(NOTE: Prior character interaction recommended (but depending on muse, not always required))
"I... I feel lost..."
The humanoid robot is sitting at a table at a café, confiding in your muse about some personal trouble.
"I was created to be a fashion model...but I couldn't handle all the cons. The pressure, the competition, the inconsistent hours... I ended up quitting. But I'm starting to wonder...if I made the right choice...because I've been having trouble finding another job.
"Usually, I'd just avoid talking about this and try to make jokes, y'know? But...I can't anymore; I can't keep relying on other people to help me meet my needs."
"So...I'm biting the bullet and asking for help. Would you be kind enough to help me find a job? I'd appreciate it so goddamn much, you have no idea."
"It might be a coincidence, but, this started when you got here." Nyx pointed out, it made Adams mouth go dry.
"There is something about you."
-
🌟 New chapter is finally out!! Just in time for this NRFTI holiday, too! Happy Birthday to our very beloved Nyx, even though this chapter is not the most kind to you... 🤍
The Goblins of the Lell desert live in a world that believes gifts from the Goddesses to be the most important sign of favor and power - especially when that gift is not just life, but a new way of it. They live in this world, full of magic and impossibilities and glory bestowed freely across the land and the air and the sea.
They live in this world, and they are the only ones who have not received such a gift.
So they have had to adjust.
The line between technology and magic is thin, when one looks at it with any kind of scrutiny - the alloys and automatons of the Dwarves, after all, are used to many of the same ends as the solar engines and electromagnetic manipulation of the Goblins.
But the line lies in where such things come from, in the grand scheme of Ehl’s politics. And though the lightning-channeling crystals of computers could be seen as a magic in their own right, the fact that they are an inevitable consequence of the machinations of the universe rather than a creation of the Goddesses means they are deemed lesser.
So the Goblins keep to themselves in the dual rain shadow between the Godwoods and the coastal mesas, creating a world of their own better fit for their scaly skin and motherboards than the clockwork and magics of the rest. And they hope, one day, for their feats to be recognized in the ways they deserve.
Not even gonna lie, I kinda gave up on the queue at this point. It seems like every time there is an update to the site, my scheduled posts vanish. So, instead, I brought my tablet and a mobile hotspot to work so I could post on time,
Got to do what you got to do, right?
Shout outs for this week go to @bogwalkr and @peachymis, both of whom have been going through chapters at a very impressive clip.
Thanks, as always, goes to @baelpenrose for his beta reading, and also @quantumizedinsanity, who is trying to help me get this huge thing cleaned up for AO3.
“Can I retire yet?” I groaned as I fell on my sofa.
Immediately, I levitated back to a standing position with a shriek when a disembodied voice responded. “You have four more months until then, Wisdom.”
One hand slammed into my sternum while the other braced against the nearest sturdy surface as I caught my breath. “Are… are you speaking to me again, Miys?” Thankfully, I didn’t even have to remind myself to not get my hopes up, seeing as I was half panicking and half mad as hell.
“I have never declined to speak to you.”
Wincing at the literal nature of the response, I tried again. “I was under the impression that you were angry with me, specifically, and no longer fraternizing with the humans on board, in general. This is definitely the first time in several months that you have voluntarily spoken to me unless I asked a direct question in an official capacity.”
“Technically, asking an empty room the remaining duration of your tenure in your current role with the Council is a question in an official capacity, and one which could be interpreted to be directed at me.”
Discretion was the better part of valor, and cowardice sufficed, so I agreed to let it drop. “I thought I had one Terran year after the establishment of the Colony?”
“A year which will largely consist of handing over your responsibilities and smoothing the transition, not any actual work.”
Shaking my head, I made my way to the console. “One adult beverage, hold the additional nutrients just this once,” I asked before continuing. “And I don’t know where you got the impression that handing over a job isn’t actual work.”
“I fail to see the laborious part of a transition in which you have been training your replacement options for the better part of a decade.”
“Oooo,” I drew out mischievously. “You really are talking to me again. And to what may I attribute this wondrous occasion?”
“I am simply responding to your inquiry and also attempting to report a malfunction within the computers that is preventing new information from being transmitted to the escort fleet. The time stamps are updating, but the data transmissions are simply reporting data from the last fourteen ship days. It is also transmitting the data out of sequence. It is distressing.”
