Yet here we are.

As they descend toward a clearing near the bungalow, she’s struck again by the harmony of the Chloridian environment. Giant leaves in the canopy unfurl above, filtering sunlight into shifting patterns on the craft. Enormous, vividly colored flowers bloom around them, releasing a sweet, intoxicating fragrance that fills the cabin. It’s a far cry from Slygard’s urban sprawl, where technology overwhelms every sense.

Guiding the craft down, she lands on a platform woven from living branches. It feels as solid as any landing pad she’s known, but she’s aware that these natural fibers are probably stronger than anything synthetic back home. Such a contradiction, she muses, how something so organic can be this strong. These people have figured out something valuable.

The engine hum fades, leaving only the ambient sounds of alien wildlife—a symphony she can’t quite place but finds strangely soothing. She takes a steadying breath and then turns to Max, gently shaking his shoulder.

“We’re here,” she says softly, not wanting to startle him awake. Max stirs, blinking his eyes open to take in the sight of the Chloridian bungalow through the viewport.

She watches as his expression shifts from confusion to awe, his eyes widen at the sight of the living structure before them. It’s a reminder of how vast and varied the universe is, and how little of it Max has seen. For a moment, she sees the world through his eyes, and it fills her with a sense of wonder she hasn’t felt in a long time.

With Max now awake, she activates the hatch, allowing the sounds and scents of the Chloridian environment to envelop them fully. She steps over Max and out of the craft first, offering a hand to help him down, which he looks at puzzled before hopping to the earth slightly less gracefully than he had hoped.

“The door is open. Please make yourself at home in the living area. I will be right in,” Lyrina instructs, as she begins making small adjustments to the craft, which blurs and then disappears from sight completely against the background of the foliage.

Max, despite her instructions, waits for Lyrina before entering.

As he follows her into the bungalow, his senses are enveloped by the lush interior, a stark contrast to the sleek, metal confines of the craft they had just exited. The bungalow is a living space in every sense of the word, with walls that pulse gently, as if breathing, and floors covered in a soft, moss-like substance that cushions their steps. Light filters through the leafy canopy overhead, casting the entire space in a warm, dappled glow that seems to shift and play across the surfaces.

Max’s eyes widen as he takes in the surroundings, the seamless blend of nature and living space astonishing him. The furniture appears to be grown rather than made, curving organically from the floor and walls to create seating and surfaces that are both functional and a part of the bungalow itself. Vibrant flowers and plants fill the space, their colors vivid against the green backdrop, and the air is rich with the scent of blooming life.

As they move further into the bungalow, Max can’t help but reflect on the surreal turn his life has taken. Just hours ago, he was a captive; now he is standing in a bungalow that feels like something from a dream. His thoughts drift to Lyrina, the Slygardian intelligence officer who has become his unexpected protector.

He chides himself for falling asleep during their journey, a mix of embarrassment and surprise coloring his thoughts. He was supposed to be on guard, wary of the unknown dangers that lurk on this foreign planet. Yet, there was something about Lyrina’s presence that had lulled him into a sense of safety, allowing him to drift off without even realizing it. He glanced at her, wondering what she must think of his moment of vulnerability.

As Lyrina shows him the bungalow, he feels a gratitude towards her that goes beyond words. Here, in this bungalow, he is safe, and for now, that was enough. The adventure would continue, but for the moment, he allowed himself to simply be present, to soak in the beauty of this alien home and the quiet companionship.

“If you don’t mind, please call me Gunner,” Lyrina says, indicating a shift in their relationship.

“Lyrina is an operative name. I think it is fair to say we are well beyond an operative relationship.”

“Were your parents putting some expectations on you?” Max jokes, lightening the mood.

Gunner laughs in a sweetly soothing voice.

“Naw, Gunner is a nickname I picked up in training school a long time ago. It sort of stuck, and that is what my friends call me. I am hoping to count you among them,” she responds, pausing for a moment to hold eye contact.

“Are you hungry?” Gunner asks, sensing that Max might need some care after their ordeal.

Max thinks back to the brownish liquid given to him by the Huit soldier and cannot remember the last thing he ate.

“Yeah, I am starving, actually,” he admits.

“Take a load off, and give me a few minutes. I will scrounge you something up,” Gunner offers, ready to provide some comfort.

“You guys have all this godlike technology, don’t you have some kind of food synthesizer like in Star Trek?” Max asks, curious about the level of technology at their disposal.

“No idea what Star Trek means but yeah, of course, we have automated food preparation,” Gunner responds loudly from the other room where Max can hear the sounds of food preparation.

“Honestly, if you don’t want to eat at all, we have capsules that will meet one hundred percent of your nutritional needs, but where is the fun in that? Food is one of life’s real pleasures. There are a few races that have opted out of it, and I personally feel the morality of a race can be judged by how much they pay attention to food.”

Gunner returns from the kitchen with plates and bowls stacked delicately in her hands. “Okay, here we are,” she announces.

Max notices that she had changed clothes. When did she have time to do that?

He observes her transformation, finding it both intriguing and disarming.

She now wears soft, form-fitting clothes that hug her slender frame, a stark departure from the shimmering, ethereal dresses of her uniform. Her top is a muted shade of blue, paired with dark, comfortable trousers that allow her to move easily. The fabric, while plain to the eye, has a subtle texture that catches the light in a way that seems both natural and otherworldly.

Gone is the headdress and arm cuffs adorned with cryptic runes. Instead, Gunners curly brown hair falls freely around her shoulders, its natural waves lending her a softer, more approachable look. Her only accessories are a pair of small, delicate earrings that glint softly, their design simple yet elegant. Her footwear is equally understated, a pair of soft, flat shoes that seemed to meld with the ground with each step, a far cry from the barely-there shoes of her uniform.

In this relaxed attire, Gunner exudes a warmth and vulnerability. It’s as if shedding the formalities of her uniform allows her true self to surface.

Max finds himself reassessing the woman before him, struck by the realization that beneath the poised and enigmatic exterior is a person with whom he could possibly forge a deeper bond.

“Uh, wow!” Max exclaims, clearly impressed.

“I hope that was meant for the food,” Gunner responds, noticing his reaction.

Max blushes and then does a double take, realizing that he is still in a string bikini and must look ridiculous.

Gunner, noticing his embarrassment, offers, “Max, would you like something to wear? Something tells me this is not your usual clothing. There are some clothes in the bedroom on the left,” she points. “Why don’t you see if anything fits and then come back to eat?”

Grateful for a moment alone, Max follows her directions to the room. Inside, he sees a simple bed and a closet with robes that look like a cross between a kimono and a uniform. He finds a pale blue one that fits him well and pairs it with some soft fitted slippers before returning to the living room where Gunner is seated at the table.

“Ahh, glad you found something that fits you. This house is used by other operatives, so generally, there is a revolving array of clothes around.”

Probably best I don’t tell him that he may well be wearing the clothing of the recently deceased.

“Thanks, it feels more like what I usually wear. Well, unless you count coveralls,” Max responds, more comfortably dressed.

“Slygardian fast food. Hope you like it,” Gunner motions to the plates on the table.

The food looks like electric green noodles with small chunks of what he assumes is meat. After the first bite, he realizes how hungry he is and quickly goes through several servings.

“It’s not a race,” Gunner remarks.

“Sorry, I have two older brothers, and we kind of treat eating like a competitive sport.”

Gunner pours him a red berry-flavored drink, which he downs in one go. She is surprised that she has such satisfaction seeing him so happy with the food.

Max finishes eating and sits back in his chair, feeling safe and satisfied for the first time since he arrived on this world.

“You promised me some explanations. Why did those people kidnap me, and why are you helping me?” Max asks, needing answers.

“How much can I tell him that he will understand? Fair enough, Max. If you do not mind me asking, how old are you?” Gunner responds.

“I will be seventeen in December. Do they even have December here?” Max questions, slightly confused.

“Oh my god,” Gunner reacts with surprise.

Max looks hurt by her exclamation.

“Oh wait, no, please let me explain.” She pauses a moment. “Max, how old do you think I am?”

“Is this a trick question? My mother told me I should never ask a woman her age,” Max cautiously replies.

“I am giving you permission. How old would you estimate I am?” Gunner chuckles.

“Choose low, Max. I would guess thirty or so?” Max guesses tentatively.

“The reason I am asking you this is that I need to put things into a bit of context. I celebrated my 128th birthday last week,” Gunner reveals.

“No freaking way,” disbelief washes over Max’s face.

“My age is not unusual on my world. If my ancient history and some recent research is anywhere near correct, things are very different here than where and when you came from. In fact, there is very little relationship between what a person looks like and what they are. Our technology eliminated a lot of what you would assume to be natural a long time ago,” Gunner explains.

Max nods, trying to reconcile what she is telling him with what he sees in front of him.

“The man who had you kidnapped is called Xochitl Ohtli,”

“Xoc, yeah, he introduced himself prior to sticking me to a chair and punching me,” Max recalls the harsh encounter.

“The fact you have met Xoc and are still alive is in itself pretty amazing. Xoc is a leader inside the Huitzicalan government. While he has no specific title, he has a mandate and incredible resources. He is trying very hard to remove a restriction that was placed on the Huitzicalan race several centuries ago,” Gunner explains

“Is this about mining their sun to stop the Huitzicalan wars?” Max probes for more information.

“Yes, the Huitzicalan are a civilization that reveres martial prowess and the art of war as the highest form of devotion. Their society is built upon the principles of honor, sacrifice, and the continuous pursuit of victory and expansion.

“About five hundred years ago, they decided it was time to conquer other races. It was a brutal campaign that spanned several centuries. It killed over two hundred and fifty billion people. It was something of a miracle that the Huit did not win. They were stopped using a terrible weapon and have been kept in check only by the guaranteed threat of their complete annihilation,” Gunner elaborates on the deep history.

“It’s been five hundred years, have they not changed in all that time?” Max wonders about the possibility of change.

“Maybe, there are factions within the society. The problem is it is not an easy decision to make. In any event, Xoc wants to make that decision for himself and has been actively working to end the restrictions. His methods are horrible. A great deal of my job is in making sure that he is not successful. He is a very smart, very powerful person who will do anything to get what he wants,” Gunner shares her concerns about Xoc’s influence.

“Yeah, he makes that impression,” Max agrees, reflecting on his own interactions with Xoc.

“As to you. Some years ago, I was approached by a man named Nils Verin. Nils is from my home planet Slygard. He was about your age when I met him. He came to me when I was a junior officer asking questions about Xoc. It raised flags, and we started keeping routine tabs on Nils. Not an easy thing to do,” Gunner reveals

“Wait a minute, that was what Xoc was asking me about. Zach said that he was the worst mass murderer in history for destroying a whole star system full of people,”

“That is the popular story. The facts are a bit less clear. What we know for sure is that the Relic that brought you from old Earth originally belonged to Nils,” Gunner clarifies

Max’s mind is racing at this point. She knows about the Bant?

“Max, please relax. I am not here for the relic. I am here to make sure that Xoc never gets near it. I have had you under surveillance since you arrived on Veletia and destroyed one of their robotic sentries,”

“Wait a minute, is Zach involved with you?” Max asks, suddenly concerned about the depth of the conspiracy.

“No, Zach is unaware that we exist,” Gunner assures

“Good,” Max responds, relieved to hear this confirmation.

“The next part may be a little hard for you to understand. The issue is, that you are, in a way, Nils Verin,”

Max hears the words but does not really understand. Gunner tries to make it clear, “Stay with me, this is a little hard to explain. You see, every sentient thing in the Galaxy is a collection of information. It is the unique collection of that information that makes you, well, you. There are no two beings that are identical at that level. Well, that is what science tells us. Unfortunately, you are the same combination of energy as Nils. You are the same quantum signature. In short, as far as anyone can tell, you are the most wanted man in the galaxy.”

“How is that even possible?” Max struggles to grasp the concept.

“It is our opinion that the artifact that you are wearing is making it possible,” Gunner suggests

“But I am not wearing it,” Max corrects her, adding another layer of complexity to their conversation.

Gunner is shocked. “I am sorry, can you please repeat that?”

“I am not wearing the artifact,” Max repeats, his voice steady.

“Would you mind showing me your arms?” Gunner requests, needing to see for herself.

Max pulls back his sleeves, showing only bare skin.

“Look, I kind of lost it. Well, lost is not exactly the right word. It was stolen from me at Zach’s place. That is why I am here looking for it,” Max explains

Gunner, now frantic, demands, “How! Who stole it?”

Max wonders if he can really trust her. Should he trust her?

“Max, if you don’t help me, I cannot help you,” Gunner pleads

“Look, it was taken from me, but I think it might be a mistake, and I really don’t want the person involved to get into any trouble,” Max tries to protect whoever took the artifact, still uncertain of their motives.

“He has no idea!” Gunner thinks to herself, realizing the severity of the situation.

“Max, that thing you are talking about may well be the key to stopping a really terrible series of events. The Huitzicalan, well frankly, a lot of people would do just about anything to get their hands on it,” Gunner tries to impress upon him the significance of the artifact.

“Including you?”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Gunner pauses, realizing she needs to tread carefully. “Max, please let me finish telling you what I know, and you can decide if you want to trust me or not. Either way, you are free to walk out the door,” she offers him an out, hoping it will build some trust.

“Thanks for the ride and the food,” Max says, rising from his seat, preparing to leave.

Ah, now you have done it. If I follow him now, he will never trust me, Gunner realizes, concerned about pushing him too far.

Max gets to the door and pauses, realizing he really has nowhere to go. Maybe I can find Zach, maybe not. The first thing that scans me or security is going to make the whole world think I am a mass murderer. I should never have followed that goddamn computer message. But wait. Who sent me the message? Max thinks, caught in a whirl of confusion and doubt.

He turns around and stares at the table where Gunner sits, his expression filled with questions.

“Who sent me the message that lead me here?” Max demands, needing answers to make sense of everything.

Keep him calm and unthreatened, Gunner reminds herself. “There is only one person who could. Nils.”

“Before or after he ‘died’?” Max asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Max, I would very much like the answer to that question. I just don’t know,” Gunner admits

They face each other for a long time, Max unsure what to say next, and Gunner worried she has said too much or too little.

Finally, Max relents, “Are you really one hundred and twenty-eight years old?”

“Yeah, Max, I am,” Gunner confirms, hoping her honesty will build some trust.

“And you swear to me that you’re trying to help?” Max asks, looking for reassurance.

“I swear it, Max. I have not told you any lies. I work for a government, and I don’t have control of everything I do, but I swear to you I will do nothing to hurt you,” Gunner promises, her voice sincere.

“Can you help me find the person who stole my artifact?” Max asks, needing her assistance.

“Yes,” Gunner responds

“Is there anything I can do to keep from being seen as that mass-murdering fuck, Nils Verin?”

This is better, but be careful, Gunner thinks to herself. “I can make it more difficult for you to be identified, but I need something in return,” she states, preparing to negotiate.

Oh, here it comes, Max thinks, anticipating a difficult request.

“These dishes are not going to do themselves,” Gunner quips, lightening the mood with a joke.

It takes a moment for Max to realize that this is what she is asking. “You’re funny for an old lady,” he responds, slightly amused.

“There are a lot of things you need to learn. Manners not the least among them,” Gunner responds, still chuckling.

“I am sorry,” Max apologizes, his tone sincere.

“Why don’t you tell me who you are looking for, and I will make some inquiries while you put the dishes away, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Max agrees, pausing to consider his next steps. “I am looking for a girl named Rocky. Rocky Mirrormont. Zach seemed to think she is, or will be on this world trying to contact a buyer for my artifact,”

“Okay, I am going to go into my office over there; the door is open, and you can join me when you’re ready. Now, baby boy, get to the dishes,” Gunner directs him

Please don’t leave, I don’t want to have to force you to help us.

Max relaxes and begins clearing the table as Gunner walks to the far side of the house, disappearing from view behind a rounded segment of the wall.

As he takes the plates to be cleaned, he finds himself in an alien kitchen, all organic curves and bioluminescence. His hands hover awkwardly over a sink that isn’t really a sink; it’s filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid that’s apparently meant for cleaning. He glances over his shoulder, half expecting Gunner to materialize with her veiled amusement, ready to guide him through another facet of this bewildering world.

The plates in his hands feel too solid, too mundane against the backdrop of a kitchen where appliances resemble living organisms more than tools. He’s struck by the absurdity of his situation—Max Valkith, farm boy from Idaho, tasked with washing dishes on a planet light-years in distance and thousands of years in time from home, in a house that feels alive. A chuckle escapes him, the sound oddly muffled by the organic walls.

“I suppose you don’t come with a manual, do you?” he mutters to the not-sink, prodding it tentatively.

It pulses gently under his touch, a ripple of color flowing outward from where his finger meets its surface. Encouraged, he dips a plate into the liquid, half expecting it to dissolve. Instead, the grime simply detaches, floating away in a tiny cloud of bioluminescent particles. “Huh,” he remarks, a grin spreading across his face.

“Take that, Whirlpool!”

As he works, his mind drifts to Gunner—or Lyrina, as she was first introduced. The woman is an enigma, wrapped in the allure of mystery. He can’t help but trust her, despite every instinct screaming that trust is a luxury he can no longer afford. She’s saved my life, offered me sanctuary, and yet, the question lingers like the aftertaste of an unfamiliar fruit: Why?

The kitchen hums around him, a symphony of organic processes and soft, ambient light. He finds a rhythm in the cleaning, a mundane task that grounds him, offering a semblance of normalcy in a universe that’s anything but normal. It’s a welcome distraction, a momentary reprieve from the weight of cosmic conspiracies and interstellar manhunts.

Gunner’s in her office, diving into the digital ether in search of Rocky Mirrormont—the woman who turned Max’s life upside down with a theft that still feels like a betrayal. He can feel that Gunner worries about his decision to trust her, about the fragile thread that binds his fate to hers. She’s hunting phantoms on his behalf, trying to untangle a web of secrets that might lead to Xoc and, with any luck, to answers. He places the last clean dish on a rack that’s more a collection of tendrils than a utilitarian kitchen accessory. It’s done. The task is simple, yet in its completion, he finds a measure of peace. He wipes his hands on a cloth that feels suspiciously like moss, its texture bizarre yet oddly comforting.

“Time to face the music,” he whispers to himself, steeling his nerve for the conversation ahead.

The trust he is placing in Gunner feels like a leap of faith, a jump into the unknown with no guarantee of a safe landing. But then again, hasn’t this entire journey been just that—a series of leaps into the void, hoping for a hand to catch him on the other side?

With a deep breath, he steps away from the kitchen’s organic embrace, moving towards the office where Gunner waits. The bungalow, with its living walls and pulsating light, watches him go, a silent sentinel in a world far removed from the farm in Idaho.

Gunner hunches over her computer, the soft glow of the screen casting shadows across her face as she sifts through layers of encrypted data. Her fingers dance across the holograms with practiced ease, a symphony of organization and overlap that have become second nature over the years.

Rocky Mirrormont. The image flickers in the air before her, a beacon in the digital darkness. While there is not much specific about Rocky, she has obvious connections to Rex Vlaan. This is useful, especially if she has entered Chloridian space in the last few days. Gunner tracks her movements from Veletia, piecing together the puzzle of her recent activities, trying to predict her next move. It’s a dance she knows well, one she’s performed countless times in her career. But this time, it feels different. This time, there’s more at stake.

As she works, Gunner’s mind wanders, drifting back to the moment she first learned of Max. She remembers the report, the briefing, the endless streams of data that painted a picture of a young man caught in a storm far beyond his understanding. She remembers the tug at her heart, the unexpected surge of protectiveness. It was irrational, she told herself. She’s a professional, trained to detach, to analyze, to strategize. Emotions have no place in this line of work.

And yet, as Gunner delved deeper into his story, she couldn’t help but see echoes of her own son. Her dear, lost boy, who was not much older than Max when Xoc ripped him from this world. A pain that took decades to learn to live with. The pain of that loss still lingers, a constant ache that no amount of time or distance can soothe. She chastises herself for the comparison, for the dangerous slippage of professional boundaries. Max is not her son. She cannot afford to let personal feelings cloud her judgment.

But the truth is, from the moment Xoc took Max, to the crazy orchestration of his rescue, hell, to be honest, from the first time she laid eyes on him, something shifted. There’s a connection there, undeniable and deep. It’s not just about the mission anymore, not just about using him to get to Xoc—a man she hates with a fervor that burns in the very marrow of her bones. No, it’s more than that. With Max, it’s personal.

Gunner shakes her head, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand. She focuses on the screen, on the intel she’s gathered about Rocky. She’s a puzzle, a chameleon who’s managed to stay one step ahead of the law at every turn. Also a child, but one who has seen more than anyone her age should. Gunner feels she is close now. The pieces are starting to fall into place, and she can feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins at the prospect of finding her, of getting the artifact that will draw Xoc into the open.

Her research on Rex Vlaan yields more questions than answers. He’s a shadow, a ghost in the machine, obviously with enormous influence. She’s convinced that he’s the key to finding Rocky. If she can just connect the dots, if she can just predict their next move…

A notification pops up on Gunner’s screen, snapping her back to the present. It’s an update on a possible match for Rocky. Her pulse quickens as she realizes that this might be the lead they need.

But as she prepares to act on this new information, she can’t shake the feeling of dread that settles in her stomach. As much as Gunner wants to bring Xoc to justice, as much as she wants to protect Max from the dangers that swirl around him, she knows that the path ahead is fraught with peril.

