NationStates Jolt Archive

Local Gazette-Post-Times
All the news we think's profitable to print

Mysterious Raiders Terrorize Spacelanes!

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/tmbraiders.jpg
Images of the raiders courtesy of Mr. Nordnick of Foreignlandia

INTERPLANETARY SPACE - Merchantmen and independent traders in the area report seeing unknown purple and blue ships, usually operating in small squadrons of three, trailing mercantile vessels around our vital shipping lanes. Normally appearing only as sensor errors by matching velocity and acceleration, our only glimpses of these vessels have been by visual examination via ships' telescopes. Mr. Horatio Q. Nordnick, a used-ships dealer and interplanetary trader from Foreignlandia, has seen them multiple occasions.

"Thems little ships," Mr. Nordnick says of the raiders, "look sleek and fast. Don't got lots of obvious guns on 'em, but they's got these little ball turrets, at least I thinks so. Weird triangle insignia too, with a little coil or something inside it. Ain't nothin I ever saw before."

When asked if he had ever been attacked by the raiders, Mr. Nordnick replied: "Oh, naw. They's not actin' like they's wantin' too much trouble. Just watchin' and waitin', as yet. Don't even get radio-hails from 'em. They's a quiet bunch."

The local patrol official in the area, Major Grigorii Raskolnikov, had this to say: "The Local Space Merchant Patrol, who has been combating piracy in the so many years of its existence, has not encountered any of these so-called 'raiders.' Why they're even called that is beyond me. Anyway, we at the LSMP recommend that any trader who encounters one of these 'raider' vessels take no aggressive action and attempt to peacefully contact them and request identification. If they do turn out to be hostile, then contact your local LSMP branch and we will deploy some of our standard patrol spacecraft to assist you."

In the weeks spanning the reports of the raiders, there has been no reports of any raids. However, several ships have been lost in the area, "possibly due to hostile action," Major Raskolnikov said.

OOC:

I'm going to try something that seems a bit different from what seems to be standard for a first post around here. I suppose I'm trying to be mysterious, so just fill in the 'generic local stuff' above with yourself and let's see if we can't set up some interesting situations. I notice a common complaint with n00bs around here is their tendency towards the absurdly epic...

I plan on being quite subtle. :)

Tagged By Trixia.

Good intro, the only other paper nation i know is Wombat News, all there posts are paper ones!

Tagged By Trixia.

Good intro, the only other paper nation i know is Wombat News, all there posts are paper ones!
OOC:

Ah, thanks. Still, I'm not exactly aiming to be a paper nation. Perhaps some further specification on my part is in order...

I'm the raiders. This is just a non-imposing way of finding people who might be interested in playing with some mysteeeeeerious raiders from who knows where. Nothing really big, but hey.

*continues to harass shipping*

OOC:Intresting, an whole nation of space pirates, something for my Space police to deal with to deal with besides the Zoir Warlords who been quiet lately.

OCC: Best of luck to ya. Just be stayin' out of the Gamma Quadrant, that be our stompin' grounds.

OOC: I'm willing to be the horribly abused merchant men, but expect massive military action once I get wise :twisted:

OOC:
I could let you eat a basic independent merchantman, non-Kanuckistani; we tend to over-react when the safty of our people is at stake, so while you might get a pocket-dreadnaught on your tail for your effort, you'd more likly be facing a full-on fleet-rapeing Tunguska-Class Battleplate out for blood. Besides, our merchie fish are tough nuts with a nasty military-surplus bite of their own.

Interested? In the Indy, that is.

IC:

"Sightings continue to keep coming in concerning these new vessels, but noone reports actually seeing any sort of hostile actions from them."

OOC:

This is trickier than I imagined. People seem to assume that I'm nothing but raiders (I'm not (would be rather dull). I guess I'm just looking for somebody to play along, 'cause I don't want to reveal too much right now.

I get the feeling that subtlety is generally not a strong suit. See how in the introductory post I noted there hadn't actually been any reports of raids? I'm essentially leaving it up to you to provide something for me to react to, some patrol ship or merchantman dawdling about who tries to make contact or something. It doesn't have to turn into a raid; it's just the media hyping it. So rather than me pointing at the list and saying "yeah, I'll take your option," I'd prefer someone just taking a chance and flying with it.

I think (hope) you'll be surprised (hopefully pleasantly?). :D

"Status, Aaric?"

"Drives powering up nicely to sixty percent, reactors one and three at thirty, two and four at thirty three. No apparently hull breaches, and the jump engines, EM screens, and weapons all on stand by. All sensor data feeding back normally. Status appears normal, boss."

"Good work. Lets hit the road. The boys on Puck will probably be wanting their lunches sooner rather then later."

The Avioki class heavy transport Lady Charity was one of several hundred such ships operated by Intersteller Shipping Corperation. They shipped anything and everything, from food to people, from Venus to Uranus and back. They were the backbone of the colonization effort, moving what needed to be moved to where it needed to be moved. Captain Ahim Raison had been making the run between the hub port of Gammak, orbiting Jupiter, out to the mining and military posts out around Uranus for about as long as the run had existed. He didn't look his seventy-odd years, but nowadays most citizens could afford enough juveant treatment to add a good twenty years to their lives.

Raison buckled into his command chair as the Lady disengaged from her moorings, and fired up her main engines. In front and just below him, Raison was flanked by a pair of pilots sitting at their terminals, monitoring the engines, their heading, and other pilot-y things. Strapped in just behind him, Aaric Jayson sat manning the primary tactical and systems controls. Basicly, he sat and ran everything that the pilots didn't. The seat belts were generally required, there being no artificial gravity aboard simple freighters yet.

The command deck itself was rather small, only about six feet wide and ten long. On the deck below, the ten members of the loading crew lounged in the mess, killing time before they'd have to go back to work. Two decks of crew cabins sat mostly empty, though a few of the harder working of the dockers were likely to be found napping. About two hundred meters behind all this, the three man technical crew tried to pass the time like the dockers. They were supposed to be looking after the engines, reactors, and the like, but as everything was working, little needed doing.

It was a seven hour trip from Gammak to Puck, assuming they didn't have to pass through Saturan space and get hassled by the Triumvirate. It amazed Raions that even after twenty-five years of regular shipping to Uranus, they still stopped pretty much any transport that went past Saturn. Planet-alignment forcasting was an important bit of data for most of the Captains, since no one liked red tape.

Normally, the run is quite boring, with little more comming into surveryor range then the odd metor or or assorted chunck of space flotsam, but this time there was something interesting. Ships. A few of them. Following us.

"Hey, Raison?"