Surrrre it is, bud. I’d received more impassioned weather reports. Out loud, I assured them “I’ll have Derek take a look. I assume that is why you told me rather than Pranav or Alice?”
A buzzing hum betrayed their coming excuse. “I am not entirely certain that Derek is not the cause.”
I arched a brow at the ceiling and pursed my lips to one side. “It’s not like he’s going to lie about it. He’ll just refuse to fix it.”
“I still request that you belay any inquiry in that direction until I am certain.” The response was rushed, which told me all I needed to know.
Miys had done it, and humans dinking around in the system were the scapegoat. “In that case, let me know when you’ve finished your investigation, and I will put the appropriate parties on it,” I caged.
“Duly noted. What will you do once you leave the Council?”
I twisted my neck into a very uncomfortable position, purely out of confusion. “I’m…. I’m not sure, Miys.”
“You may call me Noah, Wisdom.” There was a subsonic hum behind the normal buzz of their ‘casual’ tone.
“I’m not sure what I’ll do when I leave the Council, Noah,” I sighed, sitting on the couch again and dropping my head against the back. “I suck at glass blowing, at any constructive portions of agriculture, and my knitting is ugly at best.”
Another hum issued from the ceiling, and my heart twisted in hope for better times. “You show significant proficiency in combat medicine - a disturbing amount for a human with no record of enlistment, radicalism, or training.”
“Eyeah. We’re not going into medicine.”
“Your psychological profile is rather counter indicative. What about your aptitude in cultivating spores?”
I scowled softly. “Leaving food in my fridge entirely longer than is necessary or healthy is not an aptitude.”
My drink spilled down my shirt when I heard Tyche’s voice drily intone “You would be surprised.”
“What the fuck!?” I shouted, brushing droplets off of me. “You called my sister?”
“I apologize, I did not.” A grinding noise I had never noticed before was added to their voice, and I wondered if it was a malfunction or an emotion I hadn’t identified yet. “I am unable to accurately produce the necessary level of emotional tone, and have established that Tyche’s tone is the one you are most responsive to in the regard to that emotion.”
Of fucking course. I rubbed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Hokay. Let’s run this back. You mentioned my proficiency in cultivating spores. I said ‘Leaving food in my fridge entirely longer than necessary or healthy is not an aptitude’.”
“You would be surprised.”
“You want me to learn to grow fungi.” In context and less startled, I blinked several times. “Wait. Waitwait wait.” Scrabbling, I bolted to set my drink in the console for a refill while I flicked my datapad open and started typing furiously. “Noah, I need you to send me all mycologists on the Ark. If you find them before I do, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I do not eat Terran food.”
“But you do ingest composted matter, and I can get that. You can do whatever you do while we chat. We’ll have dinner. It works…” I trailed off as my search came up with one biologist with a focus in the topic and three with sub-specialties. “Okay, we do have mycologists…. That’s a good sign.” Granted, it wasn’t very many, but if I went that route I would have someone to show me the ropes.
“Cultivation of spores on hot planets is particularly difficult.”
“We have caves,” I waved off. “Networks and networks of caves. The humidity is excellent in subsurface formations warmed by geothermal springs.”
“If humans do not take up the space.” Was Miys wheedling? That sounded like wheedling.
“Most humans despise humidity unless there is a corresponding amount of airflow,” I assured them. “Else will be fine, I just need to figure out what their preferred diet is these days….”
“Yes, Else.” The confirmation was sharper than I was used to, but I shook my head and continued on with the new challenge.
“AH!” I barked. “Says here that eighty percent of Else’s current configuration subsists on high protein vegetable matter and - capsaicin. Whoops! Sorry about that, Noah.” It did no good to even pretend I was blameless in our resident fledgling species’ love of the spice. Granted, I was maybe half of half of half of a percent responsible, but still. Culpability.
“Technically, bell peppers contain capsaicin, and I am quite all right with those.”
That made my brows furrow. “Noah, Else loves capsaicin, the higher the concentration the better. Bell peppers aren’t going to cut it.”
“I understand that the podlings prefer much spicier fare,” Noah conceded. “But it does cause me burns.”