Gunner takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what’s to come. Max, Rocky, Rex Vlaan, Xoc... their fates are intertwined now, a tangled web of cause and effect that stretches far beyond the confines of this room. She’s ready to play her part, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead. Because in the end, this is more than just a mission. It’s a chance to atone for past failures, to protect someone who’s come to mean more to her than she wants to admit and to make Xoc pay for what he did to her son! She’ll be damned if she lets that opportunity slip through her fingers.

As Max enters Gunner’s office, the atmosphere is electric with anticipation. Gunner stands by a window, yet her focus is anchored to several holographic images. He senses her anticipation, which sparks a shiver of excitement through him.

Max interrupts softly, “Gunner, what have you found?”

Gunner turns, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery.

“I have a lead,” she reveals. “We believe Rocky plans to meet a man named Rex Vlaan. But be warned, Rex is a phantom of the underworld, a powerful enigma, largely untouchable. We must intercept Rocky before she can reach him.”

As Gunner outlines her strategy, her resolve is palpable, pulling Max into the momentum of her plan. Yet beneath her determined facade, Max senses Gunner’s protective instinct directed at him, perceiving him as too young for the gravity of their entanglement. Despite this, he’s determined to prove his capability.

Gunner shifts her tone, addressing the elephant in the room.

“Max, it’s clear you harbor feelings for Rocky. However, you need to know she’s a con artist, her whole life is about using people and manipulating them emotionally.”

The truth in Gunner’s words is a bitter pill, challenging Max’s romanticized image of Rocky.

“I understand,” Max acknowledges, the weight of his decision heavy in his heart.

Gunner’s expression softens, relief and determination mingling.

Internally, Gunner wrestles with a whirlwind of emotions. To her, Max isn’t merely an asset; he’s someone she genuinely cares for, intent on protecting him from the harshness of their reality. As Gunner shares the intelligence they’ve gathered, revealing a pattern in Rex Vlaan’s operations that points to Rocky, Max’s resolve hardens. The plan to intercept her looks complex. Gunner, meanwhile, is caught in a storm of professional and personal turmoil. Her investment in Max’s safety is personal, driven by a bond that has unexpectedly deepened since their paths crossed. The thought of any harm coming to him is unbearable, yet she knows the risks they face are essential to thwart the larger threat at hand.

Max asks Gunner, “Why can’t you have your team simply pick her up? Can’t you arrest her?”

Gunner responds, “It is not that simple. If this were Slygard, we would do just that. Frankly, if it were nearly anywhere else. The problem is that Chloridians are a fully autonomous people. If we try to arrest Rocky, we would be the criminals. They only respect their own laws and in their eyes, Rocky has done nothing wrong.”

Max muses, “So this whole plan revolves around me talking her into giving it back to me?”

Gunner affirms, “Despite the risks, the plan is their best chance. We can get her in the room with you, but you have to get her to give you the Artifact. Now having said that, what takes place inside that room is entirely up to you.”

As Max contemplates the complexity of their situation, intertwined with the fates of Slygardian intelligence, some mastermind criminal Rex Vlaan, and the enigmatic Xoc, he feels a slightly manic newfound determination.

Gunner advises, “Max, the best time for us to make a run at Rocky is the middle of the night. That’s about six hours from now. You can use the room where you got the clothes to get some sleep. You’re no good to me in your current condition. If you need help sleeping there is tea in the kitchen, top shelf on the right. Guaranteed to knock you out. I will wake you when we are ready to leave. I have some more work to do here now.”

She turns back to her console, and Max is a little shocked at how focused she becomes. He realizes she is no longer even aware of him. He walks back into the dim light of the alien kitchen. He stands perplexed before the array of organic appliances that more closely resemble living entities than tools for culinary preparation. The task at hand is simple—making tea—yet the alien nature of the devices before him turns the mundane into a puzzle. He finds the tea where Gunner indicated. With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, he tentatively reaches out, coaxing a peculiar, vine-like apparatus to life. It responds with a gentle pulsation, warm steam spiraling into the cool air of the room—a sign he interprets as success.

Max’s thoughts drift, a tumultuous sea stirred by the events of the day. His mind lingers on Rocky, her image a beacon of both confusion and longing in the shadowy corners of his thoughts. Could Gunner’s assertions about Rocky’s deceitful nature be a misunderstanding? The possibility weaves through his consciousness, a thread of hope tangled with doubt. Yet, Gunner’s words echo with a weight that’s hard to dismiss, painting Rocky as an emotional predator, a siren leading him astray in a galaxy fraught with unseen dangers.

The soft gurgle of the water boiling brings Max back to the present. He pours the steaming liquid over the tea leaves, watching as they unfurl in the warmth, releasing their fragrance into the air. The simple act of making tea, so familiar yet so alien in this context, anchors him, a momentary respite from the whirlwind of his thoughts.

Tea in hand, Max retreats to the silence of his borrowed room, the liquid’s warmth a comforting embrace against the chill of uncertainty. He settles onto the bed, the room’s organic contours a strange contrast to the stark simplicity of his family’s farm back on Earth. He looks at the closet full of uniforms, strangers whose lives he briefly tries to imagine. He thinks of his cat Misha, likely curled up in a patch of sunlight back on the farm, oblivious to the chaos of the universe, bringing a wistful smile to his lips. How, he wonders, did a farm boy become entangled in a galaxy-spanning cosmic intrigue? Would he ever be back on the farm and even if he could physically go there, would he?

As sleep begins to claim him, his thoughts circle back to Nils Verin, the enigmatic figure whose actions have catapulted him across time. Why me? What is my relationship to Nils? How can I have the same quantum signature for whatever the hell that means? The question pulses through his drowsy mind, a puzzle piece that refuses to fit. Gunner’s revelations about Rocky, the warnings and whispered dangers, interlace with his memories of Earth, a tapestry of confusion and longing.

In the quiet of the alien room, Max drifts into sleep, the mysteries of the universe, the enigma of Rocky, and the shadow of Nils Verin escorting him into dreams. Amidst the uncertainty, one thought remains—a glimmer of hope that perhaps, in the end, the truth of Rocky’s nature and Nils Verin’s intentions will illuminate the path forward. For now, though, the only certainty is the journey itself, a voyage through the stars that began with a simple message and has led him to places beyond his wildest imaginings.

It feels like seconds have passed when he feels Gunner’s hand gently shaking him.

“Max, it’s time.”

Max stretches and yawns.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“It’s about 2 AM.

“We will be meeting with some of the team in about 30 minutes flight from here. Meet me out front in fifteen minutes, feel free to use anything in the bathroom,” Gunner leaves Max who is still struggling to become fully conscious.

Max steps into the bathroom, hesitating at the threshold. It feels less like a room and more like he’s stepped into the belly of some living creature. The walls pulse gently, like a heartbeat, and fixtures sprout from the ground and walls, twisting and curling like tree limbs. How am I supposed to use this? he thinks, feeling both awe and uncertainty as he eyes what he assumes is the shower.

Steeling himself, he approaches the central structure—a towering column wrapped in vines, dotted with offshoots and no obvious instructions. He pokes one of the protrusions cautiously, only to be hit with a blast of cold mist from an unexpected nozzle. He yelps in surprise, then laughs at himself. Here he is, struggling with alien plumbing, in a scene that almost feels too absurd to be real.

After a few more attempts, he finally coaxes a warm rain from overhead, the gentle spray feeling like a small victory. As he stands under it, his thoughts drift to the mission and what’s waiting for him. Rocky. The confrontation ahead fills him with a mix of excitement and nerves. He wonders what she’ll say, how he’ll react. The image he’s built of her over time feels tangled now, muddied by doubt and hope, making it impossible to feel fully prepared.

Gunner’s voice echoes in his mind, her instructions sharp: “Fifteen minutes, Max. We have to move quickly.” The reminder snaps him back to the present, and he scrubs himself down with newfound urgency, mentally rehearsing what he might say to Rocky. But even as he plans, he can’t ignore the humor in his situation—an Earth kid, far from home, facing a betrayal in an alien galaxy while wrestling with the most confusing shower he’s ever used. Strange as Italian plumbing, he recalls from an old movie, and the thought makes him smile, easing some of the tension and fear.

He turns off the shower with a gesture that looks confident, though it’s pure guesswork. As he steps out, water dripping from his hair, he glances at the mirror and realizes it’s alive, too. The surface ripples gently, adjusting to his presence as if watching him. This place gets weirder by the second.

Max takes a deep breath, trying to brace himself for what’s to come. The mission, the thought of seeing Rocky, the strange and alive room—it all leaves him feeling exhilarated, slightly dazed. After drying off, he picks out an outfit from the closet, opting for a fitted, coverall-like suit in a fabric that feels light but strong. The boots look too small but expand around his feet like they’re made just for him. Feeling unexpectedly ready, he strides toward the door, pausing just before he steps out, taking in one last breath to steady himself for whatever comes next.

“Goodbye, kitchen, goodbye comfy house. Thanks,” he says.

He somehow knows that he he will never see this place again.

Gunner is already in the craft and gestures for him to join her. He climbs the small ladder and slides in next to her, already busy lifting off as the cover closes.

Gunner says, “Let me go over the basics of our plan. We are pretty sure that Rocky is in a residential complex on the outskirts of one of the main urban areas. The compound is residential but also relatively secure. We don’t like the chances of spooking her by trying to break in directly.

“We plan to trigger an alarm on the premises. We believe this will cause the residents to evacuate. We have obtained a couple of uniforms and passes and we will have two of our operatives acting as staff directing the residents. We have access to one of the apartments on the ground floor. We are going to put you there. Our operatives will do their best to usher her into that apartment and lock the door. You should have at least thirty minutes.

“Your objectives are simple: One, get the Artifact back from her. If that is not directly possible, your second objective is to find out where it is. It is essential that you achieve at least one of these. Do you understand?”

Max replies, “Wait in a room for Rocky and once she is locked in with me get her to give me the artifact or tell me where it is.”

Gunner emphasizes, “I need you to listen to me closely on this part. We have more data on Rocky. She is highly trained. You cannot, I repeat cannot make this a physical confrontation.”

Max asks, “So you’re telling me you’re locking me in a room with someone who can kick my ass?”

Gunner instructs, “Open the compartment to your left.”

Max sees a handle near his left hand and turns it. Inside is a squarish device which is obviously some kind of gun.

Max exclaims, “Really?”

Gunner explains, “Max, I don’t want to scare you, but based on her past there is a big probability that you would not be the first Rocky has ended. Now pick up the gun. We need to serialize it to you.”

Max pulls the device from the drawer.

Gunner asks, “Have you used a gun before?”

Max answers, “Yes, but only rifles we hunt with.”

Gunner clarifies, “Same principle. Point the end to the person and pull the trigger. Now place your hand on the stock.”

Max does as she asks.

Gunner reaches over and places her hand on the top of the gun. The gun lets out a tiny electric shock.

“Serialization complete, authorization officer Angelika Slipnot, Lethal force, twelve hours,”

Max asks, “What the hell was that?”

Gunner, grinning, responds, “I have serialized that gun to your DNA. Only you will be able to fire it for the next twelve hours before it becomes inert.”

Max asks, “Who’s Angelika Slipnot?”

Gunner chuckles, “Max, do not make me kill you after we are getting on so well.”

Max laughs out loud. “Whatever you say, Angelika.”

Gunner sighs.

They travel along quietly for a few minutes.

Max inquires, “Hey, Gunner, how do they get plants and stuff to grow into things like houses and showers and kitchen appliances?”

Gunner explains, “Ahh, biological tech.”

Max, still grappling with the sheer scale of the universe and its mysteries, listens, eager and curious.

Max wonders aloud, “So, you’re telling me you can basically program plants to grow... what, gadgets?”

Gunner nods, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Exactly, Max. It all starts with protein folding. Proteins are the workhorses of the cell, and their functions are determined by their shapes. Once we understood how proteins fold, we could design DNA sequences that dictate these folds, essentially programming the proteins to form specific structures.”

Max scratches his head, a gesture of baffled fascination. “So, it’s like... origami? But at a microscopic level?”

Gunner chuckles at the comparison. “That’s one way to look at it, yes. Microscopic origami, where the folds lead to the creation of tiny machines. By integrating these DNA sequences into plants, Chloridians can grow these machines organically.”

Max’s mind whirls with the possibilities, a blend of science fiction and reality that he finds both daunting and utterly fascinating.

“And these plant-grown gadgets... what do they do? Spy on people? Make coffee?”

The humor in Max’s questions brings a genuine laugh from Gunner, who appreciates his attempt to relate the concept to his frame of reference.

“Some could potentially spy, yes. But they can do much more. They can purify water, repair tissue, even capture solar energy. The applications are as varied as our imaginations.”

As Gunner explains, Max feels a growing sense of admiration for her intellect and the civilization represented. It’s a world away from his rural Earth upbringing, where technology meant tractors and 286 processors, not plants that grow biomedical devices.

Internally, Gunner is pleasantly surprised by Max’s quick understanding. His questions, while humorous, show a depth of comprehension that she hadn’t expected from someone so new to these concepts. “He’s bright, this one,” she muses, “Quick to learn, even quicker to find humor in the unknown.”

Max, on the other hand, is doing his best to wrap his head around the idea.

“So, if I wanted a new phone, I could just... plant a seed?” he jokes, trying to lighten the density of the information he’s receiving.

“In theory, yes,” Gunner replies, playing along with his humor. “Though it might be more complex than your average gardening project.”

Their conversation meanders through the intricacies of genetic engineering and its applications, a rich tapestry of knowledge that spans the galaxy. For Max, it’s an eye-opening exploration of possibilities that he had never dared to imagine. And for Gunner, it’s a reminder of the joy found in sharing the wonders of the universe with someone seeing it anew.

Gunner announces, “Ok, heads up we are arriving. You’re going to meet one of our people. You can call him Miguel. He is going to give you some gear and take you to the apartment to wait. I want you to know that we will be monitoring everything.”

Max acknowledges, “Ok, ok.”

Gunner adds, “Max, please be careful. I know you want Rocky to be misunderstood. Please believe me, she is not what you want her to be. You understand?”

Max confirms, “Yeah, I get it.”

Max has imagined an apartment complex from each in their conversation. He realizes that the words and what he is seeing have nothing in common. The complex is an interweaving of complex plant structures with interwoven bridges connecting them.

As the craft lowers itself to soft material that is similar to where they landed at the bungalow.

Gunner says, “This is where you get off. Miguel will meet you here.”

The top opens and Max starts to get out. Gunner grabs him, pulls him back, and hands him the gun.

Max apologizes, “Yeah, sorry about that, almost forgot.”

He places it in his pocket and climbs to the ground. He barely has time to step back when the craft blurs and becomes invisible, which leaves him disconcerted.

A man wearing what Max internally calls a business bikini emerges from the foliage a few meters away.

Miguel greets, “Max, please follow me.”

Max quickly follows him. They pass between a wall of foliage and emerge into a rectangular area walled in on all sides of about 100 meters square. Miguel proceeds quickly across the square with Max in tow. They arrive at an organic-looking door which yields inward at Miguel’s touch. Max follows him into a small brightly lit apartment. Max notes that the interior light does not break the barrier of the door frame.

One moment they are in almost darkness and as soon as his head breaks the barrier of the door it is brightly lit. Max’s gaze sweeps across the simple yet functional space. The room, bathed in the soft, verdant light characteristic of Chloridian architecture, holds the bare necessities; a bed that seems to grow directly from the floor, a desk that is more a living sculpture than furniture, and portable communications equipment that looks oddly out of place with its sleek, Slygardian design amidst the organic surroundings.

Max’s mind races as he takes in the room, his thoughts a tangled web of strategy and apprehension. The presence of the communications gear is a stark reminder of the task ahead—a confrontation with Rocky, a person he once trusted, now shrouded in betrayal and mystery.

“How did I end up here?” he wonders silently, the weight of the upcoming encounter pressing down on him. The idea that he might have to use a gun, a Slygardian weapon that Gunner insisted he carry, sends a shiver of fear through him. “I’m not a soldier,” he thinks, “I’m just a kid from Idaho.”

Miguel, observing Max’s cautious inspection of the room, harbors his own doubts. As a seasoned Slygardian agent, he’s no stranger to the complexities of intergalactic operations, but involving civilians like Max is a line he’s uncomfortable crossing. Miguel can’t help but question Gunner’s judgment in this matter. “Has grief clouded her decision-making?” he ponders, recalling the tragic loss of Gunner’s son. “Is she seeing her son in Max, trying to make amends through him?” The thought troubles Miguel, the professional in him wary of the personal entanglements that seem to be driving Gunner’s actions.

Despite his reservations, Miguel masks his concerns with professionalism, focusing on the task at hand.

“We’ll need to establish secure communications with Gunner and her team,” he says, gesturing towards the equipment. “Once we’re set up, I’ll coordinate the operation next door.”

Max listens, nodding mechanically, his mind still wrestling with the moral quandary of his involvement. The reality of his situation—caught in a web of espionage, far from home, and potentially facing violent confrontation—feels surreal. “Is this really happening?” he questions internally, the normalcy of his previous life on Earth seeming like a distant dream.

As Miguel briefs Max on the operation’s specifics, detailing encryption protocols and contingency plans, Max’s anxiety mounts. The thought of facing Rocky, of unraveling the truth, is both terrifying and compelling. “Can I do this?” he asks himself, the uncertainty of his own capabilities looming large.

Meanwhile, Miguel watches Max closely, trying to gauge the young Earthling’s readiness. His professional instinct tells him that Max is out of his depth, a civilian thrust into a world of shadowy dealings and moral ambiguity. Yet, Miguel also sees a resolve in Max, a determination to see this through despite the fear and doubts. “Perhaps Gunner was right to trust him,” Miguel considers, the possibility that Max’s unique perspective and untapped courage might just be what they need to succeed.

As the preparations continue, both Max and Miguel are acutely aware of the stakes. For Max, it’s a personal journey into the heart of a galaxy far more complex and dangerous than he’d ever imagined. For Miguel, the mission is Xoc, its always Xoc. He dislikes being reminded of the unpredictable human element in the cold calculus of espionage.

Miguel explains, “We will be listening to every word. If you get in trouble we will be there. Now pick a word that you can say easily. That will be our cue to get you out, but remember there is nothing we can do to Rocky. If you don’t get what we need, this whole thing is for nothing.”

Max affirms, “I understand. You can count on me,” he says, his voice reflecting a mix of bravery and trepidation.

Miguel prompts, “You can do this, Max. Now, what is the word?”

Max chooses, “Misha.”

Miguel confirms, “Okay, you slip that word into conversation and in ten seconds we are in here with you.”

Max expresses gratitude, “Thanks.”

Miguel informs, “I have placed a tiny speaker near your left ear. It will allow you to listen to our ops chat. Should calm you down and let you know what is going on. If all goes as planned, we will have Rocky in here in about thirty minutes. Those are going to seem like very long minutes to you, so I suggest you sit back, listen in, and relax.”

Max goes to the table and places himself in a seat with his back to the wall facing the door. Miguel nods once to him in a show of confidence and leaves the room. Max nods back, but Miguel is already gone.

Max begins to hear chatter in his ear.

Base1 announces,

“03:21 Recipient is in place and Base1 is secure.

Watcher1 reports,

“03:21 We have visual on primary subject in complex.”

Ops1 confirms,

“03:23 In position.”

Ops2 confirms,

“03:24 In position.”

Base1 commands,

“03:35 Initiate alarm.”

Max hears an alarm begin at low volume and slowly increase to an uncomfortable ringing in the apartment.

Base1 instructs,

“Ops1, remove alarm from apartment 013”

Ops1 responds,

“Affirmative.”

The alarm sound ends, leaving the room in silence.

Watcher1 observes,

“03:38 We have movement on target, leaving apartment heading to east staircase. Target is a match for description.”

Max’s heart begins to race.

Ops1 states,

“03:39 I have a visual on target sending her your way Ops2.”

Ops2 reports,

“03:40 No visual.”

Ops1 questions,

“03:41 You should see her by now.”

Ops2 replies,

“03:41 I have no visual.”

Base1 inquires,

“Watcher1, do you have a visual?”

Watcher1 confirms,

“Affirmative, she is climbing down the tree twenty meters west of Ops2 Position.”

Ops2 asks,

“Shall I move to engage?”

Watcher1 commands,

“Negative, you are not to directly engage.”

Ops1 exclaims,

“Goddamit, we are going to lose her.”

Watcher1 alerts,

“She is making a break for it across the quad.”

Max leaps up from the table and is out the front door at a full run.

Base1 exclaims,

“Shit, Recipient is on the move!”

It takes Max a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light. Blinking, he tries desperately to find Rocky among the mass of residents leaving their apartment.

Watcher1 guides,

“Max, she is moving your way about thirty meters in front of you coming from the left.”

Max’s vision clears enough, and he sees a figure running fast towards him. He accelerates in her direction, then turns and starts running parallel. It is too dark to determine if it is Rocky as a figure runs in front of him.

“Damn, she is fast,” he thinks as he begins running after her. She turns to the right and starts running toward an entrance to the structure. Max is only a few meters behind her, and he puts everything into it.

Watcher1 instructs Ops1 and Ops2,

“Move to intercept in the east-west central corridor. You are not to engage, repeat, do not engage. Your objective is to protect the recipient.”

Rocky hits the doors going top speed. Max can see her blond hair as the lights from the interior corridor illuminate her.