"Yeah Aaric, whats up kid?"

"Just thought you should know, picked up three ships, fifty clicks astern. They've been matching our speed for the last twenty minutes, but havn't come much closer then that. Never seen anything like them before, either."

"Well then. They scanning us or anything?"

"Nah, dosn't look like it. At least, nothing active, though we really couldn't pick up a passive scan. If they're following us, it's a good bet they've been watching us too."

"Brilliant deduction, kid. Anyway, send 'em a standard greeting ahoy. If they don't respond, bring up the EM screens. Okay?"

"Yeah, alright. Sending now."

http://img75.photobucket.com/albums/v228/NSIndy/aviokismall.jpg
The Lady Charity, an Avioki-class heavy transport

() They are sending some sort of signal. Its simplicity indicates it to be possibly a code or a short, standard message.

Company-Officer Big-Gripper folds his massive hands, tips of his index claws tapping together with slow, soft clicks. () Any fluctuation in power?

The Technician shakes her head. () No, Warrior. We do have basic information on powerplant, drive, and now communications from passive, however. Energy distribution remains relatively constant. If they were not on battle-footing before, they still are not now.

If we do not know their language, then they probably do not know ours. The mission had been less successful than Mater had hoped. While the local merchant marine was weak, the imagery constantly passed between ship to ship and filling this entire system was filled with militarization, almost to an extreme. Probe data indicated the troubling existence of massive fleets that must be tremendous drains on resources, making this system quite possibly the most militarized the Family-Empire ever had the misfortune of happening upon. Subtlety is in order, then. Perhaps a specimin. () Power up the weapons grids and apply more power to the drive. Are the baffles working?

Rayverr ship design, at least in this corvette-sized raider, is sharp and serrated for a reason. The hull is backed with a thin Faraday cage-style mesh, backed further by a layer of electromagnetic baffles. These baffles direct the usual emissions of shipboard operation down to 'exhausts' (really no more than unshielded hull divided from the rest by insulation) nestled inside the serrations of the design. From the fore, the vessel only seems to emit from hull reflection along the fore of the long, thick, scythe-like wings; from the aft, it glows brighter than would normally be expected. Any change in power (other than in the drive coils, which is relatively obvious) is only indicated by a slight increase in ambient emission rather than increased energy to any given subsystem.

() Of course, Warrior.

() Communications system primary target, engines secondary. Do not act yet; we are going to attempt speaking first. -Fleet.-

Two voices not in the room, and not connected by purely physical or electromagnetic means. () Yes, Company-Officer?

() Maintain position, Field-Officers. I will close with the target. Proceed to combat-ready and prepare to coordinate actions against communications and engines. Stand ready; we may or may not have to act in such a way.

() Understood, Company-Officer.

() -Ship.- Transmit on the aliens' frequency. Audio only.

A lemon-colored arm, covered in scales the consistency of fine sand, reaches out in the dark red chamber and turns a dial to match a green pointer with a purple one, then snaps several relay-switches shut and presses a large green button. () Transmitting.

The voice, ringing out for the first time in this particular span of time, is low, deep, sibiliant; the quickly-spoken words harsh and staccato. "Chasti pohjon pij Rayverr lisgahnjon Vokbub." The two proper nouns are given some sort of emphasis, said slower, perhaps with something approximating respect. "Vashmm'miff'fie mas laz gerr ko vesh pij gerr."

*Cheerfully blasts raider fighters out of the sky*

"Chasti pohjon pij Rayverr lisgahnjon Vokbub. Vashmm'miff'fie mas laz gerr ko vesh pij gerr."

"Aaric... that can't be good."

"Ok, so what do we do? We can't speak to them, and changing heading or anything might make them hostile."

"Fucking aliens. Ok, ease teh reactors up to forty percent, and bring the EM screens and projectors online. Maintain course and heading. Relay that back to Jupiter and ahead to Uranus, and let them know the situation. If we're lucky, they might send an escort. If we're not lucky... well, lets not worry about that. 'Kay?"

"Right boss. Acting..."

Rasison picked up the internal com unit to address the crew. "This is Captain Raison. All hands to quarters, and Guilders to the armoury. This is NOT a drill. Move with purpose, people!"

"Boss, don't you think that's a little bit of an overraction?"

"Yeah, maybe. But shit, if they attack, we'll be ready. If they don't, well, then they don't. No harm in being prepared, eh?"

"Guess not. Suppose if they're pirates they'll be targeting the engines before boarding, eh?"

"Yeah. Lets hope they're not pirates..."

() Target emissions increasing. Powerplant increasing output, secondary systems coming on-line. They appear to have some sort of field-defense.

Big-Gripper taps his fingers together slightly faster, a soft click-click-click giving pace to his thoughts. The smallish corvette he was on was built for weapons and speed; heavy armor and defensive fields would simply act as extra mass. The idea that noncombatant vessels would have this sort of equipment is disquieting, but in hindsight unsurprising given the intense militarization of the area. () Repeat the message, then... increase range to target by ten percent.

The "raiders" drop back a little, formation broadening a bit. Despite the fearmongering of the press, raiding is generally an extremely inefficient form of resource acquirement. Still, it is a legitimate tactic... especially when the resources desired may be slightly more esoteric than one thinks. There are multiple solutions to any dilemma. The less weapons fired, the more successful the solution is.

"Raison, they appear to be dropping back a bit. They're also repeating their message."

"Don't suppose there's anything in the computer that'd help us, eh?"

"Not a chance in hell. We hailed them in english, and we got that gibberish. I'm guessing languagell be a problem."

"Yeah, figured. Status?"

"All Reactors up to forty precent, EM screen and projector grid online, engines humming along at sixty. Everything's running smoothly enough."

"Anything from Gammak? Uranus?"

"Nothing yet. "

"Hey, Aaric, you know anything about... oh, what was it called... interlac?"

"Interlac? Yeah, a little. Supposed to be close to a universal language, based on mathamatical constants or something. Not that anyone understands how it works, but computers do."

"Think you could rig up a transmission?"

"Well... lesse..." he beging trawling through the databanks on his computer terminal, spending a few minutes bringing up a rudimentary interlac program that apparently came with all Aviokis. "Kay. Think it's best to keep this short."

"Alright. Get this down," he clears his throat, and speaks into the small mike, the same one used to address the ship. This time, however, the recording being fed into the computer for translation instead of out over the few loudspeakers around the ship.

"Alien vessel. We cannot understand you. Please identify and respond in kind."

The lemon-scaled Technician pauses momentarily, eyes narrowing as the computer analyzes the incoming information and displays it.