Suddenly, their interest in my future vocation seemed a lot less like concern for Else. Very, very carefully, I ventured my next comment. “We have the areas of the Ark dedicated to cultivation of foods that may harm you designated as a biohazard.”
“This is correct.”
“And the bell peppers are not in there,” I pointed out. “They are in the same BioLabs as the lettuces so that they go into the same biowaste containers. Because we know you like them.”
“This is also correct.”
“Is someone growing spicy spice in those labs without our knowledge? In labs other than One and Five?”
“This is not accurate. No, Wisdom, they are not.”
I nodded slowly. “So you are suggesting that we cultivate the produce from BioLabs three, four, seven, and ten in locations on Von as far from the produce from Biolabs One and Five as possible?”
“That would be preferred.”
“And Biolab Six is safe to put near the spicier group?” Six was dedicated to simulated genetic sequencing on Terran livestock that was considered either unkosher or haram.
“Yes, Wisdom.”
I nodded again. “But not Nine.” Nine was the same aquaponics lab that Eino assisted in, the one that smelled like hell and cow farts.
“Certainly not Nine. Data indicates that the crops in Nine would work far better embedded in the crops from Four and Seven, specifically.”
“Hmm.” I raised my brows and stood to get another drink. Four and Seven held crops that were especially prone to rot and required a significant degree of climate control. Which made them a very odd choice to suggest they be grown near the aquaponic crops. Something was going on, that much I knew. I couldn’t tell if it was help or sabotage. “Well then. A toast. To computer malfunctions, mycology, and… knowing what crops don’t mix well.”
“Indeed.”
I needed someone a bit more familiar with this, for sure. And I knew just where to start.
Rache had heard rumours, but it hadn't dared to believe them, not truly, until it was kneeling on the filthy floor of a run-down hangar, watching the port attendant's furious gesticulations at a vaguely human figure. Eerily still, infuriatingly composed; Rache didn't need to get any closer to know the shape of the most infamous Agent still breathing.
Agent 48.
Rache pulled further back behind the pile of crates between it and its target as an Agency automata loomed from the shadows, forcing the port attendant back several steps. At this distance, Rache was more worried about Agent 48 xemself; but the attendant immediately subsided into mutters, heading bobbing back and forth between the two figures before evidently assenting to accompany the automata back towards the docks. Rache held its breath—48 watched for a moment before ducking back into the ship—then the hangar doors slid shut, and Rache was up and moving, stealing across the deserted platform.
The ship's exit ramp was down; Rache circled around the back, webbed fingers outstretched and and ready to grab the sentries from behind—then slowed to a stop, staring stupidly at the empty ramp. There were no guards. It suppressed an uneasy shiver, the flaps on its arms fluttering uncomfortably. Did 48 know it was there? For the first time in months, years, Rache found itself aching for an extra set of eyes, an open comm ready to pass off an impossible target to the next taker. There are no impossible targets, Rache reminded itself. Only unimaginative minds. It shook off the unease, creeping up and into the ship. It had gone this long on its own; it could manage this too.
The inside of the ship was dimly lit, poorly maintained lights flickering with a low buzz that vibrated through Rache's clenched teeth. It edged down the empty hallway—footsteps echoed on dull metal, close, and Rache inched backwards into the shadows, flattening itself against the wall.
"Three? Have you seen my scanner?" A many-legged figure appeared in its peripheral vision. "I could have sworn—" Rache surged forward, cutting them off with a blow that sent them crashing against the wall. They slumped forward, upper limbs sagging against Rache's arm. Then, Rache froze, fist twisted in the unconscious figure's pale fur.
A civilian? Rache squinted at their beaded fur and impractically draped shawl—common markers of merchant-class liormett. A disguise, surely. Except—its gaze flicked down over their empty pouch, sides missing the telltale bulge of hidden blades, bandolier straps, weapons of any kind. No Agent would be caught dead unarmed. Not off-duty, not asleep—its grip slackened, and the liormett slid to the floor as Rache took a step back, tongue nervously sweeping the backs of its razor-sharp teeth until it tasted copper. This isn't right, its mind screamed as it turned and fled back down the hall.