“Rocky, stop!” he yells.

She looks back for a moment with a confused look on her face.

“Max?” she hesitates for less than a second before redoubling her effort down the hallway.

Max feels a burst of adrenaline and accelerates in pursuit.

“Goddamit, Rocky, stop, or I will have to stop you,” he screams.

Max can see the end of the hall is a transport shaft like he used at his hotel. He is only a meter behind Rocky, but she is still running full out. He reaches to grab her, and she jumps toward the transport tube. He throws himself after her, and they careen into the tube in a contortion of arms and legs, suddenly without purchase. Rocky punches Max in the jaw, but as she has no purchase, there is not a lot of force behind it. Max grabs her by the arm and pulls her into a bear hug.

She screams, “Let go of me...”

And they fall to the ground on a black marble surface, looking up at an alien sky.

Ops1 reports to Watcher1 and Base1,

“You are not going to believe this?”

Watcher1 prompts,

“Go ahead.”

Base1 echoes,

“Go ahead.”

Ops1 reveals,

“They fucking disappeared!”

Ops2 confirms,

“They fucking disappeared in front of us.”

Max and Rocky half fall, half roll to the ground in a tumult of limbs. Rocky, screaming, finds her footing first and a kicks Max’s in the stomach robbing him of breath. She follows with two quick, brutal punches to the back of his head, and darkness begins to encroach on his vision.

Rocky, seeking an escape, halts as she realizes they are no longer in the hotel but someplace entirely alien to her. A vast courtyard of black stone unfolds before her, filled with objects so bizarre her mind balks at accepting their reality. She screams, a raw sound of fear and confusion. Max, fighting for consciousness, hears her scream and manages to roll over to see her. The terror in her eyes reminds him of a coyote he once saw caught in barbed wire—wild, desperate. He forces himself up, distancing himself from Rocky. As his vision clears, he recognizes their surroundings.

A loud pop draws their attention, and between them, a cot appears out of thin air. Rocky doubles over clutching her stomach and vomiting, as Max recognizes the familiar archways of this courtyard from when he first arrived from Earth.

Clarity strikes Max amidst the pain from Rocky’s blows and the surreal return to this city of death. He recalls the Bant af Garn’s words from his dream—Necropolara’s call, a promise of inevitable return to this place.

Rocky, leaning against the cot, is a mess of erratic breathing and soft moans.

Max, concerned, calls out to her lightly. “Rocky?” “Rocky, can you hear me?”

There is no response. He walks around the cot behind her, moving carefully, he can hear her talking to no one.

Rocky mutters, “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault, it’s my fault!” The last line is a guttural scream as she raises her head. She looks like a wild animal again, and Max backs away. She looks straight at him as her body begins to convulse.

Max, still reeling from the blows and the shock of adrenaline dropping orbits cautiously before realizing that she is looking straight through him. She begins muttering to herself again and suddenly collapses onto the ground as though all of her muscles stopped working.  She lays there crying softly. It hits Max like a physical blow, and a wave of empathy overwhelms him. He reaches down and picks her up, not even feeling her weight in his arms as he gently places her on the cot. He searches about for some thing to clean her finally opting to tears off one of the sleeves from his coveralls to clean the vomit that is strewn from her cheek down the front of her shirt.

He remembers that you always make sure a vomiting person is not on their back so they don’t choke on their own vomit. He does his best to roll her on her side, during which she violently punches out at some unseen enemy, her fist catching him painfully in the eye, momentarily stunning him. He recovers and wedges himself behind her and uses his own body weight to hold her in place.

Several times in the hours that follow, Rocky claws at herself, the first time leaving deep scratches on her face and arms. After that, he wraps himself around her holding her arms and legs to keep her from hurting herself. He ponders what could have happened to Rocky to make such deep wounds in her soul? What truths is Rocky confronting in her hallucinatory state? What demons is she battling?

Max finds himself in the unusual position of caretaker, guarding Rocky against herself. Rocky, lies on the sparse cot that seems out of place in this alien environment. She is deep in the throes of some experience, similar to, but much more violent than he experienced upon his first arrival to Anubidia.

Max watches over Rocky with a mix of emotions swirling within him. Love? Betrayal? A longing, tethers him to her side despite the chasm her deceit has carved between them. Her body writhes on the cot, caught in the grip of invisible forces that Max can only guess. He hears her whisper names, sees her reach out to caress faces only she can see, and listens to her laughter turn into sobs without warning.

He is torn by the sight of her and his inability to help, laid low by her own subconscious, mistaking him for others—friends, lovers, perhaps even enemies from her past. Each mistaken identity is a blade to his heart, reminding him of the distance between what he wishes were different than the reality they inhabit. His thoughts drift to their predicament, stranded on Anubidia, an alien world and quite probably their prison. No water, food, even a bathroom.

Hours into her trip he smells a faint odor and realizes that the cot is wet. To his dismay, it appears Rocky has peed herself. He is a little panicked. He cannot leave her like this but what can he do? Finally, he opts to strip down to his underwear. He then removes her pants and shirt where she has writhed in her own urine. With patience and what he hopes is decency, he puts his own clothing on her. When complete, he sees that she looks ridiculously small and fragile, like a little girl playing dress up in her father’s clothes, lost as she is in his one-armed futuristic overalls. The absurdity of it all is not lost on him—that his feelings for her and her betrayal have intertwined to bring them here, to this moment of crisis and revelation. Will this experience change her, did it change me?

He realizes that taking care of Rocky in this vulnerable state, despite everything, is a choice. A choice to be there for someone when they’re facing their darkest moments, the right choice whatever may happen in the future.

As the hours stretch on, Max’s thoughts turn practical. He needs to drink something, and he is sure Rocky must be dehydrated. She has stopped hallucinating and is finally seems to be sleeping peacefully. Max thinks about the garden he found on his last visit and mentally estimates it to be five kilometers away. He observes her breathing slowly and makes the decision that he should be able to get to the garden and back quickly enough to make sure she does not hurt herself.

As he looks down on her, so vulnerable, so fragile, he is overcome with protective feelings. He silently acknowledges the fact that has been swimming around in his head since he met her at Zach’s party. He loves her.

He turns away and starts jogging toward the distant garden, carefully setting his path to pass directly between the two nearest arches, avoiding the slowing process. He feels an odd sensation, like he has come home. As he turns to go, Rocky, who has been playing possum for the last fifteen minutes, opens her eyes and watches him jog away.

Max passes the area where he encountered the gates of Love and Death. He has to force himself to keep going straight, as he feels an almost palpable fear of the place. After thirty minutes or so of jogging, he sees the trees of the garden in the distance and is relieved. He had been concerned that things had changed in his absence.

“I guess if nothing has changed in four billion years a few days will not make much difference,” he thinks.

As he jogs, he reflects on the difference in himself. He feels like his first visit was another lifetime. So many things have happened. He feels that the why, is no longer the most important question. It feels like this was the path he was meant to be on. Meeting Rocky, meeting Zach, his run-in with Xoc. The kindness from Gunner.

The thing that keeps coming back to his mind is Nils. The person that started this all. When he got the message back at his high school in Idaho, it said that he would be contacted. He has traveled to various worlds and had a lot of strange, difficult, and sometimes wonderful experiences but where is Nils in all this? Why does he share a cosmic signature with this guy? He is so caught up in his thoughts that he is surprised to see he has arrived at the garden.

He moves quickly to the plants that look like half-yard glasses, remembering that they worked well to quench his thirst. The first drink after cracking one open is pure heaven. He realizes how thirsty he has been and quickly drinks two more. He then gathers several together and adds some berry-looking fruit, thinking Rocky will probably need to eat something. Maybe I can convince her to come back here. “Oh yeah right she will be super happy to see me and volunteer right up for playing garden of Eden. Well, hell,” he thinks to himself, “she fits the Eve selling Adam out role pretty well.”

He feels a little guilty when he thinks about laying with her in the cot. He quickly finishes gathering things to eat and drink. He has collected far more than he can carry running around in his underwear. He pares it down to two stalks of liquid and some berry-looking fruit and starts jogging back. It is exceedingly difficult to jog while holding the supplies so he slows down to a walk, alternating hands as his arms get tired carrying the food. The walk back takes considerably more time. His arms are aching when he finally arrives back where hehe cot had been only to find nothing there.

“Rocky? Hey, Rocky!”

Rocky is nowhere to be seen.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he spins around wondering where she can be.

“Think, Max, think!”

She can’t have gone to any of the portals as they will not allow anyone to approach them. He did not pass her on his way back so she must be close. The castle takes days to climb and is impossible without water…then it hits him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, the love and death gates.”

“Well, Rocky, these were all supposed to be for you but if I have to track you down I am drinking one,” he speaks to no one. He breaks open one of the stalks and drinks the liquid inside and starts. After a few steps, he thinks decides to drop the supplies where the cot had been, smelling faintly of urine.

“Well No good deed goes unpunished.” Maybe he should just wait here, he thinks. There are not so many other places she can go. He realizes that there could be many dangers here and the thought of her hurting herself. Maybe she is still stuck in the trip she was on? The more he thinks about it the more frantic he gets and finally he takes off running toward the gates.

It’s a short distance run to where he can see the three small buildings surrounding the ancient tree. This time his fear is tempered with caution. As he approaches the tree, he can hear the gurgling of the fountain and sees one of the iron gates.

“Hi Max,” she greets him, her voice a soft melody in the quiet of the courtyard.

Rocky sits cross-legged next to the fountain, her presence a stark contrast to the tranquility of their surroundings. Max approaches, burdened with a mixture of emotions—love, fear, and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about what the future holds for them both on this alien world.

“Hi Rocky,” he responds, unable to mask the affection in his tone, despite the turmoil swirling within him. He notices her attire, or the lack thereof, and attempts a light-hearted remark to ease the tension. “You look ridiculous.”

Rocky, unfazed and perhaps trying to lighten the mood herself, jests about Max’s appearance, hinting at the injuries she inadvertently caused him during her drug-induced state. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but how does the other guy look?”

Max touches the black eye, a souvenir from Rocky’s punch in her frenzy, complementing the blue bruise from her kick and the lingering pain in his neck. “You’re not going to beat me up again, are you?” he half-jokes, half-asks, seeking some reassurance.

“The day is young, and I am not yet certain what happened to my clothes,” Rocky replies, a hint of her usual bravado laced with vulnerability.

Max’s attempt to explain the situation with her clothes stumbles into awkwardness, reflecting his internal struggle to navigate the delicate balance between his feelings for Rocky and the betrayal that hangs like a shadow between them.

“Max,” Rocky’s voice cuts through his rambling, grounding him.

“Yeah, Rocky?” he responds, bracing himself for what might come next.

“Thank you,” she says simply, her gratitude piercing through the complexities of their situation, touching a chord within Max that resonates with his deepest fears and desires.

Max is taken aback by the sincerity in Rocky’s voice, the gratitude opening a door to a possibility he hardly dares to hope for—that beneath the layers of complexity and turmoil, there might be a chance for something real between them.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” he asks, his voice laced with concern, revealing the depth of his feelings for her.

Rocky’s request for a cocktail and dancing shoes is met with a poignant silence, a stark reminder of their current predicament, stranded on Anubidia with no apparent way out.

As Rocky confirms their location, Max senses a shift in the atmosphere, a moment of truth that could define the future of their relationship. “Max, do you want to sit down with me?” she asks, an invitation that he accepts without hesitation.

Sitting next to her, Max is acutely aware of her presence, feeling as though his very soul has shifted closer to her. Rocky’s embrace, her head resting against his chest, is a gesture of trust that undoes him. Her soft crying, a sound so vulnerable, prompts an internal panic—how to respond, how to comfort her without overstepping or causing more pain?

“Max,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Hug me, you idiot,” she instructs, her words cutting through his hesitation.

As he holds her, Max is overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, the physical and emotional closeness forging a connection he’s never felt before. They remain there, in an embrace that speaks volumes, under the ancient tree, beside the gently gurgling fountain, in a moment that transcends time, leaving Max grappling with the realization that despite everything, he loves her.

As Max nods in and out of sleep, he glances at Rocky, half-expecting her to vanish once more. Yet there she is, leaning comfortably against the fountain, her presence a constant in the shifting uncertainty of Anubidia.

Rocky breaks the silence with a hint of humor, “Don’t suppose you know a local brunch spot? Cause right now, I’m pretty sure I could eat a dinosaur.”

Max, playing along, responds with feigned seriousness, “Well, now that you mention it, I kind of do. But, you guys don’t have dinosaurs here, do you?”

Rocky teases, a twinkle in her eye, “Oh, they brought them back a few millennia ago. The Vaikunthans have an entire planet full of them.”

“Really?” Max asks, his curiosity piqued.

Rocky laughs, “No, Max, there’s no dinosaur world run by Vaikunthans.”

Max’s disappointment is palpable, a reaction Rocky finds utterly charming.

“There’s a grove of edible stuff about a thirty-minute jog from here,” he offers, trying to shift the topic from fictional dinosaur planets. “I see you’ve found the fountain,” he adds, nodding towards the cool water nearby.

“Yeah, sorry, I was pretty desperate for something to drink. Not bad, actually,” Rocky admits, her survival instincts momentarily shining through.

The conversation takes a turn as Rocky decides to address the “fashion catastrophe” at hand. She steps out of Max’s oversized clothes, leaving her wearing panties and a tiny half shirt, and begins to tear and modify the fabric with a focus that leaves Max both embarrassed and captivated. Rocky’s deliberate movements, bending and shaping the clothes into something resembling her usual style, sends a jolt of desire through Max, who is caught between admiration and a desperate attempt to maintain his composure.

“Do not get hard; you’re only wearing underwear, do not do not, kittens, picture of Mom, Grandma,” Max thinks to himself.

Rocky, fully aware of the effect she’s having on Max, skillfully plays up her allure while pretending to be oblivious to his turmoil. The result is a makeshift outfit that not only suits her but also accentuates her undeniable beauty.

Max, now in his minimal Chloridian attire, struggles with a mix of awe for Rocky’s resourcefulness and a physical reaction he’s powerless to control. The air between them crackles with unspoken attraction and a shared amusement over the absurdity of their situation.

Though neither verbalizes it, there’s an undeniable bond forming, a connection forged not just by shared experiences but by the mutual recognition of each other’s resilience and charm. In the end, their laughter and sidelong glances speak volumes, acknowledging a camaraderie that neither had anticipated but both are starting to cherish.

Max leads Rocky away from the fountain, navigating the complexities of Anubidia. Their journey is momentarily halted by a disembodied voice saying,

“See you soon,” which startles Rocky into a defensive stance.

“What the fuck is that?” she exclaims, poised for action.

“Oh, this place occasionally talks,” Max tries to sound nonchalant, an attempt to normalize the bizarre occurrence, but Rocky’s discomfort is evident.

“A little warning in the future would be appreciated,” she retorts, her stance relaxing slightly.

Their intended jog transforms into a more relaxed walk, a comfortable silence enveloping them. Rocky breaks the quiet, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

“Do you know where we are or how we got here, Max?”

Max wrestles with a pang of guilt, knowing his unintentional actions led them here.

“Yeah, I think I do,” he starts, hesitating as he searches for the right words.

Before he can continue, Rocky interrupts, handing him the Bant af Garn.

“Here, Max,” she says, revealing the artifact he hadn’t noticed on her before.

“Neat trick,” Max comments, masking his surprise with a light-hearted remark.

“Yeah, I’m full of them,” Rocky whispers, her voice laced with sadness.

She pauses, taking a deep breath before opening up about her past.

“Max, that experience I just had... it made me look at myself in a way I don’t think I ever have, and I didn’t like what I saw. I’ve been lying to myself for a long time,” she confesses, her voice breaking with emotion.

Rocky shares the trauma of her parents’ death and the subsequent spiral into a life of justifying her actions, regardless of whom they hurt. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore, and I’m not really sure if I can change,” she admits, a mixture of determination and despair in her voice.

As she quickly moves away, Max’s voice is full of concern.

“Rocky, Rocky,” he calls after her, but she’s adamant.

“Just leave me alone,” she shouts back, her voice echoing in the vast courtyard.

“You’re going the wrong way?” Max points out.

Rocky halts, her internal turmoil visible even from a distance. She turns back, and upon seeing Max’s genuinely concerned expression, something shifts within her.

“Rocky, I forgive you. I forgave you ten minutes after I realized you were gone. I don’t have the right to judge you, and I have no idea what your life is like. I just really, really liked you, and to tell the truth, if I had to choose between seeing you and the relic, well, I can throw the relic away, just please don’t throw me away,” Max confesses, tears streaming down his face.

Moments pass as they stare at one another, both full of contradicting emotions they are powerless to control.

Max begins to speak very quickly, hoping to calm Rocky.

“Look, I am the reason you are here. I did not intend it, but before I left, the Relic told me that once you come to Anubidia, it is only a matter of time before it pulls you back. I did not understand it at the time. I had no idea it would take you with me. I am sorry. I don’t really understand much about this place, and the only explanations I have gotten were from a New York cab driver in a dream.”

Rocky tries to follow what Max is telling her while wrestling with a miasma of her own conflicting emotions.

“What is a New York City cab driver?” she finally asks.

Max is amused that this is the detail from the story that she thinks to clarify.

“New York was a city on Earth, where I am from. A cab driver is a guy who you pay to drive you around. The thing is, I have never been to New York City or ridden in a cab. I think the dream was the way the Relic communicates with me, it told me that here in Anubidia for some reason it is more able to communicate.”

“It didn’t by any chance suggest a way out of here, did it?” she asks with some hope.

Her question causes Max to stop and think. Something is nagging him and he remembers his conversation with the cab driver in his dream. “The only other way out of the city are the great sacrifices of Love, Death, or Agony. You met them yesterday by the fountain.”

“Yeah maybe,” Max replies to the surprise of Rocky.

“Maybe care to elaborate?” she chides.

Max responds, “Well, my dream cab driver mentioned something. He said that the only permanent way out of the city are the great sacrifices of Love, Death, or Agony.”

“Is that some kind of weird metaphor?” Rocky asks.

“No, I don’t think so. That place we just left. Did you have a chance to look around?”

“No, I stopped pretty much where you found me, why?”

“Well, if you look past the tree you come to three pretty crazy looking passages. Two have something to do with love and death; the last one, well, it scared the crap out of me. It said the person who goes there will know neither love nor death.”

“Okay, that is pretty creepy, but to tell you the truth, that sounds pretty fucking rad as well!” Rocky exclaims.

As Max listens to Rocky, he notes that her reactions are always unexpected. It makes him realize that despite his feelings, he really does not know her at all.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Max inquires.

Rocky feels a sense of fear in her gut.

“Yeah, you can ask,” she replies cautiously.

“Who is Rex Vlaan?” Max asks.

Rocky is silent for some time.

“Max, that is a name you should forget. I don’t know where you heard it, but knowing anything about him will not end well for you,” she warns earnestly.

“Is it…personal?” Max probes, taken aback by the seriousness of her response.

Rocky realizes that Max has no real interest in her employer and that it is just an attempt to find out if she has a romantic partner. She finds herself relieved. She can deal with Max’s interest. Any genuine interest in Rex on his part would just put him in danger.

“No, it is far from ‘personal’,” Rocky clarifies, “Rex helped me out when I needed it, and I do some work for him. Look Max, what I do for a living and what I do… er personally are kind of oil and water. My life is pretty complicated; for a lot of reasons, some of them personal and some professional. So can we kind of leave it at that?”

Max is not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.

“Yeah, Rocky. I did not mean to pry, I just wanted to know something about you. Since I got yanked off my own world, I feel a little lost sometimes,”

“I get that, Max. You don’t have to be yanked across time and space to feel that way,” Rocky empathizes.

They continue walking together.

“So you got the dump of my life problems. Give me a rundown on the life of Max,” Rocky prompts.

“Not much to tell. One moment I am living my life on the farm in Dietrich, Idaho. It’s a tiny town where we live. I got this crazy message on my computer and followed it here. I have a cat named Mizore,” Max shares.

“Oohhh, what kind of cat? I love cats,” Rocky looks genuinely excited.

“She is a calico, kind of my best friend,” Max says.

“That is the saddest and sweetest thing I have ever heard,” she says playfully.

“I do have some other friends. We live in a kind of weird religious place, and the other families don’t let their kids come to visit,” Max explains.

“That sounds awful,” Rocky comments.

“You get used to it,” Max says, though he realizes it is not true. He tolerates the feeling of isolation, but he will never get used to it.

“I honestly feel like I have been more alive since I got pulled through an asteroid in the last weeks than I did my whole life before. I kind of love it here, minus the crazy guy who wants to kill me,” Max admits.

“You’re a strange one, Max, but then in my book, ‘strange’ gets a second date,” she smiles in her maddening way, which leaves Max unsure if she is joking or not.

They approach the arch with the drawings of a solar calendar, which tells Max they are close to the garden.

“Just past that archway, there is a garden with food and these cool rinds you can drink,” Max informs.

“Holy Eridiny! That archway is Huitzicalan, wow!” Rocky exclaims.

“Oh shit, those are the guys who kidnapped me, beat me, and threatened to kill me,” Max recalls.

“Where did you meet the Huit?” Rocky asks, again surprised by Max.

“Back on the Chloridian world ship. It’s kind of indirectly how I found you. Some guy named Xoc kidnapped me. I only got away because a group of Slygardian’s agents rescued me. One of them helped me track you down. Those were the people with me at the apartments where I chased you,” Max explains.