() Incoming message. Another code... I think.

() You... think?

The Technician actually turns around to face the blue-plated Warrior. () Yes, actually, I think. We're getting a series of... mathematical statements. It looks similar to other concepts of universal communication we've seen in the past... at least, it's made up of a series of logic statements combined with inequalities. Still, lacking a basic set of common symbology...

() In masfie, Technician?

() I don't get it.

() Try sending it back along with whatever version of ours that seems closest with some message along the lines of "sorry, please say again."

And so it is done.

TAG

OOC:
I was just hesitant about letting you bite off something that would ICly obligate massive retalitory action on my part; like the time CorpSac's actions resulted in me blowing his homeworld away.

Depending on how this turns out, I could still arrange for you to encounter one of my ships, however.

OOC:

Kanuckistan -- *shrugs* Either I do or I don't, doesn't make much difference to me. Actually, I doubt you'd do as well as you think you'd do... because, of course, to annihilate wherever the "raiders" hail from you'd have to find it first...

"Boss! They're sending something back."

"Really? Think that sci-fi bullshit about a univeral langauge actually works?"

"Can't say. The computer's working on translating it. It'll be a few minutes."

They sat nervously awaiting a reading from the comptuer. Six minutes later, it beeped, indicating it was finished."

"So Aaric, whats it say?"

"Err... Something about the coaxial constant of shutting down the gravitron emmitter witha positronic network. Just gibberish."

"Damnit. Do we have a linguistic file on hand? A dictionary or something?"

"What does this look like, the Titanic II? Of course not."

"Well, fine then. Close the comm and hit the gas. Engines to eighty percent. Lets just hope they leave us alone."

And so they slowly accellerated, still a good two and quarter hours away from the nominal boundries of Indiastani space around Uranus. They suspected, however, that the trip would feel longer then that.

hmm, very interesting *tags*

Big-Gripper watches the blinking yellow pyramid in the hazy green holotank slowly accelerate away from the violet pyramid in the center with thin green lines radiating out in six cardinal directions and connecting at their ends with curved lines to form a wireframe sphere. Two other similar purple icons indicate the other ships in the small formation, at eight o'clock high and five o'clock level according to the sphere-diagram.

() Perhaps our message was mistranslated?

The blue Warrior's fingertips click together, now forming a sort of terse pattern like some sort of odd waltzing cadence. () You cannot be faulted. Destination and estimated time to arrival?

() Display information updated, Warrior. The yellow pyramid grows a red line from its tip, stretching out until it stops abruptly at the plexiglas wall of the holotank. () Destination is Planet Seven, estimated time one-point-four sixteenth-cycles. I can't be any more exact than that at this time, except that their drive output is approximating their reactor output and so I doubt they can go much faster.

This is not good, Big-Gripper thinks quietly to himself. There is no way that a light Gripping Hand can take on that amount of force.

() -Fleet.- Field-Officers, you see the situation? Comment and suggest.

In the confined command cabins of the other two ships, the addressed Warriors move their jaws slightly in a motion equivalent to a raised eyebrow. Such requests were uncommon in the autocratic collective.

(2) The vessel appears to be escaping. We could proceed with the original plan and engage it. We are easily more maneuverable than it is.

(3) Those are our orders, yet by now they have already transmitted out to locations other than us. They are probably requesting reinforcements and have alerted the area to our presence. We must strike quickly lest those reinforces intercept us. Mater will not be pleased that you... modified our directives, Company-Officer.

Big-Gripper's thin lips part a little at the quiet challenge. (B-G) Mater's mind is busy elsewhere and she has given me the authority to act as I believe fit. The two lower-ranking officers feel their blood pressure rising, illogical fear welling in their minds. The challenger grips his chair as he comes almost to the brink of panic before being relaxed from a distance. (B-G) Am I understood?

The two respond as one, their thoughts a little scattered. (2,3) Yes, Company-Officer.

(B-G) There is a simple reason for my apparent mutiny to our orders. They have called ahead about us. If we attack now, then we are quite obviously the culprits. This will make all further efforts in this system more difficult than already because we will be known as openly hostile. We would do the same if we were them.

However, if we try to contact with hands on hilts but blades sheathed, we can disengage without dire consequence. They warned everyone about us, but we did nothing. We are still the same unknown as before but not a hostile one. The local Family-Empire does not have the strength to take on the entire system; obviously very few families here do or else they already would have. This allows us to keep our options open.

(2) What about Mater?

(B-G) She is a reasonable being. I will show her my reasons and she will see them, in time. It may be... unpleasant for a tme if she is displeased to the point of violence, but she will see the logic before she acts too rashly.

(2) You act dangerously, Big-Gripper.

(B-G) Mater is powerful, not infallible. Sometimes one must act dangerously for the good of the Family-Empire. Trust me, this is for the best.

The third Warrior finally builds up enough confidence to 'speak' again. (3) You did not want our opinion in the first place?

(B-G) I wanted to know it, yes, Big-Gripper almost chuckles, but the thing with suggestions are that they need not be followed. How else am I to teach you so you may become capable Company-Officers and higher? We will disengage and report back to Mater. You have your orders.

The lead ship transmits a short message back to Lady Charity, using the same system as previous--"Perhaps some other time."--then turns its fore to a right angle from the current path of motion; pitching, yawing, and rolling so its low-signature dorsal "top" side faces the cargo ship and firing its engines to take it away. The other two sleek vessels repeat the graceful motion, breaking away and heading out towards what appears to be nothing in particular.

Another transmission. Before the computer can even being translating one form of gibberish into another, the three alien vessels broke off. As they passed beyond scanner range, Aaric and Rasion let out sighs of relief almsot simultaniously. After collecting his thoughts, he picked up the chairside mike and addressed the ship.

"All hands stand down, return to stand-by. And close up the armoury."

He slumped back a bit in the chair, brething normally again. "Aaric, you copied all the gibberish stuff to disk?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Put it on a datacrystal. That'll make us rich."

"Sure boss, sure."

"Anyway, engines down to sixty. Leave everything else running. Call ahead, tell them we're on schedual."

"Righto."

OOC: Alright, that contact seems to have concluded, so...

IC:
In the inky depths several light-months out from Sol, a small, private vessel, a scant hundred meters in length, plyed the outter reaches of the Kuiper belt; it's LRMHDV fusion drives directing it on a semi-ballistic course for a tiny icy world.

Detected several months ago by the gravitic sensors of a passing ship, the three kilometer across snowball had yet to be claimed; little more than a long range spectroscopic snapshot and mass/volume reading were avalible, but the small venture was used to such gambles.