Back past the entrance ramp and into a wide open room, its pulse so loud in its skull it almost didn't hear the chatter from two figures by the console. A quick blow to the head was all it took for the smaller of the two, followed by a brief struggle with the larger—a feern—their howl of fury reverberating off the rusted walls like a siren. "Shut up," Rache hissed, frantically clamping its fingers around the feern's throat, but still the sound continued, a painful keening shriek that threatened to split Rache's head open. "Why won't you—" Then, dull metal pressed into Rache's back in the unmistakeable shape of a pulse cannon barrel.
Dammit.
"Release him," came a voice that was not Agent 48's, could hardly belong to much more than a hatchling, and Rache's grip loosened without thinking, letting the semi-conscious feern slump forward onto the console. "Now step this way," the voice continued.
Rache gritted its teeth but took a slow step sideways, open palms hovering at chest-level. Caught, and with Agent 48 nowhere in sight. Caught by a child. It took a deep breath, shaking the unease clinging to its adrenaline-charged limbs. There was a dull tap, tap of claws on metal flooring; moving air prickled the skin flaps on Rache's neck. It's not over until xe's dead, came a sudden thought, as the voice behind it announced: "And I'll take that."
A taloned aechyra hand in its periphery; Rache grabbed the outstretched wing, twisting the cannon out of their other hand before heaving up and over, sending them crashing into the opposite wall. As they collapsed to the floor, Rache straightened, chest heaving, senses straining for the slightest noise. For a moment, all it could hear was the blood rushing in its skull, and the heavy thumping of its hearts.
It couldn't have said what it was that caught its attention: some movement, a shuffling step. It turned its head, a quick glance around the empty room, then stilled as Agent 48 emerged from the shadows, dim light playing off xyr sandy brown skin.
48's eyes flickered across the room, gaze resting on the unconscious young aechyra for one long moment. Xyr hand went to the baton at xyr side, and Rache watched uncomprehending as it crackled to life in xyr hands. A stun-stick, it realized with growing fury. 10 years hunting xem down, and xe wasn't even going to deign to try and kill it.
"You bastard," Rache seethed—and then it was leaping forward, augmented blade falling into its hand without conscious thought.
They crashed together, baton and blade, sparks of light from that unfamiliar baton sending spots across Rache's vision in the darkness. Rache twisted away from a tentative probing strike, swinging back around under xyr guard with a long slash that sent 48 staggering backwards—and Rache stumbling at the unexpected success. Rache blinked, shifting its weight forward as 48 stumbled towards its waiting blade in a scatter of messy footwork; Rache disarmed xem with an impatient flick of its wrist.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Rache hissed, grabbing 48 by the collar to slam xem back against the wall. Xe was breathing heavily, dark eyes wide with uncharacteristic fear and confusion. "Say something!" Rache growled, panic sinking cold fingers into its gut now as 48 stared silently back at them, face utterly devoid of any recognition. No, no, no, this isn't right—
There was a whirring noise behind them, a flash of light, then blackness.
*
Rache woke to raised voices.
"How did they even get on the ship? Is this another assassination attempt?"
Nervous laughter. "That, one of Mercy's zealots? They weren't even carrying a pulse rifle."
Rache blinked against the bright artificial light; it seemed to be in the ship's cargo hold, hands fastened behind it to a rusting structure. It gave an experimental tug that only resulted in burning pain, drawing a sharp hiss from Rache as the cuffs cut into its delicate frills. Well fuck me, it thought, sullenly slouching back against the cold metal.
On the other side of the room, a little round service bot whirred to life, zooming out of the room on a jet of air.
Down the hall, the voices continued. "Right. You're right, of course. It's just, how did this happen? They took five of us down without breaking a sweat. If it wasn't for the ball bearing—"
Indignant beeping.
"Don't mind aer. You did good, buddy," came a voice, 48's voice, and Rache froze, suddenly straining to hear the rest of the conversation.
"Alright. When the others get back, we're gonna need to have a talk about this."
"Actually, I... need to talk to them, first. Alone." Approaching footsteps.
"Three, are you sure?" A pointed cough. "Fine, Agent 332. Is that really a good idea?" Several figures appeared in the doorway: the hatchling—Agent 332—glowered at it beside the liormett; a moment later, Rache's chest tightened as 48 appeared, xyr eyes falling on its own in an almost vacant look. Rache suppressed a shudder.