“Why would Slygardian’s be interested in me?” Rocky inquires

“Well, they aren’t really. They are interested in the Huit guy, Xoc, who kidnapped me. More than that, they just wanted to help me get the relic back,” Max clarifies.

“Well, mission accomplished,” she says sardonically.

Max wonders for the nth time how much he should tell Rocky.

“Thank you for giving me the Relic back. It seems to be the reason I am here, and it seems pretty important that I get out of here. There is a guy I really need to find,” Max states.

“Can I help?” Rocky offers.

Max thinks about it.

“Look, the guy I am supposed to find is named Nils Verin,” Max reveals.

“No shit! The guy who destroyed Kagama Deux? How are you going to do that? He died in the explosion before I was born,” Rocky one again finds herself struggling to comprehend Max.

“Hey Rocky, nothing personal, but can I ask how old you are?” Max asks cautiously.

“Sure, I am eighteen, why?” Rocky replies.

Max looks relieved.

“Well, I recently had a conversation about age that kind of changed my perspective,” Max explains.

“So how old are you?” Rocky is curious.

“Do you have the month of December?” Max asks.

“Not as such, but I can figure it out from historical context,” Rocky responds.

“Well, I will be seventeen on my birthday, or given my current situation, I was born a few thousand years ago,” Max jokes.

This gives both of them a bit of a chuckle.

“In any event, Gunner, that is the agent from the Slygardian Diplomatic Enclave, told me I am the Identical quantum signature for Nils Verin, which I think is a pretty big deal,” Max shares.

“Fuck me, that is huge! Do you understand what that means?” Rocky is astonished.

“Yeah, security checkpoints are not my forte,” Max admits.

“Just when I think I have a handle on you, you have to go one step further. We will have to work on this need you have to impress,” Rocky teases.

Max is taken aback before he realizes Rocky is making fun of him.

“Ahh, no longer impressed to be the one with the longest rap sheet,” Max quips.

“And how would you know about my ‘rap sheet’?” Rocky is curious.

“Gunner showed it to me. I really would like to know how one gets charged so many times and never convicted,” Max is intrigued.

“It’s complicated,” Rocky replies cryptically.

They arrive at the grove of trees Max previously visited. Seeing it a second time, Max is no less impressed. Rocky seems charmed and calmed by the microclimate of the garden.

“I ate a little of everything without any issues,” Max says as he pulls a double helix fruit and offers half to Rocky, who accepts it.

“Whoa, that is fantastic,” Rocky is impressed.

“Yeah, pretty much everything I have tasted here is better than anything I have tasted anywhere else,” Max confirms.

Max realizes that he has come to feel safe on this incredibly alien world. Not just with a little familiarity but as if he somehow belongs to it, and it to him. As he watches Rocky try several different fruits, stopping to enjoy each one, his mind paints a picture of the two of them staying here forever, living in the garden. The thought makes him happy in a way he has never experienced before. He knows it is ridiculous but he lets the fantasy linger for a time, even as he knows that he has to move on.

He slips the Bant af Garn back on. It slides easily over his hand onto his arm where it sits snugly against his skin. He notes that once on his arm, it has constricted to a point where he can no longer remove it. He ponders how it was that Rocky was able to remove it back at Zach’s.

They continue to eat and chat for some hours. Sharing simple stories of one another, in an easy manner. The light never shifts and the temperature remains constant. The only sign of the passing time is their mutual yawns.

Max leads Rocky to the brushed aluminum-looking trees beyond the garden. He is pleased to watch her reaction to the fragrance of cinnamon and caramel, and the soothing musical sound. They sit together with their backs against the tree. Max is mid-sentence when he hears the quiet breathing of Rocky sleeping on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, savoring the moment.

A silent god stands nearby watching them sleep.  Adorned in an outfit that screams punk rock rebellion, their attire is a vibrant patchwork of leather and lace, studs and safety pins, torn fabric woven with tattered elegance. Their clothing, like their very being, defies conventions—a bold, harmonious clash that speaks of divine androgyny, both provocative and seamless.

Their hair is a wild cascade of colors, shifting from the darkest blacks to the brightest, most electric hues. Bold makeup accentuates their sharp cheekbones and the mischievous glint in their kaleidoscopic eyes. Those eyes—ever-changing in color and intensity—move fluidly between piercingly masculine and softly feminine, yet they are always powerful, unnervingly perceptive, as if they see far beyond the present moment.

Their enigmatic smile, laced with quiet bemusement, hints at a deep understanding of life’s ultimate transition—from existence to the void. There is no malice in their expression, only the amused detachment of one who has long grasped the cosmic joke of mortality and the absurdity of the human condition.

“It is moments such as this that make it all worthwhile,” they whisper, their voice carrying a quiet resonance. A deep, rolling laughter follows, spilling across the courtyard like a wave, equal parts haunting and comforting, as if the sound itself carries the weight of eternal truths hidden just beyond reach.

The god reaches up and gently unclasps a thin necklace with a single silver rune.  Moving silently it walks to the sleeping couple and with a delicacy that defies their size and power it gently clasps the ornament around Max’s neck; where it disappears into his skin. They whisper “Em hotep nefer,” as a subtle smile plays upon their face.

Max finds himself reclining in the back seat of a cab weaving through the crowded streets of New York City, his thoughts tangled in a mix of anticipation and dread. The driver, breaks the silence.

“Enjoyin’ a little romantic interlude, are we?” the driver quips, his voice laced with the unmistakable cadence of the Bronx.

“Ahh, you gotta be kiddin’ me,” Max replies, his frustration mounting.

“Yeah, nice to see you too, bub,” the driver shoots back, unfazed by Max’s tone.

Max hesitates before diving into the heart of their predicament. “I did what you told me, and I never heard from Nils.”

“Yeah, that is problematic, but I got more information for ya. While you’ve been gallivanting around on your pleasure cruise, I’ve been diligently researching,” the driver retorts, his accent thickening with each word.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a dick?” Max shoots back, unable to hide his irritation.

The cab driver laughs, a sound that seems too carefree for the gravity of their conversation.

“I’ve been told that in so many ways and languages that you can’t begin to imagine. I can, in fact, say with some degree of certainty that I might be the most cursed-at thing in all of eternity.”

Max is at a loss for words, unsure how to navigate this surreal interaction.

“Now, to the business at hand. You need to get off of this world and travel to Kagama Deux, or at least what used to be Kagama Deux,” the driver continues, his tone serious despite the earlier banter.

“That’s the place Nils destroyed,” Max interjects, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Important point of fact, I destroyed it, not Verin,” the driver corrects him, his voice firm.

“You killed billions of people,” Max states, the weight of that revelation sinking in.

The cab driver shrugs, an unsettling casualness to his gesture. “Oh, please, life, death, what’s the difference? That event, in context, is a rounding error.”

Max struggles to comprehend the magnitude of the driver’s actions, his mind racing to piece together the fragmented reality unfolding before him.

“What the fuck are you?” Max asks, desperation creeping into his voice.

The driver glances at Max through the rearview mirror, his eyes gleaming with an unfathomable knowledge. “Pay attention, Max. Hardly the time for a teleological conversation, is it? Now, listen closely. This part is important.”

Max leans forward, his heart pounding as he braces for what comes next.

“You will compel Nils to return me to my home, not to his ridiculous deity. Do you understand?” the driver says, his voice taking on a grave tone.

Max nods, the enormity of his task settling like a weight on his shoulders.

“Or what?”, Max asks

“Max, ya gotta pay attention here. There’s things out there, worse than death itself. I’m talkin’ ‘bout things so bad, merely knowin’ ‘bout ‘em could give ya a lifetime—a eternity, even—of sufferin’. I ain’t keen on introducin’ these kinda realities to ya in any way that ain’t just theoretical, but make no mistake, kiddo. To me, you’re just a tiny ripple in this endless ocean of time. Ya don’t get the kinda honor I’m bestowin’ on ya ‘cause ya can’t grasp the context. Lemme try to give ya a little perspective.”

In that instant, Max’s past lives flash before his eyes—first thousands, then millions of them. Lives on Earth, lives before Earth, lives as beings he can’t even recognize. Time stretches out endlessly behind him. He feels himself beginning to unravel, the very essence of who he is now starting to crumble under the flood of information. And he realizes, this is just the smallest glimpse.

He wakes, screaming in terror.

Rocky, with the agility of a trained fighter, rolls to her feet, her senses razor-sharp, ready to face whatever threat has gripped Max. She scans their surroundings frantically but finds nothing amiss—just the tranquil trees and the serene night. Yet Max’s screams pierce the calm, relentless and filled with a terror that chills her to the bone.

Rocky approaches Max cautiously, aiming to offer him solace. As she reaches out, he reacts violently, his arm swinging out in a reflex of sheer panic, barely missing her. With agility born of necessity, Rocky maneuvers closer once again, navigating the delicate space between them with the finesse of a seasoned combatant. After enduring several tense moments, she finally manages to bridge the gap, offering the comfort he so desperately needs.

Gradually, Max’s screams taper off, morphing into hysterical sobs that shake his frame with their intensity. He reaches out, pulling Rocky into a grasp so tight it threatens to squeeze the breath from her body. She struggles to draw air, astounded by the raw strength Max exhibits in his vulnerable state.

As time sluggishly marches on, Max’s cries subside, leaving him quietly weeping in Rocky’s embrace. She whispers soothing words, her voice a gentle balm to his tormented psyche. It’s a painstaking process, but eventually, his breathing evens out, signaling a return to a semblance of calm.

“What happened, Max?” she asks gently, her voice a soft caress against the tense silence.

Max finds himself struggling for words, the enormity of his experience threatening to overwhelm him. How can I explain the unexplainable? he thinks, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear mingled with a newfound determination.

“It’s not something I think I can put into words, but I think I know how to get us out of here and what I have to do next,” he finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rocky watches him closely, her curiosity piqued by his vague response. She senses the depth of his turmoil and chooses her next words with care, not wanting to push him over the edge. What could have possibly shaken him so deeply? she wonders, her own fears momentarily forgotten in the face of his distress.

She continues to cradle his head in her lap, offering silent support. The rhythm of his breathing slowly steadies, and she feels him drift off to sleep. Watching over him, she contemplates their situation, her mind racing with unanswered questions. How did we get here? Can Max really find a way out? Despite her skepticism, the warmth of his body next to hers in the cool, alien air offers a strange comfort.

Gently, she lays his head on the soft ground and curls up beside him, her body instinctively seeking his warmth. The notion of sleep seems far-fetched, yet the serene ambiance of their surroundings and the exhaustion from the day’s events gradually coax her into slumber.

When Max gently wakes her, she’s disoriented, the remnants of sleep clinging to her consciousness. His mention of a lack of bathrooms in this bizarre world brings a slight smile to her face, despite the surreal nature of their predicament.

“Look, this place is not long on bathrooms, but you can find some privacy. Word to the wise, it’s an experience,” he tells her, a hint of humor in his voice that belies the gravity of their situation.

As Rocky walks off in search of privacy, Max gathers some fruits and water plants, his actions automatic. This place, so alien, yet it’s starting to feel almost familiar, he muses, his thoughts momentarily drifting from the weight of their escape plan.

Upon her return, Rocky’s amused expression sparks a flicker of lightness in Max’s heart.

“Strange place,” she comments, her amusement evident.

“Yeah, you don’t know the half of it,” he replies, the brief moment of levity fading as the reality of their circumstances reasserts itself.

Rocky probes further, “So what is your idea to get out of here?”

Max hesitates, the memory of his conversation with the Bant af Garn still fresh. “I had a little conversation with our relic here last night,” he admits, the words heavy with the implication of his ordeal.

Rocky’s expression turns serious. “Is that what all the screaming was about?” Her voice is soft, cautious, not wanting to dredge up painful memories.

Max feels a shiver run through him at the recollection. Yes, that and so much more, he thinks, the discomfort of the memory etched on his face.

“Yeah, you could say that. The Bant af Garn, that’s its name, by the way. Can be very persuasive when it wants,” he says, attempting to inject a note of levity into his voice, but the effort falls flat.

Rocky nods, her gaze steady on his. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Max takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what comes next. “It seems to think that one of the gates back by the fountain where I found you can get us out of here.”

Rocky’s eyes reflect a mix of hope and skepticism, the gravity of their situation laying heavily between them. Can we really trust this relic? she wonders, but the alternative — staying trapped in this alien world forever — is not something she’s willing to consider. For now, Max’s plan is all they have, and she’s ready to follow him, wherever it may lead.

They eat and drink their fill before heading back toward the fountain, a comfortable silence enveloping them as they each retreat into their own thoughts. Rocky surveys the vast courtyard, her gaze lingering on the arches and the distant silhouette of the castle.

“Are all of these arches similar?” Rocky asks, curiosity tinting her voice.

“Each one has a unique style. I think they’re portals to different worlds. Since I’ve been here, I’ve noticed some similarities between the portals and the places I’ve been. In particular, the portal that took me to Vodanis,” Max explains, his tone reflective.

“Can’t we just use one of the portals again?” she inquires, hoping for a simple solution.

“They have some weird field that protects them. You simply cannot get close. The regular ones, I mean the ones with normal colors, are just impossible to approach. The ones that are red are a whole different ball of wax. I almost died trying to get to one,” Max shares, a note of caution in his voice.

Rocky ponders the nature of a place that would be restricted from Anubidia. The thought overwhelms her, the reality of being in a legend she’s heard since childhood sinking in. Her home world revered the first race, their entire civilization built upon the remnants of its technology. And Max, who she initially saw as a naive kid out of his depth, continues to reveal layers of complexity with every interaction.

She finds herself trapped between awe and attraction, interspersed with the harsh reality that her life has no room for him. She pushes away thoughts of what will happen if they manage to leave this place.

For a fleeting moment, she entertains the idea of staying here, with Max. To abandon her former life and simply walk away. Right, she thinks sarcastically, raise a little group of red-headed kids in an alien world. While she tries to laugh off the notion, she is surprised to find a part of her yearns for exactly that.

Max begins to feel some trepidation as they approach the building surrounding the ancient tree and spring. Part of it is the fear he felt when he came into contact with the Agony gate on his last pass. Part of it is the feeling of the unknown path ahead. More than a little his desire to stretch out the time he and Rocky have. He knows that things will change if he leaves, but the echo of the vision left by the Bant drives him forward.

They arrive at the courtyard and Max opts to try the first gate on the left.

As they approach the first gate, they hear a deep voice state clearly, “Ahh I see you brought a partner, but I think you are not here for me today.” Carved on the door is a familiar figure of two grim reapers battling one another with their scythes. Rocky cries out in surprise.

Max, remembering being chastised on his first visit, answers, “So very nice to see you death. Apologies if we are not what you seek.” They hear the voice again, “Apology accepted, nice to see you again, I look forward to your next visit, but please bring a proper partner.”

“You want to explain that?” Rocky inquires.

Max responds, “Yeah, last time I was here, it told me I could not enter alone and chewed me out for being rude.”

“Okay, so I take it that was death?” Rocky seeks confirmation.

“Yeah, he certainly fits the description,” Max confirms.

“So what next?” Rocky asks.

“Well, there is a gate in the middle, but I do not think that we should go there. It was, up until recently, the most terrifying thing I had ever seen,” Max admits.

“I want to see it,” Rocky declares.

“Are you serious?” Max is incredulous.

“Yeah, I am. If we have to pick one of these, and our very life depends on it, I want to see all the options,” Rocky insists.

“Okay. But please don’t say I did not warn you,” Max cautions.

“In time, I think you will find that I accept all the consequences for my choices. No one else is responsible,” Rocky states firmly.

“Sounds lonely,” Max remarks.

“Yeah, sometimes, but the alternative can be pretty shitty, you know,” Rocky responds a bit shaken by Max’s remark.

“Yeah, I do. Follow me and brace yourself,” Max says as he impulsively reaches out and takes her hand. She grips his hand firmly, and he walks the two of them to the gate hidden behind the tree. He sees the familiar gate and its convex carving, creating the impression it was hewn from a single large stone. The infinity symbol dominates the center, surrounded by small carvings depicting men and women in various states of pain, some emotional, others physical.

The same voice, now sarcastic, announces, “One can only walk the road of eternity alone and without love, you have no place here, Max Valkith and Rocky Mirrormont, move along while you can.” The very stones seem to radiate an aura of foreboding.

“Who are you?” Rocky asks, her voice wavering with the effort.

“Who are you?” the voice answers in a way that chills them both to the bone.

Max pulls at Rocky, who stands enraptured looking at the gate, by the hand. She initially resists, being almost hypnotized by the energy radiating from the stone. As they pass back by the tree, she seems to wake as if she had just daydreamed.

“Are you okay?” Max checks on her.

“Yeah, sorry, I just kind of spaced out there,” Rocky admits.

“Yeah, you did. I can’t believe it answered you,” Max is bewildered.

“Did I ask a question?” Says Rocky is confusion.

Max just looks at her, wondering what has just happened. He suggests they drink from the fountain, each taking a turn. The water tastes amazing, refreshing them.

“Well, we have one more to visit. Are you ready?” Max says.

“Yeah,” Rocky grabs his hand. “Let’s do this.”

They pass to the right and approach the last gate, similar in size and construction to the first, is adorned with two lovers entwined in a passionate embrace, naked with engorged genitalia.

Surrounding the main image are about twenty smaller depictions of lovers in sexual positions reminiscent of the Kama Sutra.

“How lovely to see you again. I see that you have come with everything necessary. What a pleasure! It has been too long,” a voice greets them.

Max speaks, “Can you take us home?”

“Oh, I can take you many places if you accept my terms,” the voice responds.

“What are you terms?” Rocky asks mildly apprehensive.

“Ecstasy is the table stakes, my dear, absolute bliss. Give it a think, if you are so inclined, simply ask together three times for entry,” the voice fades away.

Rocky continues to ask questions without response.

“What the hell does that mean? Ecstasy is the table stakes. What kind of fucked-up riddle-my-ass kind of operation is this?” Rocky exclaims.

Max cannot suppress a laugh at her earnest outburst.

“Do you understand any of this, Max?”

“No, Rocky, I am sorry, I don’t. It looks like you have to make a 14th-century porno for all I can tell. What I do know is once these guys quit talking to you, it is pretty pointless to continue. I nearly drove myself batty last time,” Max explains.

Rocky sits thinking for a long time, staring at the pictures of the sexual positions on the gate. She is in no way prude, but is this something she is ready to get herself into? She thinks about what is happening back in her life. She wonders if time is the same here as there. Finally, she thinks about Rex and what she owes him.

“Look, Rocky, maybe there is another way. Maybe we can try to get one of the portals to work?” Max suggests.

“That thing on your arm, the Garn af Bant,”

“Bant af Garn.” Max corrects her

“Yeah, whatever the fuck you call it. It says this is the only way out,” Rocky asks.

“Yeah, that’s what it told me,” Max resigns.

“Then let’s do this,” Rocky decides with sudden resolve.

Max is surprised at her sudden resolve but sees no other alternative.

They walk to the front of the gate hands tightening in anticipation.

“Okay at the same time then, lets try may we enter; ready one two three go!” Max says

They Speak together,  May we enter, May we enter, May we enter?

The gate slides open leaving a small passage just large enough for them to pass single file.

They look at each other and Max nods indicating he will go first. Holding hands they pass the gate single file, as the darkness surrounds them Max swears he hears distant laughter.

As they step through the gate, the flickering torchlight reveals a spiral staircase leading downward, the close quarters forcing Max and Rocky to press together. Max feels the rough stone under his hands as they descend, the torchlight casting jagged shadows that seem to pulse with the beat of his quickening heart. Where are we going? he wonders, a mix of anticipation and unease coursing through him. The air grows warmer, tinged with the faint, exotic scents of jasmine and sandalwood, and he can’t decide if the feeling in his chest is excitement or dread.

When they reach the base of the steps, the passage opens, and Max freezes at the sight before him. A massive chamber spreads out like a dream—or a fantasy—made real. Thirteen beds form a perfect circle, their arrangement so precise it feels like stepping into a ritual space. Above each bed, intricate carvings dominate the walls, each one alive with motion, capturing sensual moments so vividly that Max feels like the figures might step out of the stone. This isn’t just art—it’s a celebration, he thinks, his cheeks flushing as he tries to process the boldness of it all. The flickering light gives the carvings life, the figures seeming to shift and breathe, drawing his gaze with their raw intensity. How do they make it feel so… alive?

Rocky, walking beside him, pauses as her eyes sweep the room. The soft glow of the torches highlights the elegance of the space, and though her face remains composed, her mind races. This isn’t just a room—it’s a statement. A cathedral to the sacred and profane. She studies the carvings, the way each tells a story, not just of passion but of connection, vulnerability, and trust. The scent in the air—jasmine and sandalwood, mingled with something deeper—settles over her like a cloak. This place is designed to strip you of pretense, she realizes, to force you to confront what you want and what you fear.

Max’s gaze flits from the carvings to the beds themselves, their richness overwhelming. Silk and velvet shimmer in the golden light, and he can almost feel their softness just by looking. He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. It’s too much, too perfect, he thinks, the extravagance making him feel out of place. Yet there’s something magnetic about the space—an invitation he doesn’t entirely understand but can’t ignore.