-------------

Annika yawned as she settled into the comforming gel padding of her acceleration couch, the vixen tentivly sipping at the hot brew of her morning coffee as she glanced around the informal bridge.

"Status?" she queried, only half listening as she adjusted her t-shirt; the ship was fresh from an overhaul, and there was never anything out this far.

"Nahmuch, Cap'n," the hunam ops tech replyed; one of only two other people on the bridge, "We had a tentive contact a few MSK out on thermals a little while ago, but no where near our flight path. Other than that, everything's green across the boards; just dust and echos."

The fox woman nodded, not bothering to query the helmsman; the sentient housecat in the middle of some sci-fi movie playing on his console. Settling in for what promised to be another boring watch, she set her coffee down to cool for a few moments, bringing up the sensor logs; sure enough, a small thermal emision was detected fifteen minutes ago, at an estimated eight million kilometers out; too breif to get a vector fix, and nothing showed up on RADAR, RFEM, or LiDAR, tho that was hardly suprising given the range, if any effort at stealth was being made. Probally nothing of consiquence, but it never hurt to be watchful...

Elsewhere, a silent conversation takes place across a far longer distance than it has any right to.

() Interesting report, Company-Officer. You are intended to make decisions, but maybe this is a bit much?

In the small bridge of his vessel, little more than a large cockpit, confining and oddly laid out, Big-Gripper keeps his emotions well under control. He'd made a decision; now was when he'd see what he had to pay for it. () I estimated the situation and came to a conclusion based on that estimation, Mater. Unlike the reports of other advance forces elsewhere, this area is both extremely militarized and advanced. I did not believe that initiating hostility was wise under those circumstances.

() So you believe that my orders, passed down via your General-Officer, were inappropriate to be followed?

The tone is very quiet, perhaps dangerously so. The Warrior doesn't allow himself to think on the difficult diplomacy necessary; he simply replies slowly and carefully. () Mater, I believe those orders were issued on the basis of insufficient information and inaccurate precedent that did not reflect the reality of the situation. Keeping the intent and final objectives of those orders in mind, I acted in what I believe, in hindsight, was the best way to maintain the validity of those objectives.

A slight pause. () I cannot deny that, in hindsight, that your actions were probably for the best. However, if I allow it, what prevents you from opposing my decisions and orders at will? If you believe your judgement is better than mine, you become an unstable element that requires more of my time, which grows more and more precious by the moment, to control.

() My judgement is not better... only well-informed, Mater. Just as it is... inefficient for you to control every infantryman, it is... inefficient to commit oneself to actions that are detrimental to the objectives of the whole. As our strength is certainly limited, insufficiency cannot be afforded.

() Any recommendations or last defenses for your mutiny?

Big-Gripper sets his jaw in preparation. He was getting off lighter than expected. () My recommendation, Mater, is that we proceed with more delicacy than is traditional. My encounter shows that hostility is an expected norm in this area and thus the opposition is certainly prepared for it. If they are ready for overt action, they may not notice more subtle measures. He leaves defense unsaid as guilt is obvious. At least, perhaps, his insubordination may change doctrine.

Even with preparation, the burning sensations of fear and self-loathing are almost overwhelming by themselves even without the perception of a trillion needles piercing his plate-like scales and twisting underneath, bruising every nerve center imaginable. Throwing himself forward from his stool-like chair with an incoherent howling roar of pain, his chitinous claws dig into the thin metal deck plating, body writhing and spasming for a brief instant before he is left gasping for air, water welling from the nictating membranes of his tightly-shut eyes.

() You are fortunate your estimation was accurate. Another Company-Officer will be dispatched to relieve you. We shall have to talk about this further at a later time.

Mater's presence dissipates, and the weakly crying Warrior is left with a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the promised meeting.

------===------

Fourteen-Fingers worries. Rather, he would be worrying if his seratonin levels weren't elevated. Instead, he finds himself only mildly curious about the standby order but perfectly content that his superiors will figure everything out and come back to tell him what to do. In the meantime, he can just follow this little sensor contact in the middle of nowhere heading towards a remote object of no remote, meditating on the little yellow pyramid.

If he knew what Zen was, he would describe it as mildly Zen-like.

(General-Officer) -Forward Assets- New directives from Mater. Do not engage contacts unless there is definite value and no potential for retaliation. Attempt communication first. Return fire is authorized but do not initiate hostilities unless the target is extremely valuable.

The Company-Officer blinks slowly. This is unexpected, odd, and almost completely unheard of. This contact, at least by its emissions, is a very small vessel, practically the size of his own corvette. (F-F) -Command- ... my target is corvette size but unprotected. Do I engage? If I talk to it, I give myself away. We are within engagement range, just a matter of--

He flinches from the snapping sensation, something akin to a ruler across the knuckles. (G-O) Use your best discretion. That is why you are a Company-Officer. When given a choice, make one.

Fourteen-Fingers unconsciously rubs his right hand, one finger a mere calloused and calcified stub from an accident in his youth. (F-F) Yes, General-Officer.

He looks at the holotank. He could do it. It'd be easy. Three warships--albeit light ones--one merchantman... but what if they escaped? What if they were better armed?

(F-F) General-Officer...

Snap. (G-O) Just do something and if it's violent make it look like it isn't our fault. A finality in the General-Officer's tone indicates that if he's bothered one more time the result won't be just a ruler to the knuckles.

Still... it's enough to spark an idea in Fourteen-Fingers' skull. Perhaps, just maybe, he could appear to act one way and yet accomplish something wholly different. Working it out in his mind, he contacts his Field-Officers and briefs them. The one he appoints as "Group One" doesn't exactly like the idea, but accepts. A decision made, Fourteen-Fingers gives the command to execute.

Group One--a lone corvette, burns forward and away from the formation, powering up to full as it jinks erratically towards a point just aft of the Kanuckistani vessel. Group Two likewise powers up and burns after it at a slower rate, letting it get some distance before the forward batteries open up, ball turrets discharging in rapid pulsed streams medicine ball-sized packets of gravitationally distorted space containing hydrogen plasma at the usual stellar temperatures. Lead calculators deactivated, the Technician crews fire under iron sights, allowing a sufficient amount of error so that the shots pass "Group" One harmlessly.

It would seem logical that their communications jammers are on full; cannot let the rogue vessel call for help, of course. As the "rogue" vessel passes by a few seconds later, it fires a full broadside of five of those elegant but not exactly over-effective (against heavily-armored targets, at least) graviton pulse cannon at the Kanuckistani vessel's engines and communications, the standard disabling move.