"They're handcuffed and weaponless," 332 said, crossing their arms, "I think I'll manage."
The liormett snorted. "Alright, don't get defensive. I just..." Ae patted them on the shoulder. "Be careful," ae said solemnly, and 332 gave a short nod. Then, ae gave Rache one last narrowed look before thumping down onto all six feet to amble away.
48 lingered in the doorway. "You're sure you don't want anyone to stay?" xe asked, with a gentle look of concern that sat on xyr face like a carnival mask. As if xe's ever shown that much unselfish concern in xyr life.
"Yes I'm sure!" 332 snapped; then, quieter, in a whisper that Rache would never have heard without its implants, added, "yes. It's... standard procedure."
"Alright," 48 said. "Good luck."
The doors closed behind xem, and then they were alone.
"Standard procedure?" Rache repeated incredulously, watching as 332 took a deep breath as if steadying themself, hands clasped behind them. "That's a joke."
332 sniffed haughtily—the only sign they gave of even hearing Rache. Now that it had time to really look at them, it realized that while hatchling was a bit of an exaggeration, if it looked closely at the golden yellow and orange feathers sprouting from their shoulders, there was still a little downy fluff poking out in places. "First things first," they said, and they took a few steps into the room, posture unnaturally stiff as if mimicking a vid they'd seen a hundred times. "I need to know how you found us."
"Get fucked," Rache replied.
They scowled. "I'm not sure you understand the gravity of the situation. If word got out—this is supposed to be—" They flicked their wings out impatiently. "I know who you are; you were the rebel cell leader on Euridia, weren't you." Rache glared silently at them. "Yes, I thought so," 332 said grimly. "Your being here is a terrible risk. If xe was to recognize you, it could ruin everything."
"How terrible for you," Rache muttered.
Their eyes blazed with frustration. "Surely you of all people must understand why this must be handled delicately! The last thing we want is to... to unleash Agent 48 on the galaxy!"
"Then let me kill xem," Rache said, baring its teeth in a bitter grin.
"No!" they exclaimed. "We're not going to kill xem when xe could still be useful!"
Rache gave a bark of a laugh. "Useful?" It leaned forward, staring the Agent in the eye. "They mindwiped xem, didn't they? Too valuable to die, too dangerous to live... what's a nice, safe middle ground? I know!" Rache said, voice dangerously bright. "Make xem into someone else, and hope it sticks long enough to make the same mistakes all over again!"
332 swallowed, "It will work," they said. Rache gave a derisive snort. "It will! Everything was going according to plan until you showed up. You need to leave, now."
"I'm not leaving xem free to run rampant across the timestream xe just stopped dismantling!"
"Well you can't stay. If you don't leave quietly, I'll have to inform Administration—"
332 stuttered to a halt, staring at Rache with undisguised horror. "You're... you're bluffing. You wouldn't—why would xe believe you? You just attacked us!"
Rache shrugged. "But it could trigger some memories. Want to test that?"
332 glared at it. "Not particularly, no." They faced each other silently, 332's feathers fluffed in consternation, pupils narrowed to pinpricks that flickered between Rache's as if trying to gauge its resolve. Rache watched with grim satisfaction; there was no way an Agent this inexperienced would risk ruining their delicate operation. "Fine," 332 said. "Xe doesn't seem to have recognized you so far, in any case. But I want you to keep your contact with xem to an absolute minimum, do you understand?"
"Won't be a problem," Rache muttered.
"And if xe shows any, I mean any sign of recognizing you, or remembering xyr past, you have to leave immediately."
"And leave you to deal with xem? Not happening," Rache retorted, eyeing them with distrust. "Can this ship jump timestreams?"
"No," 332 said tightly.
Not yet, Rache thought. Given the trail of destruction Agent 48 had left throughout the Agency's ranks, there couldn't be more than a dozen jump-capable ships in the entire galaxy. But if the Agency could convince this new, complaisant 48 to help them reinvent the technology... Rache's fists tightened. It doesn't matter, it told itself. Xe won't live long enough to even try.