Rocky’s thoughts take a different turn. Her eyes linger on the interplay of light and shadow across the chamber, the way the warm glow caresses every surface. It’s not just luxury—it’s intention, she decides, recognizing the care in every detail. The chamber doesn’t just invite—it demands surrender, to sensation, to desire, to the moment. She notices Max’s hesitation and feels a flicker of protectiveness. He’s overwhelmed, she thinks, softening slightly. This isn’t a place for the unsure, and yet here we are.

The air thickens as they move further into the room, the fragrance deepening, earthy and ethereal. Max’s senses are alive, the smell tugging at something primal, something ancient. He glances at Rocky, who seems perfectly composed, her gaze sharp and calculating. How does she stay so calm? he wonders, feeling small in the presence of her confidence—and the room’s undeniable power.

As they approach the circle, Max brushes his hand against one of the bedposts, its wood warm to the touch, almost alive. He pulls back quickly, embarrassed by his curiosity, but the sensation lingers. Rocky notices and gives him a fleeting glance, her expression unreadable. This place has teeth, she thinks, feeling the chamber’s quiet hum of expectation. The question is, are we here to confront it—or let it consume us?

Rocky turns to Max, her lips parting as if to speak, but before words can form, a torrent of pure, raw, unadulterated desire sweeps over them. It’s like a series of waves, each wave more powerful than the last, engulfing them in a burning need for each other that is all-consuming. This isn’t just attraction; it’s a primal, overwhelming force that obliterates all thought, leaving only a driving need for union unlike anything they have ever experienced.

In an instant, they find themselves on the first bed, their movements frenzied as they tear at their remaining clothes. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing, just an all-encompassing desire that demands fulfillment. Clothes are discarded in a tangle beside the bed as they come together, skin on skin, in a rush of heat and urgency.

It takes them twenty intense minutes to contort and align their bodies to match the intricate position depicted in the painting hanging above them. The air is charged with their passion, every touch electrifying, every glance laden with desire.

Once they achieve the pose, a sense of accomplishment mixed with insatiable hunger propels them into the next bed, where the cycle of fervent passion resumes.

Bed by bed, they move in increasing throes of ecstasy, each position a new challenge, each moment a deeper exploration of their desire. The chamber becomes a sacred space for their dance of passion, the beds their altars. The positions depicted above each bed guide them, pushing them to explore the limits of their flexibility, stamina, and creativity.

With each new bed, their connection deepens, their pleasure intensifies, until they complete the entire circuit of beds, having fulfilled each depicted position with a mix of reverence and wild abandon.

Finally, utterly spent, they collapse into each other’s arms in total physical, mental, and spiritual exhaustion. A wave of peaceful satisfaction washes over them, cocooning them in a blissful afterglow. The intense journey they’ve embarked on together has not only tested their bodies but has also forged a deeper bond between them, leaving them intertwined in ways they never could have imagined.

As they drift into unconscious bliss, the world around them fades, leaving only the echo of their shared ecstasy and the promise of a connection that transcends the physical realm.

Max’s return to consciousness is a slow and disorienting emergence from the abyss, the world around him a muddled landscape painted with broad strokes of confusion and disorientation. His thoughts are a chaotic tumble, fragments of memories from the past few hours burning through his mind with relentless intensity.

“Rocky? Are you here, Rocky?” he calls out into the shadowy expanse, his voice echoing off invisible walls that confine him in this enigmatic place. Only the soft susurration of wind weaving through the leaves of a nearby tree offers any response.

The cocktail of emotions roiling within him is intoxicating—a potent mix of pleasure, guilt, and a profound, gnawing fear for Rocky’s well-being.

“Rocky! Rocky!” he cries again, his voice tinged with desperation. Yet, the silence that meets him is a vast, engulfing void, a nothingness that threatens to consume him entirely. He collapses to the ground, the harsh realization crashing down upon him that he might truly have lost her this time.

In a desperate bid for some semblance of control, Max summons his Heads-up with a mere thought. “Connect to Planetary net?” it inquires, and he nods, a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. “Where am I?” he implores, clinging to the faintest hope of a straightforward answer.

“You’re in Nizhny Navilok, capital city of Vodanis on planet Veletia. You’re in a residential park,” it informs him, providing cold comfort. It’s a place he’s been before, a full circle return to the very locus where his journey on this world first began. But Rocky’s whereabouts remain a mystery.

Diving into the communication options, he searches for Rocky Mirrormont with a mounting sense of dread. Each query returns void. “She goddamn well exists,” he mutters into the indifferent embrace of the night.

Torn between hope and despair, he contemplates whether she’ll ever desire to see him again—if she’s even capable of it. Is she ensnared on Anubidia? What transpired back there?

Memories surge back with overwhelming intensity—their first time, an experience beyond anything he could have imagined. His heart aches with thoughts of her, tangled with fear of her perceptions of him now.

Drained, both mentally and physically, Max strives to marshal his thoughts logically. Zach’s palace resides on this world. Echoes of Gunner’s warning reverberate within him, yet he finds himself devoid of alternatives. He must take the risk.

Finding Zach’s number, a private, secure line, he sends a message into the void, receiving no immediate response. The chill of the night begins to permeate his being, and only then does he realize his naked vulnerability. He scans the park, thankfully deserted, and makes his way toward the transport tubes.

Navigating to the tubes becomes a cautious ballet of avoidance, steering clear of the scant early risers. Fortune grants him a shred of dignity when he finds a discarded picnic blanket with which to cover himself, and he summons the tube, yearning for solitude. The doors part to reveal an empty carriage, and he exhales a sigh of relief.

As he descends into the city below, the beauty and intricacy of Vodanis strike him anew. When the doors open he sees the guards at the club he had previously elicited for help.

Approaching the shimmering-uniformed guards, desperation clear in his approach, he pleads, “Guys, I could really use some help.”

To his surprise the guards do not react to his obvious predicament.  Instead the operate with a professionalism that leads him to believe this is not so out of the realm of their usual experience.

The guard introduced himself as Jake, and escorts him to the building’s side, where, after a brief absence, he returns with an oversize shirt and pants.

“Here, use these,” he offers, a gesture of unexpected kindness. Max’s attempt at payment is waved away with a laugh.

“Just stop by the club sometime,” the guard suggests with a departing grin, leaving Max to his solitude by the building.

The acrid stench of slightly spoiled garbage from the nearby dumpster assaults Max’s senses, as overwhelming waves of emotion threatening to unravel him. Nausea grips him, sending him to his knees as his body convulses in a futile attempt to expel the inexpressible.

Nils drifts, weightless in a realm beyond comprehension, suspended within the delicate thread of Bant af Garn. The void stretches endlessly around him, his only companions the twin black holes he’s nicknamed Ebony and Ivory. Freed from their ancient bindings, they twist and twirl in a cosmic ballet, warping spacetime into an intricate tapestry.

He watches, captivated, the enormity of their dance making him feel both insignificant and profoundly connected. I shouldn’t even be alive, he thinks, the surreal nature of his existence striking him anew.

The Bant af Garn hums softly through his being, a reminder of the parts of him that are no longer human. The ancient entity, in saving him, has replaced what the Grav Capacitor destroyed with its own essence. He can feel it now, not just inside him but as him—an inseparable part of his being. The realization unsettles him. Am I still me? he wonders. Or am I just… a fragment of something larger wearing the name Nils?*

The stars shimmer, alive with the pulse of creation, and his thoughts shift, drawn into the vastness of the universe. For the first time, he doesn’t see it as mere matter and energy but as something alive, vibrant—a living organism with a universal DNA threading through it. This code, infinite and intricate, resonates with him now in a way it never could have before. Every universe is a spark, a breath, a heartbeat in this endless cycle, he thinks, awed by the beauty of it. Each one born, flourishing, fading, only to be reborn, a perpetual dance of existence.

His gaze lingers on Ebony and Ivory, their gravitational pull distorting the fabric of spacetime like ripples in a cosmic pond. He thinks about his home on Slygard, its fragile balance, and the evolutionary processes that shaped it. The parallels are striking. Natural selection doesn’t stop at life, he muses. It extends to universes themselves, culled and shaped by the same relentless forces. Our universe… my universe… we’re all teetering on the edge of survival, just like every species that ever lived.

The thought brings a pang of unease. What if this is it? he wonders. What if our universe is just another failed iteration, destined to collapse under its own flaws? But then he feels the Bant within him, a reminder that his existence now spans more than this single thread of reality. His code, fluid and adaptable, ties him to countless universal iterations, unshackling him from the constraints of any one plane. I’m not just of this universe anymore, he realizes. I’m… part of the something greater.

The stars above seem to sing, a melody woven into the silence of the void, and Nils feels himself humming along. It’s not a song, not exactly, but a resonance—a rhythm that reverberates through him, stirring something deep in his soul. The universe, the Bant, his place within it all—it’s overwhelming and yet exhilarating. He feels a pull to act, to create, as if the very fabric of the cosmos is asking him to add to its endless tapestry.

He begins to build, his thoughts turning to form, his hands—now extensions of something greater—shaping the cosmic thread around him. But just as he starts to lose himself in the act, a sharp, nagging beeping cuts through the symphony of creation. It’s insistent, discordant, a sound far too mundane for this space.

Nils frowns, the magic of the moment slipping away. An alarm clock? Here? The absurdity of it tugs at the corners of his mind, pulling him back toward something tangible, something familiar—and far less infinite.”Nils! Nils! Are you fucking there or not!”

Max feels goosebumps rising on his skin and realizes he is cold. He doesn’t know how long he has been standing in the parking lot when he is startled by a rush of air. A sleek black silhouette of a craft slowly materializes out of the darkness a few meters away and gently descends to the lot. The rushing air gives the feel that the craft simply emerged from nowhere.

“Max, get in! We need to get out of here fast, get in!” Zach shouts, wearing his ridiculous hat, gesturing toward the craft. Max begins trotting towards him.

A small set of steps extends from the craft, and Max grabs the accompanying railing, pulling himself into the plush interior of the craft. This interior is different from the luxury of the former ride. This craft is built for speed and efficiency. It’s still comfortable, but the low rumbling of the engine gives the impression of raw power, not luxury.

Zach, shouting to the pilot, commands, “Go now! To orbital platform 2 as fast as possible, full stealth and do not pause for clearance!”

The craft begins to rise at a disconcerting rate, pushing Max toward the ground with the force of the lift, before some unseen stabilizer engages, lifting the weight from him. He can see the ground sliding away at breathtaking speed.

“Our ‘friends’ have been on me non-stop, we need to get you somewhere safe,” Zach says.

Max’s mind races between what has happened to him, Rocky, and fear.

“Zach, I need to go to Kagama Deux,” Max states.

Zach considers quietly for a few moments and nods. “Yeah, that tracks. Word to the wise though, Kagama Deux is a massive binary black hole system and nothing gets very close.”

Pilot interjects, “Sir, we will arrive at OP2 in three minutes. Shall I request clearance for landing?”

“No, not at a regular port. We need to go internal to a maintenance bay,” Zach instructs.

Max stares out at the approaching platform, its vast structure cutting sharply against the stars and the faint ring of the planet below. The scale of it unsettles him—a sprawling labyrinth of purpose he can’t fully grasp. How does anyone even build something like this? he wonders, feeling both awe and unease. His eyes follow the docking ports lining its spine, each one holding a ship that seems to carry its own story.

Sleek courier ships gleam like polished jewels, while weathered freighters wear the scars of countless journeys. A military cruiser looms among them, its angular lines radiating threat. Max’s gut tightens. There’s no mistaking that one. Someone brought it here to make a point.

As their ship veers away from the grand docking ports, slipping into the shadows beneath the platform, Max feels a chill creep up his spine. Not the front door, huh? Figures. Below, the maintenance pipelines stretch out like arteries, massive conduits hidden from view, feeding life into the platform. The sight makes him feel small, a speck swallowed by something much larger and more indifferent.

The ship glides into one of the colossal tubes, and the atmosphere shifts. Gone is the polished exterior of the platform; here, it’s all exposed wires, power lines, and coolant pipes—a mess of function over form. Max watches the cables snaking across the floor like roots, feeding the machines that keep the station alive. This is where the real work happens, he thinks, the harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in a stark, unforgiving glow. The air feels thick, tinged with smoke and the metallic bite of industry, and the distant hum of machinery vibrates faintly in his chest.

Their ship moves through the shadowy corridor, navigating the industrial sprawl with practiced precision. Max leans back, trying to steady his nerves. It’s a different kind of quiet here, he thinks, not peaceful—just… waiting. The walkway ahead comes into view, a narrow strip running parallel to the tube, its purpose unclear but its presence ominous. The platform feels alive in its own way, humming with energy and intent. Max swallows hard, bracing himself. Whatever comes next, he’s already in the thick of it.

Zach instructs, “Once we are close enough to the platform, uncloak and open the passenger door.”

Pilot responds, “Yes sir, please be aware you will have less than five seconds to disembark.”

“Understood. Max, are you ready to hop off?” Zach asks.

“Right behind you,” Max replies.

As they approach the railing, the craft slows, its engines a whisper against the constant drone of the station’s heart. With a grace that belies the utilitarian surroundings, the ship uncloaks, revealing its form to the empty corridor for a fleeting moment.

Zach and Max stand poised at the open hatch, their forms silhouetted against the light from within. With a synchronicity born of necessity, they leap, landing in a drunken waddle of those unaccustomed to the dance of gravity and inertia. Their hands find the cold metal of the railing, and for a moment, they are statues, carved from the shadow and light.

The ship re-cloaks and accelerates away, disappearing once more into the hidden recesses of the platform as they turn to face the corridor. Behind them, the vast maintenance pipeline stretches into the distance, its industrial beauty a stark contrast to the serene void outside.

“I take it you have a plan,” Max states.

Grinning, Zach replies, “I always have a plan.”

Zach pulls a small object from inside his jacket that looks like it might hold sunglasses. He begins to unfold it. Each time it unfolds, it seems to increase in size and volume until he is holding a bag about the size of a kitchen garbage sack.

“Is that a freaking bag of holding?” Max asks.

“It’s an Infinipouch,” Zach explains.

Zach reaches into the pouch and shuffles around for a few moments before pulling out two jumpsuits on hangers. The suits make a slight sucking sound as they emerge from the box.

“Put this one on,” Zach instructs, handing the suit to Max.

Max pulls the jumpsuit off the hanger and begins changing into it, discarding his existing clothes in a chaotic pile.

“That is the spirit!” Zach comments.

Zach carefully places his hat into the Infinipouch before changing into his own jumpsuit. He carefully folds the pouch back to its original shape and slides it inside the jumpsuit.

“When time allows, you’re really going to have to explain that thing to me,” Max says.

“Happy to try, but frankly, no one really understands it. It’s a Cynoptian relic, the only one known to exist,” Zach responds.

“Super cool, Zach. You win the best toy contest,” Max says.

“Happy to amuse. Now you need to activate the suit you’re wearing. Put your hand over the crest on the right chest and hold it there for fifteen seconds. That will engage a cloaking mechanism that will make us look different to a casual observer. It will also mask your digital signature. Do the same to turn it off. Neither of us will notice the effect. Once it is engaged, follow me. Try not to say anything. These suits work well as long as there is minimal sound. We are going to a ship I have access to here. Just follow me and try not to say anything unless absolutely necessary,” Zach instructs.

Zach and Max step out of the platform’s labyrinthine underbelly, the shift in atmosphere striking immediately. The oppressive hum of machinery and the sharp tang of ozone from the lower levels give way to a controlled sterility. The corridors are quieter here, the occasional murmur of passing personnel punctuated by the soft hiss of electronic doors. Max feels it like a slap—this new space isn’t safe. It’s exposed, scrutinized.

Zach’s eyes flick to every camera lens they pass, his mind a rapid churn of plans. Stick to the flow, don’t stand out, he tells himself, his steps deliberate. Each corner and intersection feels like a challenge to his calculations, another variable that might upend their precarious balance. The weight of the moment presses on his shoulders, but he pushes it down. They’re just another pair of nobodies. Keep it that way.

Max trails close, his nerves raw. He can feel every eye on them, even if it’s just his imagination. The fear of being spotted claws at him, sharp and insistent. One wrong look, he thinks, and this all unravels. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure where to rest them. The starkness of the sterile corridors feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in.

When they hit the bottleneck of a shift change, the flow of workers momentarily shields them. Max breathes easier, blending into the sea of motion. I’m invisible, he tells himself, though the hammering in his chest betrays his doubt. He glances at Zach, whose calm demeanor feels both reassuring and alien. How does he stay so composed? Max wonders, feeling the disparity between them like a chasm.

Zach’s mind is already three steps ahead, evaluating the thinning crowd and recalibrating their trajectory. The crowd disperses, and the docking bays spread before them, a cavernous expanse of order and purpose. Max’s gaze snaps to the ships, a dizzying variety of designs and sizes, but Zach’s focus narrows to one—a craft that stands apart. Sleek and predatory, it looks like it could slice through the stars themselves. That’s the one, Zach thinks, his stride quickening.

Max swallows hard as they approach. The ship radiates danger, its dark matte hull swallowing the light. It feels alive somehow, a predator waiting to pounce. Why do I feel like it’s watching us? he wonders, his apprehension spiking. But Zach doesn’t falter. With a confidence Max envies, he produces a small device and sets to work on the ship’s security system.

Zach’s hands move quickly, fluidly, as though this were second nature. Just another lock to pick, he reassures himself, though the stakes are higher than any he’s faced before. The hatch hisses open, and he allows himself a small exhale. We’re in.

Max follows him inside, his unease deepening. The ship’s interior is sharp and utilitarian, its military purpose unmistakable. The absence of personnel makes the space feel hollow, yet the air carries a faint tension, as if the ship itself is waiting. It’s too quiet, Max thinks, his footsteps echoing against the metallic floor. He tries to keep close to Zach, whose familiarity with the craft contrasts with Max’s growing discomfort. He fits here. I don’t.

In the pilot chamber, Zach slides into the seat, his movements automatic, practiced. The controls respond immediately, systems flickering to life under his touch. Max watches as the ship awakens, a low thrum vibrating through the hull. How does he make this look so easy? Max wonders, feeling like an observer in a world he doesn’t belong to.

As the ship disengages from the station, Max glances out the viewport. The structured lines of the orbital platform shrink away, replaced by the infinite sprawl of space. The stars blur and stretch as the faster-than-light drive activates, the universe bending to their velocity. For a moment, Max’s fear slips into awe. We’re really doing this, he thinks, his eyes fixed on the endless expanse ahead.

Zach remains focused on the controls, but a quiet satisfaction settles over him. We’re clear. For now. The tension of their escape begins to ease, though the weight of what lies ahead still looms. The stars streak by, and he allows himself a rare moment of hope. We’ve got a shot.

Max leans back, his earlier panic fading into something lighter, almost exhilarating. The fear isn’t gone, but it’s been overtaken by a sense of possibility. This is it. The edge of everything. He glances at Zach, who seems like he belongs among the stars, and feels the faintest flicker of belief. Maybe, with him at the helm, we really can pull this off.

Zach tells Max, “You can turn off the suit now and talking is back on the menu.”

Max, curious, asks, “I take it this is not your ship?”

Zach smiles and responds, “Well, not in the physical sense, but it is pledged to my aid. Should the owner come looking, they would be ‘honored’ with my choice to embark in it.”

Max comments, “It must be pretty weird to be you.”

Zach agrees, “You have no idea.”

He then pulls out a small bag and expertly rolls a thin joint, asking as he lights it and offers it to Max, “Spliff?”

Max accepts, “Why the hell not.”

Zach explains, “We have about six hours until we reach the Kagama Deux system. I can bring us in near the system’s Oort Cloud, about a light year out. Any closer and the gravitational effects of the binary black holes will tear us apart, not to mention the time dilation. I suggest you get some sleep if you can. I expect it’s going to be a pretty interesting day.

Oh, the spliff I rolled has a slight sedative in it. I thought it might help us sleep.”

Max, appreciative, responds, “Ahh yeah, thanks for the heads up.”

A wave of sleepiness rolls across Max as he feels himself sliding into sleep. It feels as if he has just closed his eyes when he is pulled from sleep by an incessant beeping. He opens his eyes and sees Zach deeply concentrated on the controls.

Max, concerned, asks, “Everything okay?”

Zach replies, “No, everything is not okay. There is something following us.”

Max inquires, “Is that bad?”

Zach clarifies, “Not bad, its impossible to be followed while moving in FTL, but there it is, big as life.”

Their conversation is interrupted by a soft chirping sound.

Zach, frustrated, says, “Ah, come on now, what the fuck is going on. We are receiving a message.”

Max questions, “From who?”

Zach explains, “Also impossible to receive a message while in FTL. Okay, just when you thought it could get no more weird, the message seems to be from us!”

Max decides, “Well then, I guess we should answer it.”

Zach makes a small hand movement, which Max interprets as commands to the system, and a string of characters appears in front of Zach.

Zach observes, “Okay, this is interesting, in the Chinese curse sort of way. These are coordinates for leaving FTL, except that one of them is a negative value.”

Max asks, “What does that mean?”

Zach explains, “Well, the first coordinates are easy, except they are smack dab in the middle of two black holes. The last coordinate is asking us to leave FTL into a space that cannot exist in the real universe.”

Suddenly, a booming voice vibrates the ship violently, “MORTALS, RETURN WHAT IS MINE WHILST YOU STILL DRAW BREATH!”

Zach reacts, “Uh, shit, if that keeps up this thing will tear itself apart. FTL is no place for random vibrations.”

Max queries, “How close are we to those coordinates?”