"What the?" Alex, the hunam, murmers as he leans over his console, befor, "Three thermal traces lighting up at range; faint RADAR and LiDAR traces to match..."

Anne, startled, nearly choaked on her coffee, grabing the tactical repeter mounted at her side; was that...

"Picking up weapons fire from the rear pair..."

Annika wasn't listening now, black furred hand slamming the 'combat alert' panic button as horror stories flashed through her mind; the vessel's shields, little more souped-up than navigational deflectors, rapidly ramping up, while fire control for the vessel's two internal missile quads and pair of point-defence lasers started plotting vectors and conducting threat assessment.

By now, the unknown contacts were nearing, and Rowlen, the helmsman, had hastily killed his movie to slam the ship hard about, presenting their vessel's heavily laiden cargo bay.

It was just as Annika had realised that the unknowns were firing at each other, and had started to relax, that the broadside slamed into them; blowing through their shields, vaporising the venteral comms array and sensor clusters befor tearing into the cargo bay, other rounds tearing clear through her unarmoured hull and engine room; the flash of ruptured magnetic bottles spewing plasma past blast-containment doors that no longer existed, gutting the aft quaters and rec room, along with 17 members of the 20 person crew. Dorsal lightspeed comms were still intact, but thusfar silent; her FTL datanode lost with the engines.

The fire control system, however, had long sense responded; explosive bolts jettisoning hull panels to reveal the vessel's limited armament even as the lead enemy fired upon her; her full compliment of 8 modern military-surplus missiles loosed automaticly, independent gravitic targeting systems easily aquioring active lock upon the single openly hostile vessel, as 4 hundred-megaton warheads rocketed towards it on reactionless drives, ECM screaming; the ballance, being laser-heads, streaking away at angles that would apear to sugest they'd failed to aquior a target lock; a ploy to avoid defencive fire while they ran for the range needed to fire without harming their parent vessel.

Point-defence, however, never joined their self-immolating brothers in retaliation; half-deployed as explosions rip the engines apart, the sudden shock knocks them ajar; impotent.



OOC:
Fire control's launched everything at the lead ship, assuming it to be the only enemy; the other two ships, observed firing on the lead vessel, were dismissed as possible threats.

And yes, all my civilian ships operating out of my teratory have modern military-surplus missiles; they're provided for very little cost via a joint program between the military and the Kanuckistani Merchants Association, aimed at discouraging piracy upon Kanuckistani vessels.

OOC:

No complaints. Just one problem with the gravity-based lock on scheme. Still, gives me an excuse to explain that... I hope you don't mind if I play them as smart missiles, though.

IC:

The missiles tear out, but they would find something most curious. Gravitically, the only "vessel" in the area appears to be the friendly one. The Rayverr real-space drive system is an esoteric positive-negative energy impeller drive (http://www.grc.nasa.gov/WWW/PAO/html/warp/ideachev.htm#neg), not exactly something they understand but the people they got it from did. Essentially, the concept holds that matter has a negative version (not to be confused with antimatter) which has a negative gravity and inertia effect--it repels instead of attracts and 'wants' to constantly change its motion rather than resist acceleration. This of course limits the amount one can carry around, as large enough masses tend to want to blow themselves apart. It is useful for maneuvering ships, however, when used in conjunction with positive matter. The net mass, and thus the net gravity, of any such drive is zero, and as the raiders are primarily engine, their apparent mass is a pittance.

Still, the missiles search about along the last known path of what they were fired at, trying to reconcile the radar signatures and telemetry that were uploaded before launch with what they are currently seeing in their simple if-then statement "minds."

Meanwhile, Fourteen-Fingers winces as he watches the light-gun salvo be far more effective than intended. That... was not part of the plan. He watches as eight orange needle-like cones representing the missiles flash on and off, searching for the corvette careening away from the cargo hauler.

Missiles tend not to be networked, but guidance packages usually have a relatively simple command structure and so they often come to the same decisions.

Observation 1) There is no target matching the expected parameters uploaded.
Observation 2) There is one contact [A] following within 10% of the expected path and two more [B] and [C] further than 630% from the expected path.
Observation 3) Range from launcher exceeds safe-detonation distance.
Observation 4) No contacts marked as friendly or neutral fall within detonation radius.
Observation 5) Telemetry does not report new friendly or hostile contacts.
Observation 6) Telemetry does not report anything at all.
Conclusion 1) Detected contact [A] is not friendly.
Conclusion 2) Detected contacts [B], [C] are not hostile.
Conclusion 3) Clear to engage detected contact.

Having reached a conclusion, they streak in and, to minimize collateral damage, set themselves to contact detonation. Upon detecting the missiles inbound the ship kicks its acceleration to its ten-gravity maximum; the three graviton pulse cannon that have line of sight track and fire at the missiles on their kill run; to their credit, they do shoot down three.

However, it generally only takes one hundred-megatonner warhead to vaporize a ten-thousand ton vessel. Five are, quite simply, more than enough as what was once a Jok-Chumkoachike'terr-class corvette atomizes into its constituent elements minus a fair amount of gamma radiation.

Fourteen-Fingers winces again. Neither was that. Drumming his claws with nervous energy on the consoles of his wireframe stool, he looks over at the Technician sitting just below, ahead and to the left of him. () Status?

() CC-2 completely destroyed. Target... drive output zero, reactor output minimal, no transmissions... appears disabled, Warrior. Something that looks like a communications array is still intact but I cannot tell if it is powered.

The Warrior nibbles the inside of his mouth a little with his molars. () All right. -Fleet- Move into position on opposite sides of the target, no offensive moves yet. Traverse batteries away from the vessel. I am going to talk to them and see if our late and over-efficient brother left anyone alive before we board. Continue jamming but leave our communications frequencies open.

A quick message of acknowledgement back, and the Warrior leans forward. () Audio transmission.

* - * - *

"Vasvis i'yik slaxjon pij verr taschangvinn gerr. Vasti changjonlo pij vesh pij verr. Vaspi setcak gerr?"

Elsewhere in the Kupier Belt:

A sensor display on the SNS Shiv lit up. "Captain, I'm picking up explosions on bearing 297."
"Distance?"
"1,000,000 kilometers."
"Set a course, someone there might need our help."
The Shiv turns left and accelerates towards the disturbance. ETA 45 NS minutes.

OOC: FYI Shiv is a small patrol ship, a Pulsar class gunboat. Ship description as follows:

-Pulsar class gunboat: 150 meters long, designed to escort and support both capital ships and starfighters. Very quick and maneuvrable. Armed with light turbolasers and laser cannons.