There was a tap at the door. "Agent?" came a muffled voice, and the doors slid open to reveal 48, hands bunched up in xyr pockets like xe was hiding agitated hands. (Rache gave a low grumble of disgust).
"Sage!" 332 started, backing away from Rache with a guilty look. Sage? Rache mouthed, incredulous, but 332 refused to look at it. "Was there something you needed?"
"Just wanted to check on things," xe said, stepping inside. Xyr eyes flickered to Rache with vacant interest; Rache stubbornly held xyr gaze until xe looked away back at 332. "Have you discovered why they attacked us?"
332's eyes cut to Rache; their lips twitched minutely. Well, it would very much like to see you dead for all the destruction and death you've caused, you see, and will probably kill you anyway when the Agency's plan backfires.
"It was... a misunderstanding," 332 said.
"A misunderstanding," 48 repeated bemusedly.
332 shot Rache a desperate look, and it gave a low huff. "I mistook you for an old friend," it said flatly, and 48 gave a startled laugh.
"Well then," xe said with a dry smile, "I'm not sure we should become friends."
"Don't worry," Rache muttered. "We won't."
"Actually," 332 interposed, before 48 could say anything further, "I had thought—we had thought—" they shot Rache a frustrated look—Behave. "We had thought it might be useful for them to come with us. They're familiar with many of the planets we need to visit, and it could be helpful to have a guide who's... capable of handling themself."
"Agent," 48 said, a faint air of reprimand in xyr tone, "I won't deny they're capable, but do you really trust them? They just attacked us."
"Let's talk outside a moment," 332 said in lieu of answering. They stepped out into the hall, the cargo hold door closing behind them.
After a few minutes of muffled conversation during which several other voices came and went, the doors opened and 48 and 332 came back inside, the little bot from before following a few paces back. Rache glared at the bot, and they made a humming noise of laughter.
"I think we started off on the wrong foot," 48 said, and Rache snorted. Whatever placating lies 332 had told xem seemed to have worked, because xe bent down to unlock the cuffs, unconcernedly holding xyr ID chip over the scanner as if xe hadn't even stopped to consider the level of Agency system access granted to xem in just that action. Rache stared at 332 as they retrieved the cuffs. Cloud-headed idiot.
48 turned back to Rache to hold out out a hand, but Rache ignored this, pulling itself upright to its full 7 feet 2 inches—over a foot taller than 48. To xyr credit, xe didn't step back.
"332 says your name is Humility?" xe asked, and Rache just about choked on an indrawn breath. You can't be fucking serious. It shot a furious glare at 332; they glared back unrepentently.
"That's right," Rache gritted out. Forget killing 48; that bratty Agent had just moved to the top of its list.
48 glanced back at 332 for a moment, and they hastily schooled their face into mild curiosity. Xe turned back with a short nod. "My name's Sage," xe told Rache. "Xe/xem/xyr pronouns."
"And I'm Agent 49, or Mercy. Co pronouns for me." Co looked up at Rache, though barely; unlike cos human friend, Mercy was barely a few inches shorter than Rache, and wide enough to shield them both with cos armoured carapace. "What about you?"
Rache winced, shoulders tensing at the question. But before it could think of a way to tactfully shoot co down, 48 interrupted. "Actually, feern don't share their pronouns with outsiders," xe said matter-of-factly. Just this once, Rache was happy to be talked over.
Mercy gave a quick nod. "Gotcha," co said. Then co was gesturing to the cluster of hastily assembled prefabs behind them. "Want to come meet the others? I think you've already got a few friends here."
"Yes please," Rache grinned.
As Mercy tromped back toward the prefabs, 48 gave Rache a sketch of an Agency salute; it followed suit, though it heard Mercy choking on laughter at the unnecessary formality. "We'll have the opportunity to talk more about your suggestions later," 48 said, xyr eyes meeting Rache's own with a sharp, anticipatory look, "but it's good to have you here."
A cough snapped it back to the dingy cargo hold, and Rache forced itself to meet the dark, placid eyes of the late Agent 48. "A pleasure," it lied.
2019 was rough & I didn't get as much done as I had hoped but what I did accomplish I'm real proud of. Some of my favorite works this year from my original science fiction romance story "Everything Under the Stars".