Zach speculates, “Existentially, we can be there right now or in a trillion years, depending on how you read the math.”

Max suggests, “I have a pretty good idea where those coordinates are coming from, and I suggest we use them.”

The voice demands again, “SURRENDER THAT WHICH IS MINE!”

The ship shudders and dozens of warning lights begin to flash. A high-pitched wail fills the cabin.

Max urges, “Zach, go to those coordinates, now!”

Zach warns, “If you have any gods, now would be a good time to start praying to them.”

Zach’s hands move quickly over the controls. An automated voice chimes, “Those coordinates are not within acceptable parameters.”

Zach commands, “Protocol override!”

The system responds, “Please repeat request for verification of override.”

Zach impatiently repeats, “Override, override, override the fucking controls.”

Max feels burning heat coming from the Bant af Garn on his arm.

The console hums to life, lights flickering in a rhythm that feels more alive than mechanical. Ahead, the vortex shimmers—a swirling kaleidoscope of colors that seem to bleed into each other, defying the boundaries of reality. Max can’t look away. Is this what crossing the edge of everything looks like? The thought sends a jolt through him, half awe, half fear.

Zach’s fingers fly over the console, steady and precise. To him, this is a puzzle to be solved, a path to navigate. No mistakes here, he thinks, every movement a calculated step forward. The silence in the cabin thickens, almost tangible, as if the ship itself is holding its breath.

Max grips the armrests of his seat, his gaze locked on the vortex ahead. Each breath feels heavier, slower, as though the air is weighed down by the enormity of what they’re about to do. One more second, he thinks, and there’s no turning back. The idea terrifies him, but there’s no stopping now.

The ship lurches forward, the motion subtle but profound, and they plunge into the void. Time twists. Max feels it stretch and snap, his senses overloaded as light bends and fractures around them. Colors he doesn’t have words for flood his vision, painting the cabin in strokes that feel more like dreams than reality. His stomach churns, and for a moment he’s sure he’s falling—no, flying—caught in a whirlwind of motion without direction. This isn’t right. How does Zach look so calm?

Zach feels it too, but differently. It’s not disorientation; it’s connection. The universe presses against him, flows through him. Every nerve hums with energy, like the power of the cosmos is coursing through his veins. This is what it feels like to touch the infinite, he realizes, a mixture of exhilaration and respect grounding him. You don’t fight it. You ride it.

For Max, it’s a storm. For Zach, it’s a dance. The moments stretch into what feels like eternity, their senses suspended in this maelstrom of spacetime. Max’s grip tightens, his mind screaming for something solid, something real. This is too much. How do you even survive something like this?

Then, as suddenly as it began, the chaos ceases. The colors fade, the twisting light recedes, and the universe settles back into its familiar stillness. Max exhales sharply, his chest heaving as he struggles to anchor himself back in the now. We made it. Somehow, we made it.

Zach’s focus shifts immediately forward, his eyes narrowing at a truly massive sphere that quickly envelops the horizon. It glows faintly, a beacon in the void. Max follows his gaze, the awe creeping back into his voice. That’s it, he thinks, his fear momentarily forgotten. Their ship begins its approach, and for the first time since plunging into the vortex, Max feels steady again—drawn toward the unknown, but no longer adrift.

Zach notes,  “Just for the record I am no longer in control of the ship.”

Max replies, “Noted and for the record I haven’t been in control of anything since I had a sandwich in Albuquerque.”

Zach replies in confusion, “I have no idea what that means.”

As their ship is silently commandeered by the unseen mechanisms of the Sphere, Zach and Max watch, powerless but awestruck, from the cockpit. The transition from the cold, dark vacuum of space into the colossal megastructure is seamless, some advanced technology that binds this marvel of engineering.

As they step into the Sphere, Max feels his mind falter, unable to grasp the sheer vastness unfolding before him. It’s not just the size—though the interior seems impossibly endless—but the sun suspended at its heart, casting perpetual daylight over an impossible quilt of terrains. Deserts, forests, oceans—everything exists here, side by side under a curving sky that feels both infinite and enclosed. How does something like this even exist? he wonders, his awe mingled with a creeping unease.

Zach’s eyes narrow as he studies the terrain below, his mind already working to parse the logistics of it all. A contained ecosystem this massive? Self-sustaining? He shakes his head slightly, not in disbelief but in a grudging respect. Whoever built this didn’t just master nature—they recreated it on their terms.

The ship moves with deliberate gentleness, guided by an intelligence they cannot see. Max feels the subtle descent, as soft as a leaf falling to the ground, and the hum of the engines fades into the background. The clearing ahead, bordered by a dense forest, feels like an invitation, though Max can’t shake the sense that they’re being watched—or measured. It’s too perfect. Nothing feels random here.

When the ship finally touches down, the landing pad seems almost alive, blending seamlessly into the vibrant green of the surrounding terrain. Max and Zach exchange a glance, the unspoken question lingering between them. What is this place? Zach’s usual composure falters for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he steps toward the exit.

The air outside is intoxicating—fresh, alive, and nothing like the artificial atmosphere of their ship. Max takes a deep breath, the richness of it filling his lungs, grounding him even as everything else feels unsteady. The golden light from the eternal sun bathes the clearing, casting a warm glow that makes the scene feel otherworldly, like stepping into a dream. I’ve never felt air like this, Max thinks. It’s alive.

Ahead of them stands a small house, simple yet elegant. Its medieval aesthetic—a mix of timber and stone—feels almost absurd against the advanced technology that surrounds them. Max squints at the flowering vines that climb the courtyard walls, their blooms vibrant and pulsating faintly, as though alive in ways beyond the botanical. Why does it feel ancient and alive at the same time? he wonders, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

Zach studies the statues flanking the entrance, their features serene but unreadable. Guardians, he guesses, though their species is unrecognizable. The house radiates a quiet authority, like it’s waiting for them to approach. Zach’s confidence wavers briefly. If this is a welcome, it’s unnervingly polite.

The courtyard’s cobblestones feel deliberate, each one placed with care, patches of greenery softening the hard edges. Max hesitates at the threshold, the silence pressing in on him. Even the sound of their footsteps feels intrusive in the tranquil air. The house looms ahead, an enigma of peace and mystery, its doorway a question they’ll have to answer. Is this a sanctuary? Or a test? Max can’t tell, and the thought unsettles him as they take their first steps into the unknown. No one greets them at the door which sits ajar swaying gently in the light breeze.

Zach asks, “Is this a knowing someone kind of operation or a straight-up breaking and entering?”

Max replies, “The door is open, I think just an entering will do.”

Zach pushes back the door, revealing a tasteful entrance with staircases circling up to the second level on both sides.

Max calls out gently, “Hello? Anyone home?”

Footsteps shuffle from the upper level. Zach and Max exchange questioning looks, each hoping the other might suggest the next course of action.

Nils appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in a silk robe and slippers. He remarks, “Ahh, I take it you must be Max,” looking at Zach, then turns to face Max, “And who might I ask are you?”

Max clarifies, “Uhh, well actually, I’m Max. That is Zacharaiah Jigme Dorje Tenzing Lachungpa, or if you prefer, the Zenhaari. And I take it you would be the suspected mass murderer Nils Verin?”

Nils acknowledges, “Well, now that we have introductions out of the way, I assume by the nature of the fact that you are here, you have the Bant af Garn with you?”

Max inquires, “Where exactly is here?”

Nils explains, “Well, hold on to your hat. It’s a little meta, but you are currently inside a thread of the Bant af Garn, snuggled cozily between binary black holes, in what is, as near as I can tell, a Dyson Sphere. After that, it’s turtles all the way down.”

Zach and Max glance at each other, trying to comprehend the details.

Max asks, “So I am inside the thing that is on my arm?”

Nils corrects him, “Ahh goodness no, that would be a bit too self-referential. You’re wearing the mother ship; this thing we currently inhabit is merely a thread I was given, so to speak. It has been conveniently keeping me alive while we waited for you to come to my rescue. Which I assume is what brings you here now.”

Rriiiiiiip!!!!!!

Suddenly, the door behind Zach and Max is ripped from the frame with a loud crack, causing them to bolt forward into the entryway, revealing a very angry, incredibly handsome giant of a man.

Loki announces, “I have come for that which is mine and to see the hope leave your eyes as I squeeze the blood from your veins.”

Nils vaults over the railing, dropping several meters from the top of the stairs to the floor, and lands athletically next to Max.

Nils looks directly into Max’s eyes and urges, “If you want to live, give me the Bant now.”

Max hesitates momentarily before realizing it is not a threat but an offer of support. He pulls the Bant, which has conveniently expanded, off his arm and hands it to Nils, who quickly places it on his wrist.

The god steps forward menacingly toward Max and Nils. Zach steps into the way in an attempt to stop him. Loki kicks Zach with such force that he is lifted over the staircase and slammed into the wall with a sickly crushing sound. Zach slides from the wall back to the stairs and lies in a lifeless heap at the bottom.

Nils holds up his arm bearing the Bant af Garn and focuses all his concentration on Loki.

The god’s forward motion slows, moving only centimeters at a time, his face a contortion of rage and determination.

Max, caught between the two, walks backward away from Loki, stopping behind Nils.

Silence fills the room as Nils and Loki face one another, both engulfed in a massive battle of wills, while Loki creeps forward centimeter by centimeter.

Loki taunts, “Stupid mortal, only a god can truly use the Bant. You do nothing but delay the inevitable, which will make it only sweeter when I watch the light drain from your eyes.”

Max notices the strain beginning to overcome Nils when he feels a vibrating sensation around his neck, which pulls his attention momentarily from the struggle.

He reaches up and feels a necklace around his throat. “How the fuck did this get here!”, he wonders out-loud.

He hears a voice which speaks clearly to him, instructing, “Wait ‘til Loki touches Nils. At that very moment, grab Nils’s wrist and Loki’s. All three of us must be in physical contact. When this is all going down, ya need to find something, anything that’s funny enough to make ya laugh out loud, ya hear? Ya get me?”

Max, slightly overwhelmed by the voiced the violent scene taking place in front of him turns back to the struggle and sees Loki only centimeters from Nils, who is holding both hands out in front of him, palms forward, silently attempting to push the giant away.

Nils feels his strength ebbing away, the crushing grip of Loki’s hands like iron vices on his wrists. Every muscle in his body strains, every ounce of his will pours into resisting, but Loki is relentless. The malicious smile spreading across the god’s face is a blade, cutting through Nils’s resolve as the last centimeters between them vanish.

“Pathetic,” Loki sneers, his voice low and venomous. “You miserable waste of space. Now you’ll know the full power of a god.”

Nils grits his teeth, trying to summon anything—strength, resolve, fury—but his body betrays him. The Bant af Garn hums faintly on his wrist, but even its ancient power feels distant, unreachable. His vision starts to blur, and a cold certainty settles over him. This is it, he realizes, his thoughts dimming. I can’t stop him.

Max stands frozen a few steps away, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His heart pounds in his ears, the sheer terror of Loki’s presence rooting him in place. Move, damn it! Do something! But the sight of Nils—being overpowered by the god is paralyzing. Loki’s words ring in his ears, dripping with malice, and Max’s mind fills with the horror of what comes next if he doesn’t act. You’re next if Nils falls.

As Loki’s grip tightens, Nils chokes out a gasp, his body trembling with the effort of holding on. The Bant af Garn flickers weakly, its power dimming as Loki’s overwhelming power presses down. Max watches helplessly, panic rising like a tidal wave. His feet feel like lead, his thoughts tangled in fear and self-doubt. He’s dying. Nils is dying because I’m standing here doing nothing.

A surge of anger cuts through the fear. No. The word is clear, sharp, undeniable. I’m not letting this happen.

With a cry that’s equal parts desperation and defiance, Max lunges forward. His hand clamps around Loki’s wrist, the god’s skin cold and unyielding under his grip. Loki barely spares him a glance, his attention fixed on crushing Nils completely. But Max doesn’t stop. His other hand finds the Bant af Garn on Nils’s wrist, the faint hum of its energy sparking under his palm.

“Get off him!” Max shouts, his voice cracking but filled with resolve. The Bant af Garn flares to life under his touch, a sudden surge of light and power coursing through it. Nils’s eyes snap open, meeting Max’s for a fleeting second. The Necklace hums to life infusing Max with a terrible power and in that moment, the tide begins to shift.

Loki turns his face to Max with a look of alarm, not seeing him at all.

Max searches his mind desperately, grasping for anything that might be funny, something—anything—that could break the suffocating tension of the moment. His usual arsenal of quips and jokes feels empty, a hollow place where humor used to live. He tries to think of Mizore, his cat, her ridiculous antics—pawing at invisible enemies or darting through doorways like her life depended on it. But even Mizore, his go-to for a smile, doesn’t crack the thick wall of despair threatening to swallow him. Come on, think!

He forces himself deeper into his memories, trying to find something absurd. His mind jumps to Rocky—her smug confidence, her unflappable charm. But even that stirs more irritation than humor. Then, suddenly, it clicks. He pictures her at Zach’s mansion during the spitting contest, her exaggerated posture of focus as if she were mastering an ancient art form. That stupid contest…

The image builds, one ridiculous moment leading to another. Her cackling triumph, his indignant fall on the stairs. Max chases the thread further—her stealing the Bant from him, the absurdity of their chase across the Chloridian world, and his slow, bewildered realization that she always seemed one step ahead. Waking up on Necropolara with a headache and no explanation, and then… The Gate of Love. Gods, what even was that place?

It hits him all at once. The absurdity of it, the sheer ridiculous string of events that have brought him here. The weight of it transforms into something light, bubbling up from his chest. He tries to suppress it, but the laugh escapes—small at first, a choked snicker. Then it grows. His stomach tightens as the laugh overtakes him, and soon he’s laughing uncontrollably, the sound echoing through the room.

But something shifts. The laugh deepens, turning darker, richer. It’s no longer just his own voice—it’s something else, laughing through him, an otherworldly force that twists the sound into something both wicked and powerful. The laughter reverberates through the air, shaking the entranceway, the very walls of the house trembling with its force.

Max bellows forth a deeps laughter he cannot stop. It’s as if the laughter has taken on a life of its own, carrying him with it, pulling him deeper into its resonance. The sound vibrates through him, filling the space, and for the briefest moment, he feels like the entire universe is laughing with him—or at him.

Loki exclaims, “YOU! NO, NO, NO, NO!”

Loki grasp begins to weaken.

Loki falters, “Why? What have I done to deserve...”

Loki falls to the ground spasming. Nils and Max tumble forward, stepping on him as they try to regain their balance, finally settling in a half-seated crouch around the dying god who wheezes one final time before lying still beneath them.

Silence engulfs the house, punctuated by a sickly rasp coming from the stairs.

Max cries out, “Zach!”

Max leaps to his feet and rushes up the staircase where Zach lies in a pool of blood, barely breathing.

Nils joins him.

Nils states, “We have to get out of here,” as he reaches down and grabs Max by the hand. Max grabs Zach by the wrist, and reality shifts.

In one seamless moment, they transition from the staircase above the lifeless corpse of of the fallen god—Zach perilously close to death’s embrace, to the Courtyard of Anubis. The shift is jarring, devoid of any sensation of movement or the passage of time, as though reality itself morphed around them.

“Whoa! Where are we?” Nils exclaims, his voice echoing in the sudden vastness of their new surroundings.

Max, his gaze locked on Zach’s pale, barely breathing form, scans the area in a frantic search for aid. But all that meets his eyes are the distant silhouettes of arches and an imposing castle, offering no immediate solace for their dire situation.

“Do you recognize this place?” Nils inquires, perplexity lacing his words, seemingly baffled by Zach’s critical state as if the reality of his presence is a conundrum.

Max’s thoughts race, desperation clawing at the edges of his resolve. He recalls the medical facility he encountered upon his initial arrival in Necropolara, and the daunting journey it took to reach it, an odyssey of stairs that seemed to stretch into infinity.

“We need to get him to the top of those stairs,” Max pleads, urgency threading through his voice, his gaze imploring Nils for comprehension and action.

Nils, still ensnared in his quest for bearings, responds, “I need to understand where we are.”

“Can you help me?  We need to get him to the top of the stairs!”, Max says frantically

Nils stares into space with awe.

Max’s patience frays, the ticking clock on Zach’s life amplifying his distress. “Look, my friend is dying. Can’t you use the Bant to help him?” he implores, the plea sharpened by the weight of their predicament.

Nils’s insistence on locating their position only fuels Max’s growing ire. “I’m sorry about your friend, but I need to grasp our location,” Nils retorts, oblivious to the storm brewing in Max.

Unseen by Nils, Max’s fist connects with the side of his head in a swift, unanticipated assault. Two more strikes swiftly target Nils’s midsection before Max ensnares him in a grappling hold, grounding him with a maneuver born of raw desperation and simmering fury.

“Look asshole, I don’t know why you brought me here and I no longer care but right now the only person who has not fucked me over is dying and your gonna help him or I am going to end you right here.” Max seethes, the threat hanging heavy between them.

Nils reacts, his survival instincts kicking in. He counters, twisting Max’s arm, momentarily breaking the hold, and rolls away, regaining his footing in an agile leap. But Max is relentless, driven by a maelstrom of emotion. He lands two swift punches, one with enough force to fracture Nils’s nose, the violence of their conflict escalating with each blow exchanged.

“Listen you little shit, I don’t give a damn about your friend. You had one purpose here and it look like that is over”, Nils screams and then kicks Max in the side of the head.  Max undeterred, seizes Nils’s foot and twists, sending Nils tumbling backward. Max pounces, his fists a blur of motion, each strike punctuated by a mixture of rage, fear, and a desperate need to save Zach.

“STOP!” Nils’s cry pierces the tumult, a plea for cessation. Max, his fury abating, slowly rises, the intensity of their skirmish leaving both men breathless and bruised.

“Why the hell did you bring me here?” Max demands, his anger subsiding into a palpable weariness. “Forget it, explain later. Can you use the Bant to save him?”

Nils, catching his breath, nods affirmatively, “The Bant does not heal, I can move us swiftly, but I have no idea where we are.”

“I know a way,” Max asserts, determination reigniting within him. “It’s near the top of that castle,” he points, directing Nils’s gaze towards their target.

“Understood. Maintain physical contact with me and your friend,” Nils instructs, understanding the gravity of their mission.

Clutching at Nils and Zach, Max braces himself, Zach’s faint moans a stark reminder of the stakes. “Ready?” Nils inquires, a note of resolve in his voice.

“Yes,” Max affirms, and with that, they ascend. Guided by Max’s directives, they traverse the distance that once took hours in minutes. They find themselves facing the door to the vast storage hall. 

Still holding onto Nils hand and touching the Gant, Max slows his breathing and as before, he begins to imagine the symbols.  He finds it comes more naturally this time and in a few minutes he hears the satisfying sound of the doors opening.

“It’s not far now, so follow me and bring Zach.” Max urges, leading them into the familiar expanse of the storage area.

“Wonderment,” Nils breathes out, momentarily distracted from the gravity of their circumstances by the sheer expanse before them. The scale of their environment, vast and echoing, momentarily lifts the weight from their shoulders.

Max, with a singular focus sharpened by the urgency of Zach’s condition, propels them forward. He and Nils hasten to the rear of the chamber, where the door to the medical facility awaits. Inside, they carefully settle Zach into a chair reminiscent of a dentist’s, but far more complex. The moment Zach’s form reclines, the machinery stirs to life with a low, promising hum.

“What is this?” Nils inquires, curiosity piqued by the machine’s apparent anticipation.

“I’m not entirely certain,” Max admits, “but I believe it’s what aided me during my initial visit here.” There’s a trace of hope in his voice, a lifeline amidst the uncertainty.

“Could you clarify our current location?” Nils presses, seeking to anchor himself within this unfolding narrative.

Max hesitates, then divulges, “We’re in Necropolara. It’s where I ended up following the message you supposedly sent.”

Nils hastens to correct the misconception. “For clarity’s sake, I wasn’t the sender. The Bant Af Garn orchestrated that message right after it... after it destroyed Kagama Deux.”

Max absorbs this, reassessing his understanding of Nils. Doubts and speculations whirl, casting Nils in a new, uncertain light.

“Are you aware of why I’m here, of why there’s a belief I’m some alternate version of you?” Max probes further, seeking truths amid the shadows of their conversation.

Nils nods, solemn. “As my life neared its end, the Bant Af Garn required another compatible operator. It seems to have chosen you, drawing from my timeline. It then ensnared me within its fabric, using me to orbit the Black Holes it unleashed, inadvertently erasing Kagama Deux. I presume it’s brought us here, to Necropolara, as this realm lies beyond our universe’s.

You and I, we cannot coexist in the same universe without dire consequences. Thus, within the Bant or here, we find sanctuary.”

Max digests this, the implications sprawling before him. “And the Bant’s interests in these machinations?”

“It’s driven by a desire to return to its origin,” Nils explains, a tinge of resignation in his tone. “Its journey here was facilitated by theft, first by Loki, then by me.”

“Loki?” Max queries, piecing together the fragmented lore.

“The deceased deity we left behind,” Nils clarifies, a grim note to his words.

Max contemplates this, the threads of their predicament intertwining. “And your theft? That sparked Loki’s wrath?”

“Indeed,” Nils confirms, “though I suspect there’s more beneath the surface. The force that extinguished him surpasses us both.”

Max’s mind turns to Nils’s near demise. “What were you attempting to obliterate?”