OOC:
Actually, Kanuckistani military-grade missiles are networked via zero-point datacoms to the fire control system, via small laser whisker clusters to each other, and posess sofisticated AI and sensor systems far in advance of those on the ship; notice, for example, that gravitic sensors aren't even mentioned earlier.

The nukes were designed for taking out small ships and fighter formations; the laser-heads, rated at an effective 2.5 gigatons, for warding off anything upwards of a small capital ship or two.

Still, fairly acurate end results. :) I had assumed you didn't have any way to inhibit detection on gravitic sensors as they weren't mentioned earlier when you breifed over your stealth systems.

And Squornshelous, ignoring the off-balancing fact you outgun everyone, 10'000 km is spitting distance, especially way out here; Rayverr started out several million kilometers away, for example.

IC:
Annika was frantic, running through damage reports in her screen in disbelife... was everyone? Surely some had to...

"Ma'am," Rowlen's unnerving telepathis 'voice' sounded in her head; but then, the ship's lack of ASPEW fields was the reason the ex-military officer had signed on, "Request permission to laz-com our logs at Earth."

Anne almost snaped; it would take months for the light-speed tightbeam to reach anyone, what good would it do... she sighed; atleast their famlies would know, and the Gaurd would make the bastards responsible pay..

"Do it," she replyed, the house cat turning back to his work station, befor Alex spoke up, "Transmission from one of the other two ships, I think; atleast they don't look damaged..."

"The bastard who fired on us?" Annika snaped.

"Dead, I think, but venteral sensors are out, so it's hard to tell; the others seem to be of the same make?"

"Ambush," sounded in her head.

"Or maybe the first ship was stolen," Annika thought aloud, "Play their transmission, Alex."

"Oh, right."

"Vasvis i'yik slaxjon pij verr taschangvinn gerr. Vasti changjonlo pij vesh pij verr. Vaspi setcak gerr?"

Annika glanced questioningly at Alex, forestalling her question as she saw he was already at work; "No translation," he concluded.

"Recomend you reply in Interlac, Captain" Rowlen against thought-spoke, "The computer's suposed to have it on file; came with the comm system"

She nodded absently, "Alex?"

"Confirmed; bringing it up. The message?"

"This is the Kanuckistani Civilian Vessel, KCV-1'053'815'294 Asperation-C," she began, reading off the ship's designation from the IFF repeter's display on her console, "Identify yourselves and your intentions." As an afterthought, she added, "And burst them the interlac dictionary while you're at it."

-------------

Outside, the vessel's dorsal comm systems powered up, replying on the same frequency; the translated interlac message followed by the burst-transmission of the trade language's encoding matrix. Meanwhile, Rowlen directed a laser-whisker to tightbeam their logs at Earth in a tightbeam, using the cluster's activity to disguise the data-dump; jamming be damned, only a physical object could block a las-comm, and he had clear line-of-sight.

() Target is responding, Warrior.

Fourteen-Fingers stops drumming seven of his fingers on his console. () Good... what do they say?

() A series of undefined constants based on an unknown set of parameters related by inequalities... and what appears to be basic binary logic gates.

Fingers drum again. () You do not know.

() It is language, I think... wait... another transmission. It appears to be a translation matrix of sorts. To another language we cannot read. At least this gives us a large vocabulary to work with.

Fourteen-Fingers growls a little with annoyance. () Yes, but how can we be sure that we are speaking correctly? We do not want to say "death to all your family" when we're asking permission to board and repair.

() That is a problem, yes...

Tap tap tap tippity tappity tap-trrrap. () Stand by for an audio-visual transmission, raw data, no compression or whatever it is. Just basic analog data so whatever they have they have some chance of picking it up like we want them to. Connect the planning board to the communications system, blank screen.

There is a short delay, and then a rather inefficient stream of data conforming to basic RF television signals. The signal reveals a series of crudely-drawn doodles on the screen narrated by the same rough staccato voice that spoke earlier, except speaking more slowly this time.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/crayons.gif

Starting with a blank screen, the narrator says: "Ch'gaskol. Chasti Okkche'e'terrchangjon Xonmik"--sounds like a title or a form of address, as the capital letters are enunciated a bit--"pij vesh pij verr. Vasti rayverr."

The dark blue shape in the lower-left hand corner appears line by line in a manner not wholly unlike a commentator illustrating a particular sports play. "Piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij verr."

Then the grey shape in the upper-right hand corner, which may be a crude approximation of Asperation-C. "Piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij gerr."

A few more lines are added to the grey shape, making a sort of teeth or sunburst pattern. "I'setkoa tok piksokfieqiffgrre'terr pij gerr."

The blue symbol appears. "Changjon, rayverr e'chas cherr."

Then the smaller but similar yellow symbol. "Cakjon, rayverr i'chas cherr."

The first red line between the blue and yellow symbols and the grey doodle appears. "Vaskol puh gerr."

The teeth or sunburst pattern is filled in with grey. "Vassetcakche i'setkoa pij gerr."

Then the final red line appears. "Gasi'kol."

Another slight pause. "Tastivil set?"

OOC:
Just a quickie for now; I spent too long pondering your language.


IC:
Several minutes pass befor the Asperation rolls on still-functioning RCS thrusters to present her wounded, but still mostly-intact cargo hold to the enemy; fire-control locking onto the two remaining alien vessels. As that's happening, the following transmission it sent; snipets of audio edited together from Fourteen-Fingers' own transmission. Must be odd; aliens replying with your own words, in your own voice.

"Vaskol puh gerr."
"Piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij gerr."
"...a tok p..."
"Piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij verr."

This is followed by a snapshot of the now-vaporised corvette from the Asperation's venteral sensors; incoming fire centeral on the screen, half-obscuring the corvette, with the missiles launched in reply not only clearly visible towards the side, but circled in bright green.

The image desolves to static as the comm array leaves line-of-sight; rotation slowing to a halt so that the port sensor clusters just remain visible, watching; several likly candidates for an RF reciver amoung the the instriments, so quite possibly listening as well.


OOC:
Sounds like you've got a dictionary made up there; neat. That 'reply' make much sense?

The Asperation's current status is as follows; computers, voltsink electron batteries(with plenty of juice), watch cabin, forward airlocks/universal docking collar, bridge, mess hall, RCS, dorsal comms, dorsal port starboard and bow sensor clusters, fire control, and enviromental are intact and functioning, and that's basicly it; no missiles, PDL's're clearly ajar, and their main engines are drifting away, several kilometers behind them and consisting of no less that seven rather large chunks - lifeboats are probally intact, with heavy hatches sealed, but open to space down near the gutted crew quarters. There are also aux ion drives around mid-ship, concealed under panels and unpowered; too slow to be useful a the moment, and they'd rather you not blow them off too.