“The Grav Capacitor,” Nils reveals. “A behemoth of memory, enabling our universe’s continuity post-divergence.”

Max recalls the cosmic fracture vaguely. “The event that nearly unraveled everything?”

Precisely,” Nils affirms. “Yet the solution has ensnared our reality in stagnation, threatening its very existence. Within the Bant, I’ve uncovered truths, complex and vast. Our survival hinges on more than this enclave. The multiverse, it seems, is unsparing. Without contribution, it discards universes as easily as dead stars.”

“That’s a bleak prospect,” Max acknowledges, the weight of their dialogue heavy upon him.

“It is,” Nils agrees, “and it’s why I sought the Grav Capacitor’s destruction—to forge a path towards a viable future.”

“So, the annihilation of Kagama Deux wasn’t your doing?” Max seeks confirmation, a need to understand etched into his question.

“Not directly,” Nils concedes, the memory bitter. “The Bant af Garn orchestrated that, presumably to save me. It’s a truth I struggle to accept.”

Nils adds a final note, clearing the air of any misconceptions. “And for the record, your arrival wasn’t my doing. That revelation came to me only after I found myself within the Dyson Sphere, twelve years ago.”

Max, puzzled, processes the temporal discrepancy. “But my journey here felt momentary.”

Nils muses, “Likely a byproduct of time dilation, courtesy of our proximity to black holes.”

A shadow flits by the doorway, catching Nils’s attention. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says, drawn to investigate the fleeting disturbance.

A large black cat, reclining atop a stack of cases with a casual air of authority, captures Nils’ attention a few meters away. Then, a peculiar event unfolds—the cat tilts its head to the right, signaling Nils with a clear gesture to follow.

Without a sound, the cat leaps to the floor, turns, and casts a glance back at Nils, its gaze laden with an unspoken challenge: “Are you coming or not?” With a graceful, measured pace, it begins to pad away slowly.

Nils watches, intrigued, as the cat navigates the corner of the first column of boxes, a sudden compulsion urging him to pursue. Quickening his pace to a trot, he sees the cat pausing in the distance, ensuring his follower’s attention before turning back toward the warehouse entrance.

Nils hastens to a jog, following the enigmatic guide through the doorway that marks a stark, inexplicable boundary of the space within. Peeking out, Nils catches sight of the cat vanishing down the stairs, a hundred meters ahead.

Despite his efforts to close the distance, the cat remains just out of reach. In a moment of determination, Nils activates the Bant, its power allowing him to glide down the massive staircase with supernatural speed. Yet, even as he descends swiftly, the cat maintains its lead.

Upon reaching the courtyard, Nils observes the cat slipping into a secluded enclave of buildings nestled behind a tree and a fountain, urging him to proceed with caution. The atmosphere of the area instills a sense of wariness within him.

A low meow from behind the tree prompts Nils to edge around the fountain and venture toward the interior courtyard. Passing a large, gnarled tree, he finds himself before an iron gate, its elaborate artistry carved into the massive stone. At its center, an infinity symbol, encircled by figures depicting various states of human suffering, both emotional and physical.

As a “meow” sounds from behind, Nils whirls around, expecting the cat but is instead confronted by a tall, androgynous figure in a wild punk rock outfit. Their attire is a striking collage of leather and lace, marked by an array of studs, safety pins, and a mix of torn and elegantly tattered fabrics. Their hair cascades in a vibrant spectrum, from the darkest blacks to the most radiant hues, surrounding a face boldly accented with makeup that brings out sharp cheekbones and a mischievous sparkle in their eyes.

The eyes themselves seem to change color, now reflecting a powerful intensity, now a soft femininity, all the while exuding an aura of immense power and effortless calm.

“Hello, Nils. Your presence here is quite the honor,” the figure greets, their voice carrying a weight of expectation and curiosity. “It seems you’re contemplating passage through my gates. Know that only one is suited for solitary travel.”

Nils, realizing the depth of the encounter, measures his words carefully, understanding he’s a pawn in a larger game.

“Ah, so reticent? Your unwitting service has been invaluable. But, let us be direct—you possess what is not rightfully yours,” the figure continues, their tone shifting towards a matter of restitution.

“You desire the Bant af Garn,” Nils states, cutting through the pretense.

“Indeed, but in exchange, I offer you something of unique value.”

Pondering his limited options, Nils inquires, “Do I have a choice?”

“Choices abound, Nils. Yet often, only one path reveals itself as logical. Now, do you comprehend your surroundings?”

Nils hesitates, then ventures, “I believe this to be Necropolara, akin to tales I’ve encountered.”

“And my identity? Do you dare to speculate?”

“Anubis, perhaps?” Nils suggests, The figure rolls his head back and laughs, the sound cascades from a deep baritone to a high pitched feminine wail.

“Names over eons blend into obscurity. ‘Anubis’ will suffice,” the figure replies, amusement lacing their words. “Now, the Bant af Garn, if you please.”

With a sense of inevitability, Nils relinquishes the Bant, offering it to Anubis, who accepts it with a gentle bow of the head in acknowledgment.

“A prudent decision, Nils Verin. Your cooperation is noted and valued. Now, with your permission, I wish to reveal something to you.”Anubis shift in form now looking much more feminine as its eye colors fade in and out between red and green.  It waits patiently until Nils realizes it is asking for permission.

You have my permission, say Nils.

“Ahh good good, this may be a bit of a shock, first time always is”, Anubis smiles knowingly before placing the first two fingers of their right hand into their mouth, wetting them and then gently wiping them over Nils eyes.

Nils stares down at Necropolara from an impossible height, as if standing on the edge of space itself. The sight is staggering, his breath caught in his chest. He had expected to see the familiar contours of the courtyard and castle, the world he had navigated before. Instead, what lies below defies all his expectations.

Necropolara stretches endlessly, an infinite metropolis sprawling across the horizon in every direction. The sheer scale dwarfs him, a web of light and structure pulsating like a living organism. This can’t be real, Nils thinks, his mind scrambling to process the immensity. The city radiates life, its dense heart feeding luminous pathways that thread outward, vast arteries connecting clusters of light. Districts? Entire regions? He can’t tell, the scope too vast, the details obscured by distance and incomprehension.

His eyes trace the geometric precision of some areas, sharp and deliberate, only to be drawn to the chaotic sprawl of others, tangled and organic. It’s a city that has grown and evolved over eons, shaped by forces beyond his understanding. Monumental towers rise like sentinels, casting shadows that stretch across the curvature of the planet, while dense clusters of lights thrum with the activity of untold beings. It’s not just a city, Nils realizes. This is… something else entirely.

The revelation fills him with awe, but also a deep, gnawing insignificance. He feels small, an intruder gazing upon something he was never meant to see. What am I compared to this? The thought lodges in his mind, heavy and suffocating.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Anubidia’s voice is gentle, pulling him slightly from his trance. She stands beside him, her expression unreadable. “I quite like it in this dimension, but let’s not linger.”

Before Nils can respond, the world shifts. Reality bends, folds, and stretches, and suddenly, he sees beyond the surface. Necropolara is no longer just a city—it’s a cosmic phenomenon, a nexus threading through time and space. The realization crashes into him, overwhelming. Time splinters, no longer linear but an infinite landscape, and Necropolara sprawls across it like a living entity, its tendrils stretching into countless universes.

Nils’s mind reels. It’s alive, he thinks. Not bound by space, not bound by time. Each version of Necropolara he sees is different, a unique iteration shaped by the universe it inhabits. In one, it’s a technological marvel, glittering with progress. In another, it’s a mystical haven where magic and technology weave together. Elsewhere, it’s a barren ruin, a graveyard of forgotten civilizations. Yet no matter the form, it is unmistakably Necropolara.

The unity in its infinite variations strikes him. Persistence, he realizes. No matter where or how, it persists. He feels the pulse of its existence, a cultural and temporal singularity, a place where all paths converge only to splinter again. He sees it not as a city but as an idea, a testament to resilience, ingenuity, and the refusal to be forgotten. It’s not just a place—it’s a moment, repeated and reshaped across eternity.

The vision tightens around him, a kaleidoscope of possibilities folding and unfolding, and then it’s gone. Nils finds himself standing once again in the garden before the gate, the vastness of Necropolara slipping away like a dream. He tries desperately to hold on to it, to keep even fragments of what he’s just seen. But it’s like sand through his fingers, leaving only the faintest remnants—enough to know what he’s lost.

He looks toward Anubidia, who leans against a tree, their presence sharper now, more tangible. Or maybe I’ve changed, Nils thinks, his perception altered by what he’s witnessed. He feels raw, humbled, and profoundly unsettled. Whatever just happened, he knows he will never see the universe—or himself—the same way again.

“Do you understand why I have shown you this, Nils Verin?” Anubis inquires, their voice carrying a hint of expectation.

Nils, wrestling with the enormity of the revelation and its fleeting clarity, admits his uncertainty.

“No, I cannot claim to. Yet, I am grateful for the vision. Is it reality?”

“Indeed, it is as ‘real’ as the fabric of existence allows,” Anubis asserts, their expression a blend of impish delight and solemnity. “Consider it among my greatest works.”

The realization dawns on Nils that he stands before the architect of a vision so vast it spans the breadth of creation.

“Their are two requirements to pass from your reality towards mine.  The first is you must be instrumental in the demise of one who sits on our level of reality.  You have provided this service with Loki.” Anubidia pauses

“The second is you must leave behind the confines of the reality that birthed you. It is impossible for you to truly understand what that means now, but should you go forth, then I look forward to the time when we share company again.  I must depart now, leaving you to ponder your path. The decision before you is significant, and I deemed it only fair to offer you a glimpse into its scope. Farewell, Nils Verin. Whether this is ‘Aloha’ or ‘goodbye,’ the choice is yours to make.”

With those words, Nils is left alone, the weight of his forthcoming decision pressing heavily upon him as he contemplates the gate’s promise of a path beyond the known confines of love and death. 

A voice calls out to him.  “Enter and you shall know neither love nor death Nils Verin.”

“Tell me how”, replies Nils.

“Ask three times to enter.”

Nils hesitates only a moment before speaking, “Allow me to pass,  Allow me to pass, Allow me to pass….

The stone slides back revealing a stone staircase flickering with torchlight that  descends into darkness.

Nils nods once to himself, takes a last look around and silently descends the stairs as the stone closes behind him to the light sound of weeping on the wind.

Max awakens to the sound of gentle coughing, a reminder that he has succumbed to slumber in the quiet of recent hours. His eyes find Zach, who regards him from a chair, the once omnipresent whir of machinery now silent.

Zach, with a casual air, offers, “Spliff?”

He deftly places one between his lips, lighting it with a small device attached to his hat. Max, overcome by a surge of relief and affection, leaps forward, embracing Zach while skillfully avoiding the myriad of sharp objects adorning his hat.

“Are you okay?” Max inquires, his voice thick with concern.

“Never better,” Zach responds, his grin tempered by a grimace of discomfort elicited by the intensity of Max’s embrace.

As Max reluctantly releases him, a moment of embarrassment colors his expression. Zach, attempting to extricate himself from the chair, muses, “I suppose I should inquire about the happenings and our whereabouts, yet I’m inclined to presume it’s something utterly preposterous.” He struggles to rise, his movements ungainly.

Max lends his support, helping Zach to his feet. Zach’s balance is tentative, reminiscent of a child’s first uncertain steps.

“Would you mind terribly if we departed this place? It harbors an unsettling air for me,” Zach confesses, his gaze wandering the small room.

Max provides support as they walk slowly to the door and pass through.

“Good heavens, this is extraordinary,” Zach exclaims as they cross the threshold into the greater chamber. Max offers a condensed account of their ordeal, omitting the complexities of his prior journey as they navigate towards the exit.

Upon breaching the outer door, Zach halts, awestruck. “Remarkable! But where in creation are we?” He finds solace on the stairs, catching his breath as Max joins him.

Max explains, “To the best of my understanding, Anubidia, within the bounds of Necropolara. Though, that sheds more light on the ‘what’ than the ‘where.’ It seems we’re adrift, beyond our universe’s confines, in a realm unto itself.”

Zach absorbs the revelation without visible distress.

“What lies ahead for you?” he inquires, passing the spliff to Max.

Max inhales deeply from the spliff, his thoughts swirling.

“Uncertain. Considering my current predicament: The worst race in the galaxy seeks my demise, I bear the digital imprint of a galactic criminal, the woman I love probably despises me, I miss my cat and I’m implicated in a god’s demise.” He pauses for a moment.

“Not sure exactly where we are and returning home seems impossible. Even if could get there, I’m not sure I want to. I can’t say I have digested what has happened to me so far.” Max continues

“Oh yeah and Nils,—our elusive criminal companion—imparted a dire warning: our very existence teeters on the brink of inconsequence. And now, he’s vanished, an absence that, given my recent entanglements, seems fitting. I’m pretty sure matters can’t get any worse.”

Zach, after a lengthy pull from the spliff, regards Max with a blend of empathy and solemnity. He sits down on a nearby step and gestures for Max to join him. 

Max sits down, grateful for the rest.

Zach draws a deep breath and begins to speak.

“Well I guess given our current predicament, now is the right time. You know they refer to me as the Zenhaari; a grand title that is yet shadowed by obligation—an obligation I naively dismissed, confident in its improbability.”

Max’s attempt at a smile fades, supplanted by a burgeoning unease prompted by Zach’s tone.

“When I became the 107th Zenhaari, the mantle conferred upon me unlimited wealth at the cost of a singular, inescapable duty— a duty I’m now compelled to fulfill.” 

Zach pulls his data pad from his coat, happy to see it is still functional.

“Listen up I need you to hear something.  This was written almost two thousand years ago. It has been handed down from Zenhaari to Zenhaari since.”

With a few deft swipes on his data pad, Zach begins to read, the gravity of his words hanging in the air.

“Lo, from the chalice of the cosmos, where stars are born and fade into the night, shall arise the Zenhaari, guardian of the sacred flame. Through cycles of death and rebirth, their soul shall traverse the ages, bound by the singular quest for the herald of salvation.

Mark ye well the coming of the Chosen, the bearer of the dual soul, whose essence spans the gulf between epochs. Once roamed he the ancient realms, now walks he in the shadow of the present, a bridge across the chasm of time.

It is decreed, in the hallowed scrolls of fate, that unto the Zenhaari falls the sacrosanct charge: to seek out the harbinger of light amidst the encroaching darkness, to offer up their very essence in service to the savior. With unwavering resolve, they must guide the luminary, for upon his shoulders rests the salvation of all.

Heed the portents of his advent, for they are writ in the annals time: a solar system, swallowed by the void; a deity, vanquished by mortals; a journey, unwilling; to the realm beyond realms, where the fabric of existence is but a tapestry in the hands of the ancients.

Thus, when the heavens weep for the loss of their children, and the pantheon mourns one of its own, look to the threshold of creation, to find the one among you. In his wake, the Zenhaari must tread, for their destinies are entwined with the fate of all that is, and all that ever shall be.

So let it be written, so let it be done, until the stars themselves fade from memory, and the universe is reborn anew.”

Zach stops reading.

The two of them stare out over the courtyard to the sprawling city in the distance, silently contemplating the weight of the prophesy.

“Well Shit” say Max

Here ends the first book of The Heir of Infinity

CYNOPTIANS

Anubis-Inspired Civilization (Egyptian - God Anubis):

Cynopolitans: From “Cynopolis,” the Greek name for the city devoted to Anubis, indicating a civilization with a strong emphasis on death rites or the afterlife.

Homeworld: Necropolara

Derived from ‘necropolis,’ a large, ancient cemetery, and ‘A’ra,’ mimicking the Egyptian word for Earth (‘Ta’), suggesting a place of rest and a cradle for life, representing the dual nature of Anubis as a guardian of the dead and a guide to the afterlife.

Capital City: Anubidia

A combination of Anubis and ‘Dia,’ derived from ‘diadem,’ signifying sovereignty and the city’s status as the crown of their civilization.

Architecture:

Necropolis Districts: The city whas vast areas resembling ancient necropolises, with grand mausoleums and obelisks, not just as memorials, but as homes and public buildings, symbolizing that ancestors remain among the living.

Pyramid Structures: Utilizing the pyramid shape not just for its historical significance but for its stability and potential energy properties, the central buildings harness solar or other forms of energy.

Sphinx-like Statues: Guarding entrances and important streets are statues resembling the Sphinx, which serve as AI guards or repositories of knowledge, akin to Anubis’ role as protector and guide.

Obelisk Towers: Skyscrapers fashioned like obelisks, inscribed with the achievements of past generations, standing as beacons for wireless energy transfer or communication arrays.

Defining Characteristics:

Biopreservation Facilities: As a nod to mummification and preservation, these centers are dedicated to extending life or cryogenically storing individuals for future revival.

Ritualistic Public Spaces: Areas where citizens engage in daily, weekly, or monthly rituals to honor the past and learn about their ancestors, blending reverence with social activities.

Ancestor Gardens: Lush green spaces that serve dual purposes as botanical gardens and burial grounds, where the ashes of the departed enrich the soil, literally letting the deceased give life to flora.

Standard Greeting: The greeting

“Em hotep nefer,” which means “In peace, good.” (Pronounced as “Em hoh-tep neh-fer”)

When greeting, the Cynopolitans place their right hand over their heart and then extend it forward with an open palm towards the individual being greeted, symbolizing the offering of one’s heart in peace and transparency, reminiscent of the weighing of the heart ceremony in Egyptian mythology.

* * *

OMIYUKIANS

For the Omiyukians, inspired by the Japanese deity Amaterasu, whose sacred mirror Yata no Kagami represents truth and wisdom, let’s create a reflective, enlightened society.

Homeworld: Kagamitera

“Kagami” means mirror in Japanese, suggesting a world that reflects the Omiyukians’ values of clarity and truth. “Tera” could be derived from “terra,” meaning Earth, implying a planet that mirrors the ideals of its inhabitants.

Capital City: Terunokyo

“Teru” translates to shining, a reference to Amaterasu as the sun goddess, while “kyo” means capital city. Terunokyo would thus be the shining capital, a hub of light and wisdom.

Architecture:

Reflective Edifices: Buildings with surfaces like mirrors, reflecting the sky and surroundings, symbolizing transparency and understanding.

Solar Structures: As a nod to the sun goddess, buildings are designed to harness solar energy efficiently, with rooftop gardens that reflect sunlight to nourish plant life.

Shrine Complexes: Modern adaptations of Shinto shrines, including expansive gardens and water features, that serve as cultural and spiritual centers.

Glass Bridges: Transparent walkways high above the city, representing the clear path of honesty and open communication among its people.

Defining Characteristics:

Council of Reflections: A governing body that operates on principles of open debate and transparency, with sessions held in circular rooms lined with mirrors to prevent secrecy and shadows.

Festivals of Light: Celebrations that involve intricate light shows, representing the play of sunlight on the sacred mirror, symbolizing clarity, life, and celebration.

Mirror Gardens: Public spaces with crystalline flowers and reflective pools that act as communal areas for reflection, meditation, and social interaction.

Standard Greeting:

“Hikari to kagami” which means “Light and mirror.” (Pronounced: “Hee-kah-ree toh kah-gah-mee”)

The greeting involved a slight bow with hands pressed together in front, then opening as if revealing something, symbolizing an offering of honesty and a willingness to reflect the true self, much like a mirror.

This design for the Omiyukians integrates their respect for wisdom and truth with their daily lives, buildings, and governance, creating a civilization where transparency is paramount and light is both literal and symbolic.

* * *

VELETIANS

Worshipers of Veles, the Slavic god of earth, waters, and the underworld, has become central to society, life is shaped by the values and characteristics attributed to this deity. Here is a vision of such a civilization:

Home World: Vodanis: Derived from “Voda,” the Slavic word for water, reflecting the planet’s abundant aquatic environments and the significance of water in Veles worship.

Capital City: Nizhny Navilok: A name that evokes the depth and mystery of the underworld, combined with the notion of a sacred place or temple. Nizhny Navilok is built around a grand central waterway, believed to be blessed by Veles himself.

Formalized Greeting:

“Vodí pozdrav” (Water’s greeting): This greeting acknowledges the ever-flowing, ever-changing nature of water, a primary element associated with Veles. It is often accompanied by a gesture mimicking the flow of a river or wave, symbolizing the fluidity and adaptability that characterizes their way of life.

Architecture:

The architecture of this civilization is a tribute to Veles’s domains, blending aquatic elegance with earthy robustness. Buildings are often curved and flowing, designed to resemble the movements of water and serpentine forms associated with Veles as a dragon or serpent. Structures are primarily made from materials that shimmer and change color like the surface of water or the scales of a fish.

Many buildings are partially submerged or incorporate water features, with canals, pools, and waterfalls being common. The city’s layout is organic, mimicking the meandering of rivers and streams, encouraging inhabitants to follow their whims and desires as they navigate the city.

The capital, Nizhny Navilok, is known for its grand Underworld Plaza, a vast, open space surrounded by water and marked by a large statue of Veles in his dragon form. This plaza is the center of hedonistic festivals and celebrations, a place where citizens indulge in pleasure and revelry, honoring the god’s association with earthly delights.

Society and Culture:

This civilization embraces a hedonistic lifestyle, with a significant focus on pleasure, particularly pleasures of the flesh. They believe in living in the moment, much like the ever-changing waters worshiped by their god. This ethos is reflected in their art, cuisine, and daily interactions, with an emphasis on sensory experiences and emotional fulfillment.