Basicly, they're hoping you can't tell that they're not hiding more concealed missiles(not very hard), and don't want to chance calling their bluff. Of course, I'm hoping my crew are very disapointed; rather boring if you just run off... well, until the Navy decides to investigate.

And Squornshelous, ignoring the off-balancing fact you outgun everyone, 10'000 km is spitting distance, especially way out here; Rayverr started out several million kilometers away, for example.

Sorry, I accidently left a couple of zeros. Yeah, I didn't realize how much there, RP being adjusted.

Fourteen-Fingers drums his sharp claws as the speaker repeats his words back to him. () What do you make of it?

() They are trying. Perhaps they are worried about the safety of their ship and wish to take shelter with us? And what does that have to do with our ship somehow being in theirs?

() No...--the Warrior bares his teeth just a little--the imagery isn't right. As we sent images to illustrate our message, they send images to illustrate theirs. Their rotation could be bringing additional weapons to bear.

() A threat?

() A warning. Only morons do not fire when they need to. -Fleet- Obtain that drive core. -Ship- Collect an engineering team; I am going to gather two Private-Enlisted Warriors and a medical Technician. They will be in Lighter Tube Three ready to disembark within two twohundred-twentyfifth-cycles.

() They will be ready, Warrior.

Fourteen-Fingers folds the consoles out of his way then stands up, crouching low in the tight confines of the corvette's bridge before getting into the taller but no more wide corridor, barely enough to walk through comfortably. Stalking through the vessel's battle-lit hallways, Technicians and one or two lower Warriors he passes brace against the walls to let him pass before continuing on their own errands. Back, through several lock-like pressure doors currently open, then down a sort of curving gangway, shadows playing off his body as he makes his way down several decks to the armored lighter bay's equipment room. There, he takes up several plates of armor and straps them on, settling the dome-like personal field generator between his broad shoulders as he adjusts its harness, then plunking the wide-visored bowl-like helmet on his head. Around him, two other Warriors do the same, moving efficiently in the close spaces; seven of the smaller Technicians simply shoulder duffels that contain whatever smocks and tunics they might need if they have to fiddle with any equipment and various repair kits and tool bandoliers.

Meanwhile, the second corvette cuts its relative speed, dropping back to examine the useless engine parts. Similar crews prepare to disembark in spacesuits to investigate salvage potential and lighters to help move the more interesting chunks (i.e. the ones in the best condition that they understand the least) into their hold.

Within twelve minutes the air is evacuated from around a lighter, one of the octoganal doors in the port side of the corvette opens up, and the lighter is kicked into space with just a small EM coil effect, giving it enough velocity to clear the ship and then operate under its own small PN impellers. Somewhere between a heavy fighter and a heavy shuttle, the sharp-nosed bulbous-sided craft sidles up to the universal docking collar and latches on, boarding party standing expectantly at the alien lock.

() So, do we cut it open?

(F-F) Not yet. We still don't want to be hostile, necessarily...

(From CC-1) Drive signatures detected. Estimated time to arrival four twohundred-twentyfifth-cycles.

(F-F) ...especially now. This seems to work in the transmissions our probes intercepted...

Reaching out hesitantly, the Warrior balls one three-fingered hand into a fist and thunks (with quite some force so it may be heard on the other side of the lock) a short percussive phrase that bears a striking resemblance to "Shave And A Haircut."

OOC:

OOC:
Just a quickie for now; I spent too long pondering your language.
That's partly the point. :)
Sounds like you've got a dictionary made up there; neat.
I'm working on it. Language is always a work in progress. ;)

CVF Australia, Flagship, Patrol Division Four
Deep Space

"Time until jump?"

"Three minutes. I expect that we will - just a moment." On the c-space squardron command deck, the avatar of Australia's EI pauses. At the same time, a scan tech says, "Captain, large radiation pulse detected, bearing one-oh-seven by plus-two-four. Distance two million kay."

"Confirmed, Captain," says the EI. "Nuclear explosion, in the hundred-megaton range. Longrange scan detects several drive sources now on course to intercept."

"Odd, there shouldn't be much out here." The captain pauses the think. "We can't be delayed, we have to return to Titan in time to escort that Earthbound convoy - there's been rumors of more Angelic Skies cruisers being sighted, and the merchants are all panicky. You say there's other ships heading that way already? And there's no scheduled ToY ships out here?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second."

"Then here's what we'll do. Drop a LAC off to investigate, and alert the Command to put a battle squadron on standby to assist. The next squadron though the area can pick them back up."

"A logical course of action. We've got five LACs standing by to launch after jumping. I'll detach 38 now, Senior Lieutenant Fletcher could use some independent experience, the rumormill says he may be up for a XO position on a sloop or corvette soon."

"An excellent point, Sophia. Very well, proceed."


A few minutes later, a fifty-meter Light Attack Craft fitted with heavy energy weapons modules slips from the frigate carrier's starboard hangar, just moments before the dozen other craft in the flotilla disappear into jump. It takes off at a full burn for the explosion, scanning ahead of it with active sensors.

OOC:

You'd think they's look at the context in which the words were used to determin intention, as that's the basis from which the aliens would've extrapolated their meaning.

The engine wreckage is mostly useless; elegant and cheap, it's reliability doesn't come from robustness, but from ease of maintaince and low operational wear and tear. Most of the equipment that wasn't slagged between the weapons fire and the plasma flash was fried when the magbottle let off a nasty little EMP when it was blown apart, resulting in an overload in any intact electrical circuit not entirly shielded at the time. Circuit breakers and compartmentalised EMP shielding saved the rest of the ship from harm; you might find trace amounts of non-elemental material used here and there about the engines, too - not much, Sub-Atomic Particle Lattice(SAPL, rhymes with snapple) is fairly expensive, and unique to my nation(seeing as I came up with it, so (tm) etc), but something like a spectrometer may pick it out of the slag as something anomolous, unless you've more 'advanced' sensors on hand.

IC:
A feeling of dread swept over Annika as she watched the alien smallcraft lock on to the UDC; someone put the feed from the recessed external airlock cam on the main viewer, "I'm starting to wish I had taken that paycut option for the airlock turret.." she thought aloud.

In her head, Rowlen muses in reply, "I'm starting to wish I was still stationed on a Battleplate," she though she almost heard Alex chuckle; posing a quisical glance at him when she noticed he's left his station.

Prying a panel off the wall, he replyed, "I'm glad I spent half my paycheck on small arms."