The worship of Veles encourages a deep connection to nature, particularly to forests and bodies of water. As such, the civilization is advanced in bioengineering and ecological technologies, allowing them to live in harmony with their planet while enjoying its bountiful resources. They have mastered the art of pleasure gardens, aquatic sports, and virtual reality experiences that stimulate and satisfy their hedonistic tendencies.

Government and Technology:

The government is a theocratic oligarchy, with a council of high priests and priestesses of Veles interpreting the god’s will and guiding society. They are advised by scientists, artists, and philosophers who ensure that the pursuit of pleasure is balanced with wisdom and sustainability.

Technology in this civilization is advanced, particularly in the areas of hydro and bioengineering. They have developed ways to harness the power of water for energy, create spectacular underwater habitats, and genetically engineer flora and fauna for both sustenance and pleasure. Virtual reality and sensory augmentation are also highly advanced, allowing citizens to experience unimaginable delights and explore the depths of pleasure and sensation.

In this society, based on the worship of Veles, life is a celebration of the present moment, an endless pursuit of joy and fulfillment, guided by the flowing, adaptive nature of their patron deity. The civilization of Vodanis, with its capital Nizhny Navilok, stands as a testament to the enduring legacy of Veles, transformed and interpreted through the lens of future possibilities.

* * *

VAIKUNTHANS

The Vaikunthans, inspired by the Indian deity Vishnu, known for his role as the preserver and protector of the universe, could have a civilization that reflects themes of maintenance, balance, and guardianship.

Homeworld: Dharmagaia

“Dharma” represents the principle of cosmic order from Indian philosophy, while “Gaia” is the personification of Earth in Greek mythology. This planet name implies a world where natural and cosmic laws are deeply respected and preserved.

Capital City: Vaikunthapuri

“Vaikuntha” is the celestial abode of Vishnu, a place of eternal bliss and purity, while “puri” means city. This capital would be seen as a bastion of peace, harmony, and spiritual depth.

Architecture:

Mandala Layouts: The city could be designed as a grand mandala, representing the universe with the palace or central council building at the heart, embodying Vishnu’s cosmic centrality.

Chakra Towers: Skyscrapers inspired by the chakras, serving various functions like energy centers, each dedicated to aspects of life and governance, like health, education, and defense.

Lotus Structures: Lotus-shaped buildings that rise above water bodies, representing purity and enlightenment, key aspects associated with Vishnu’s symbolism.

Defining Characteristics:

Preservation Hubs: These facilities are dedicated to the conservation of species and ecosystems, both on their home planet and across the universe.

Balancer Courts: Judicial systems that are deeply rooted in the principles of dharma, focusing on restoring balance and harmony in society.

Protectorate Fleets: Spacecraft that serve as both exploratory and defensive forces, designed to protect the Amanuans and their allies, much like Vishnu’s role as protector.

Standard Greeting:

“Shanti dhara,” which means “Stream of peace.” (Pronounced: “Shaan-tee dhaa-raa”)

The greeting would include a gentle placing of the right hand over the heart and then extending it outward with an open palm facing upward, symbolizing the offering of peace and protection to the greeted individual. The gesture mirrors the iconography of Vishnu resting with his hand over his heart, symbolizing his protective and peaceful nature.

A civilization that embodies the sustaining energy of Vishnu, fostering a society dedicated to balance, harmony, and protection within the cosmos.

* * *

CHLORIDIANS

The Chloridians are a highly advanced civilization that has mastered the art of integrating DNA plant technology into the fabric of their society. Utilizing the precision of CRISPR gene-editing techniques, they have transcended traditional technology, opting instead to grow their infrastructure, tools, and even homes from specially designed plant life. Their deep understanding of genetics has enabled them to create flora with functionalities far beyond what nature intended, from photosynthetic buildings that generate their own energy to plants that can process information, akin to organic computers.

Description of the Space Cities:

The Chloridians live in unique, free-floating space cities that can best be described as colossal terrariums drifting through the cosmos. These cities are encased in massive transparent bio-domes, engineered to simulate a natural environment while providing all the necessities for life in space. Within these domes, an intricate ecosystem flourishes, complete with engineered trees and plants that form the structural and functional backbone of the city.

These space terrariums harness starlight for photosynthesis when within reach of a star’s influence, mimicking the cycle of day and night. In the vast stretches of space far from stellar light, they utilize compact nuclear fusion reactors to generate the necessary light spectra for photosynthesis, ensuring that life within the dome can thrive regardless of the city’s location in the cosmos.

The cities are designed with a harmony between technology and nature, featuring winding vine bridges, leafy habitats, and fruits that serve as nutrient-rich food sources. Water is cycled and purified through a series of plant-based filtration systems, creating a self-sustaining environment that requires minimal intervention to maintain.

Description of the People:

The Chloridians themselves are a testament to their mastery of genetic engineering. Through careful modification of their own DNA, they have incorporated chlorophyll into their cells, allowing them to supplement their nutritional needs through photosynthesis. This photosynthetic capability is characterized by green-tinged skin, which varies in hue from one individual to another, depending on their specific genetic modifications.

In addition to photosynthesis, these genetic enhancements have granted the Chloridians heightened resistance to the harsh conditions of space, including reduced dependency on traditional food sources and the ability to absorb and process sunlight or artificial light directly for energy. Their eyes have been adapted to perceive a wider spectrum of light, enabling them to thrive in environments that range from the dim glow of distant stars to the bright, artificial light of their fusion reactors.

Culturally, the Chloridians view themselves as gardeners of the galaxy, with a philosophy that emphasizes balance, sustainability, and the ethical use of genetic technology. They are peaceful explorers, seeking to expand their knowledge of the cosmos and share their advancements in sustainable living with other civilizations they encounter.

The Chloridian civilization represents a blend of biological mastery and a deep respect for life, offering a glimpse into a future where technology and nature exist in perfect symbiosis.

* * *

SLYGARDIANS

Homeworld: Slygard

Capital City: Esotropolis

Greeting: Rune vefur” which translates roughly as “Weaver of runes”

Overview: This society is built on subtlety, cunning, and change, representing the multifaceted and unpredictable essence of Loki

Combining the cunning (sly) aspect of Loki with the Norse word “gard,” which is often used to denote a place (as in Asgard, Midgard). This name suggests a world that is enigmatic and ever-changing, much like Loki himself.

Capital City: Esotropolis

The prefix “Eso-” can allude to esoteric, hinting at knowledge and mysteries hidden or arcane, while “-tropolis” signifies a bustling, highly populated city. This name encapsulates a capital where secrets are power, and knowledge is the currency of the elite.

Architecture:

Morphic Structures: Buildings that showcase an ability to change their façade, or have moving parts, reflecting Loki’s shapeshifting nature.

Hall of Mirrors: As a trickster, Loki would appreciate a city center filled with illusions and mirror mazes, a place for governance that’s both fascinating and baffling.

Hidden Passageways: The city would be rife with shortcuts and secret corridors, embodying the deceptive and elusive characteristics of Loki.

**Defining Characteristics:**

Illusion Gardens: Parks that utilize holographic technology to constantly change their appearance, providing visitors with a unique experience each time.

Chamber of Skalds: A repository of tales and history where the truth is often hidden within riddles and stories, reflecting the complex nature of myth where Loki thrives.

Diplomatic Enclave: The Slygardians would excel in diplomacy, with a penchant for intrigue and negotiation, similar to how Loki dealt with gods and men.

Standard Greeting:

- “Rune vefur” which translates roughly as “Weaver of runes” (in this context, “rune” can stand for secret or mystery, and “vefur” can represent someone who weaves or creates intricate patterns). (Pronounced: “Roo-ne veh-fur”)

The greeting is accompanied by a subtle but intricate hand gesture that mimics the weaving of threads, perhaps fingers interlacing then separating in a fluid motion, symbolizing both the complexity of their communication and the craftiness of their nature.

This society is built on subtlety, cunning, and change, representing the multifaceted and unpredictable essence of Loki. They are formidable in their resourcefulness and intellect, as spies, diplomats, and information brokers in the wider universe.

* * *

HUITZICALAN “THE HUIT”

Inspired by: Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec god of war and the sun. Huitzicalan

Homeworld: Solaris Aztlan

Capital City: Tenochtitlan Prime

Description:

The Huitzicalans are a civilization that reveres martial prowess and the art of war as the highest form of devotion. Their society is built upon the principles of honor, sacrifice, and the continuous pursuit of victory and expansion.

Societal Hierarchy and Governance:

The Huitzicalans are governed by a warrior council, with positions earned through combat achievements and strategic acumen. The society is meritocratic, where one’s place in the hierarchy is determined by one’s contribution to the collective victories and defense of the civilization. The ruling class consists of the most accomplished warriors, often decorated with honors that reflect their battlefield glories.

Culture:

The Huitzicalan culture centers around a strict warrior code, with education from a young age focusing on combat training, discipline, and the history of their people’s conquests. Festivals and public ceremonies often involve competitive games and mock battles, emphasizing the importance of warrior skills. The sun is worshipped as a divine symbol of the eternal warrior spirit, with solar imagery prevalent in art and architecture.

Technology:

Their technology is advanced, particularly in the field of solar energy harnessment and weaponry. Solar power is the core of their energy systems, reflecting their worship of the sun. Weapons and armor are crafted to be both functional and ceremonial, often engraved with symbols of the sun and war.

Architecture:

Huitzicalan architecture is monumental, featuring massive pyramids, temples, and arenas, all aligned with celestial events. Their structures are built to be as imposing as they are inspiring, with the capital city designed to cast a formidable silhouette against the horizon. The use of reflective materials to capture the sun’s rays is commonplace, causing their cities to gleam with golden light from a distance.

Military:

The military is the backbone of Huitzicalan society. Each citizen is also a soldier, ready to defend their home or expand its borders. They are adept in both personal combat and large-scale military tactics, with an impressive fleet capable of rapid deployment to any region of their star system.

Standard Greeting:

A formal salute to the sun, often accompanied by a hand gesture that mimics the rising and setting of the sun, and the phrase “Xochiyaoyotl” (zoh-chee-ow-YO-tul), meaning “Flower War” in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. This greeting signifies both a challenge and respect, acknowledging the recipient as a worthy ally or adversary in the great cosmic battle.

The Huitzicalans combine the ferocity and discipline of a warrior culture with a deep respect for the celestial bodies that govern the battlefield of the universe. Their entire civilization is a tribute to the unending cycle of conflict and conquest, reflecting the relentless energy of their divine inspiration, Huitzilopochtli.

* * *

JANUSIANS

Inspired by: Janus, the Roman god of beginnings, gates, transitions, duality, and endings. Janus is often depicted with two faces looking in opposite directions, embodying the concept of reflection and change.

Ethos: The Janusians embrace duality in all aspects of life, valuing balance, adaptability, and the understanding that every end is a new beginning. Their society is built on the principles of transition and transformation, emphasizing the importance of embracing change and understanding multiple perspectives.

Home Planet: Bifrons Terra

Named after Janus’ epithet “Janus Bifrons” (the two-faced), Bifrons Terra is a planet of contrasting landscapes, symbolizing the dual nature of the Janusians.

Capital City: Porta Aeternum

Reflecting Janus’ role as the god of gates, Porta Aeternum is a city with magnificent gateways and arches leading to different districts, symbolizing various aspects of life and society.

Architecture:

Buildings often feature two distinct facades on opposite sides, representing different architectural styles or eras, symbolizing Janus’ dual-faced nature.

Public spaces are designed with a central axis, leading to two contrasting areas, like gardens representing tranquility and markets symbolizing bustling activity.

The Janusians, deeply rooted in the concepts of duality, transition, and beginnings, their greeting would likely reflect these core values. Considering their homage to Janus, the Roman god with two faces, their greeting could be both symbolic and physical, embodying the essence of seeing both the past and the future, the known and the unknown.

Greeting: “Videre Duo”

Translated to “See Both” or “Seeing in Twain” in Latin-inspired language, “Videre Duo” encapsulates the Janusian ethos of acknowledging the dual aspects of life and existence.

Gesture: The Janusians use a unique hand gesture along with their verbal greeting, extending one hand forward with the palm open, symbolizing openness to the future, and placing the other hand over the heart, signifying acknowledgment of the past. The forward hand is then rotated to face the speaker, and the hand over the heart is extended outward, signifying the transition from introspection to external engagement.

Eye Contact: During the greeting, maintaining eye contact would be essential, signifying acknowledgment and understanding of the other person’s presence and perspective.

Dual Acknowledgment: In line with their belief in duality, they might slightly nod their head first downward (acknowledging the person’s past and origins) and then upward (acknowledging their future and aspirations).

This greeting ritual, “Videre Duo,” is a cornerstone of social interaction among the Janusians, reflecting their deep respect for the multifaceted nature of existence and their acknowledgment of every individual’s complex journey through time and experience.

MAX VALKITH

Max is a 17 year old high school student who lives in a tiny religious town in Idaho called Dietrich. He loves video games, rock and roll and computers. He lives on a dairy farm and attends High school. He is pretty sure he lives in the most boring place on earth.

NILS VERIN

Nils was born in the darkened alleys of Esotropolis, the bustling heart of Slygard. The Shadowfolk, his people, linger on the margins of society, a stark contrast to the glamor of the high echelons. Nils’ early life was defined by the struggle inherent to the lower classes, but even as a child, his intellect marked him as an outlier—a genius among the desperate.

As a youth, he experienced what he believed was a divine visitation: a vision from Loki, the embodiment of mischief and cunning. The god warned of an impending cataclysm, a destructive force bred from the rigid order of the galactic empire. This vision became Nils’ driving force, convincing him that he was chosen to instigate the chaos necessary to avert disaster.

Nils father was killed for ethical violations which resulted from his attempts to protect Nils a fact which haunts Nils.

Personality:

Nils is a complex individual, embracing a philosophy of ‘Lawful Chaos.’ He operates by a personal code that champions disorder as a means to an end. A prodigy in technological arts, he can manipulate systems and bend them to his will, orchestrating disruptions that ripple across societies. His humor is as sharp as his mind, laced with irony and a touch of the macabre, a constant reminder of the unpredictable force he represents.

He venerates the outcasts and the unconventional, seeing in the underbelly of society the truest expression of life’s potential. Nils believes in the sanctity of upheaval, that through chaos, a new order—one that is more equitable and vibrant—will emerge.

RACHEL MIRRORMONT (ROCKY)

Born to a father who was a revered academic at the Intergalactic University of Xanadrix and a mother who was a decorated officer in the Galactic Defense Fleet, Rachel’s early years were a blend of rigorous intellectual debate and disciplined physical training. Her childhood balanced between her father’s vast library of ancient texts and her mother’s strategically laid out obstacle courses, fostering in her an acute mind and a resilient body.

Tragedy struck when Rachel was just ten; her parents perished during the destruction of Kagama Deux, an event shrouded in mystery and whispers of foul play. Orphaned and vulnerable, her life took a radical turn when she was adopted by Rex Vlaan, the elusive mastermind behind the Cosmos Cross, an extensive smuggling ring.

Under Rex’s tutelage, Rocky transformed from a grieving child into a cunning smuggler. She learned to encrypt data within the strands of her vibrant hair, piloted stealth ships through the Nebula of Lost Souls, and bartered information with the shadiest characters at the edge of the universe. Rex’s operation wasn’t just her home; it was her crucible, hardening her into a creature of survival and subterfuge.

Adorning her back, just above her waist, is a tattoo that reads “Quod amo me necat” a Latin phrase meaning “That which I love kills me,” symbolizing her lethal nature and perhaps a hidden depth to her character.

ZACH NIGHTSONG (ZACHARAIAH JIGME DORJE TENZING LACHUNGPA)

THE ZENHAARI

The Zenhaari, undisputed leader of the most devout religion in the galaxy. Its a reincarnation thing. Zach is the 107th iteration of The Zenhaari and only the second to ever be chosen from outside the native race of Janussians. Usually the Chronotheons choose a baby at birth who is then trained into the role. In the case of Zach they did not find him for fifteen years as his soul was cleverly hidden in a Valetian hedonist. Zacharaiah Jigme Dorje Tenzing Lachungpa is also the grandson of the current Shak-ta, the hereditary family that has lead Valetia for the past 1500 years, and finally via the matriarchal line the current sole heir to of the largest mining and transport conglomerate in the galaxy. So in short Zach is either the successor to the longest hereditary dynasty on this planet, the imminent heir to one of the galaxies greatest fortunes or the reincarnation of the infallible leader of two hundred billion devout Chronotheons.

XOCHITL OHTLI (XOC). RANK: GENERAL

Xochitl Ohtli, better known by his battlefield moniker Xoc, is an enigmatic figure who commands the unwavering respect and fear of his peers in the Huitzicalan military elite, the Ocelotl Warriors. His brilliance is undeniable, his strategic mind a formidable weapon on the battlefield. Yet, beneath this veneer of intellect lies a ruthlessness that borders on obsession, a relentless drive to achieve victory at any cost.

Xoc’s understanding of warfare extends far beyond the clash of swords and the thunder of cannons. He is a master of espionage, utilizing his vast network of informants and covert operatives to gather intelligence that gives him an edge over his adversaries. His knowledge of the social customs of other races is equally impressive, a testament to his belief that true victory lies in understanding the enemy better than oneself.

With his near-unlimited resources and the backing of the Tlatoani Class, the ruling elite of Huitzicalan, Xoc is a force to be reckoned with. His ability to operate independently and without interference within Huitzicalan society grants him a level of authority that few others possess.

Xoc’s brilliance and ruthlessness are not without their darker sides. He is a man of few words, reserved and enigmatic, his inner thoughts and motivations shrouded in mystery. His love of small gestures that celebrate his domination over his enemies hints at a deep-seated need for recognition and validation, a hidden vulnerability amidst his formidable exterior.

Xoc is a complex and fascinating character, a warrior-scholar whose blend of intellect, ruthlessness, and cultural understanding makes him a formidable force on the battlefield and a formidable figure in the Huitzicalan political landscape. Whether he is the architect of victory or the harbinger of destruction, his impact on the fate of the Huitzicalan Empire and the galaxy at large is undeniable.

TLATOANI IXACHITLAN (TEZ) HIGH PRIESTESS

Despite her youthful appearance, Tez is 118 years old, a testament to her enhanced longevity. This age has granted her a vast reservoir of wisdom and experience, making her highly intelligent and cunning in both political and spiritual matters.

Born into a noble line, Tez was marked by oracles as the chosen one of Huitzilopochtli. Her heterochromia was seen as a divine sign, further cementing her destined path.

Her family is steeped in education, spirituality, and political power. They are the custodians of ancient knowledge and genetic enhancement techniques that have prolonged their lifespans and abilities.

Dual Training:

Priestess Tlatoani Ixachitlan (Dominatrix Persona):

Intense training in sacred texts, martial arts, and leadership. Her psionic abilities are honed to perfection, allowing her to wield power both on the battlefield and in the spiritual realm.Her ornate armor reflects her divine status, with each piece telling a story of her power and right to rule.

Tez (Sensual Persona):

Alongside her strict training, she masters the arts of diplomacy, seduction, and culture, becoming a master of courtly intrigue and emotional intelligence. Her training makes her an expert in understanding and manipulating emotions, enhancing her role as a healer and confidante.

Tez commands with an authority that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Her dual nature allows her to navigate the complexities of leadership and divine duty with ease.Her dual personas are known to only a few, allowing her to move through society under the guise of Tez, influencing events from the shadows.

ANGELIKA SLIPNOT. (GUNNER)

Operative Name Lyrina

Gunner works for The diplomatic Enclave which is an intelligence organization on Slygard. The diplomatic enclave is a hired gun of sorts, It serves the Omiyukans who are responsible for stopping the Huit by mining their suns, She has an obsession with Xok the head of Huit intelligence as she is convinced that he is trying to get the Huit out of their situation in order to allow them to continue their military expansion. She became aware of Nils when he inquire about Xok and she is instrumental in helping Max as she is the only one that realizes he is not Nils.

THE GANT AF GARN

The gant af Garn is a sentient entity embodies in a piece of yarn pulled directly from the weave of the Skein of Destiny. It was stolen by Loki directly from the three fates.

DESTRUCTION OF KAGAMA DEUX

This incident was caused by a failed attempt to access the Grav capacitor by Nils Verin. His duo black hole device consumed the Access port for the Grav Capacitor and the home star as well as four habitable planets. Estimated casualties over 20 billion people died in what is considered the greatest mass murder in history.

Side note Zach Earl Nightsong and Rocky Mirrormont both lost their parents to this event.

THE GREAT DIVERGENCE

This was an event which broke the multiverse and time causing all realities to intertwine and time to become irregular in given segments.

GRAV CAPACITOR

This is a relic of the Cynoptian civilization. It was originally the container which held the blueprints for our universe. It was discovered by a scientist who used it to solidify reality after the great divergence bringing order to the universe. It is a storage device which holds our point of view in the Ruliad.

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Max calls the rolling hills of Tuscany home, juggling his life as a serial tech entrepreneur, a part-time philosopher, and—for a brief stint—an actor.

He was raised in Idaho, schooled at Georgetown and he’s managed live and work in about forty countries across the globe.

His household features two mischievous black cats, an amazing Siberian wife, and thanks to a quirky immigration system, he’s occasionally French (don’t ask).

When he’s not tinkering with new ventures or philosophizing on life, Max can be found organizing Burning Man events about which he is passionate.

You can see more of Max Writing on his website maxfiction.com