'Typical', she thought, greatfull all the same; watching the hunam remove a trio of MFP-220i sidearms, and a -320 carbine; he tossed one to the vixen, who, standing, straped the holster pack to her left thigh befor removing the weapon for a breif inspection, as per her 'Militia' High School course.

As she was doing this, Alex was about to toss the second towards Rowlen, befor common sense kicked in and he realised the 'cat couldn't possibly weild the weapon. Shrugging, he straped the gun to his own leg and put unneeded third away, befor slinging the carbine and adjusting the straps on the inside of the compartment's panel; a purpose-designed synthetic diamond/ceramic composite plate intended to double as a tower shield during boarding actions.

Her weapon reholstered, Annika slumped down in her seat, noticing on the bridge's forward screen that the aliens apeared to be knocking on the hatch, when a thought occured to her, "Rowlen, can you... read their minds? Talk to them? Anything?" she ventured; the reply in her head sounding almost apologetic, "No," he began, "I need line of sight or close proximity unless I've had extended exposure to the person; prefferibly both," Annika's vulpine ears flushed, fur otherwise hiding her embarisment as she realised she already knew what he'd just said; she clearly remembered reading that much in his personel file, tho that had been several months ago.

No one had any intention of opening the door.

OOC:

Language is always a work in progress.

Tell that to an English teacher ;)



Here're weapon descriptions I've got on hand for the -220i and the -320. Both being my creations, the usual intillectual property rights, etc, apply(not saying you'd copy, but there are usually lurkers about).


MFP-220i Special Edition Sidearm: An extreamly robust(and expensive) air-fed microfusion sidearm roughly equal in size to the MP7, the 220i is a hybrid weapon with laser, taser, and plasma firing modes. The weapon is typicly capible of producing 1.25 megawatts from typical atmospheres, and posesses a 150 kwh bank of voltsinks, in addition to a flash-charge prefire capasitor capible of providing upwards of 5 megajoules of energy for the user(that's almost enough to flash-vaporise 2 liters of 0 degree celcius water! Ouch!). The laser is simple and straight forward, with varrible frequency and firing in an armour-pircing 1/100th of a second pulse, or a sustained beam useful for cutting or against unarmoured personel; beam focus can be adjusted from .1mm to 5mm. The taser employs the laser in a UV frequency at low power, creating an ionised, electricly conductive path along which a massive electrical discharge of varrible intensity can be delivered. The last mode is a pulsed plasma beam, which again uses the laser, but this time to flash-heat the air, causing it to explode outward and creating a tunnel of near-vacume for the plasma, drasticly reducing range dissipation. Reactor plasma is bled into a prefire chamber and mixed with air via a high-speed pump, then superheated and magneticly launched and focused, resulting in a pulsed beam 1/10th of a second in duration. A solid fuel magazine in the grip provides reactor mass for use in vacume conditions, or just to supliment existing atmosphere.


MFP-320 Carbine; the 220-series' bigger brother, the Carbine includes a build-in underslung high-explosive 'plasma mortar' capible of direct- and indirect-fire. Utalising reactor plasma, a complex ceramic-composite mesh is imparted with an electromagnetic charge to create a short-lived magnetic bottle, befor being filled with highly pressurised plasma and launched by IDD coils at a user-selectible velosity. In addition to this are improvements in production cost, robustness, power systems, and yeilds over the 220i as a result on increased mass and volume, along with improvments in applicible technologies.

They wait a few minutes, looking at each other, then Fourteen-Fingers knocks again. As there is probably no greater response to the repetition, the Company-Officer drums his claws on the pressure door. (F-F) This is aggrivating. They are probably taking up defensive positions inside despite our nonaggressive moves, and blowing apart the door would be most aggressive indeed. I also do not think Mater would look kindly upon killing the survivors.

A technician looks up from using an ultrasound stethoscope on the airlock's doors and walls. () It is just a simple mechanical door. The mechanism is on the far side--as is reasonable--but there are only a few bolts that latch it in place. We could slice them quickly and then try opening the door just a small amount.

(F-F) Do it.

Two Technicians retrieve long, bulky gravcutters from their kits, another example of the esoteric technology they use and scale up and down without necessarily understanding. It operates on a same principle as the forward main guns on the corvettes; essentially using an artificially generated line of gravitic force to part objects. The effect cuts a swath of only a few micrometers to a millimeter at most and has a range far too short to be considered as a viable weapon, but it does cut things and that is all they need it to do. Within a few minutes, the bolts lose their integrity, and the airlock door moves freely on its bearings.

Gripping the handle carefully--as such simple devices such as moment-multiplying levers are universal and thus universally recognized--Fourteen-Fingers opens the door just a tiny bit, moving very slowly. "Ch'gaskolvil?"

If this doesn't elicit an immediate burst of fire, he slides his hands up past the rim of the door, exposing them and indicating them as open. Gesturing with his head to accentuate other silent indicators, he indicates for the rest to follow along. Those watching would see three pairs of clawed bluish four-fingered hands (although one seems to be missing a finger at one of their two joints) with single opposable thumbs made of something between scales and plates and ten pairs plus one remainder of yellowish scaly hands without any visible claws and six long, dextrous fingers with two opposable thumbs.

Elsewhere--

As the drive no longer serves any purpose, the crews load representative chunks into the other corvette anyway for more careful analysis.

OOC:

They are using context. The problem is that there's a preposition error between the nouns... eh... can't let loose too much. ;)

And I'll warn ya now, I'm being tricksy in a sort of nonviolent way. Not lookin' to kill anyone or steal much of anything.

OOC:
Well, by context, I was reffering to them trying to figure out what the aliens thought the words in the reply ment based on the symbolic representations that were used to represent their intent.

Anyway, I'm about to fall asleep here; airlock is a three chamber system with LDC touchscreen controls, passcode locked, and isolated from the main systems. The actual touchscreen subcomp that determins if the door should be opened or not is located seperatly to prevent hotwiring or bypass. Airlock opens up to a 2.5 high, 5 meter across corridor running the legnth of the occupied section; ten meters aft is a sealed blast door which opens to space, twenty meters foreward is another blast door, also sealed, and several thick, heavily locked doors to the sides; the only cover in the 1.5 meter wide, 2.3 meter high airlock doorway. Overall style is fairly flat and angular with slightly rounded edged, battleship grey and black, with an off-white carpet and recessed white lighting. No signs of damage are evident, aside from that you'll have to do entering.

I'll post IC tomorrow once you get that far; I've something planned for that point, and no, it's not gunning your boarding party down(atleast not yet ;) :P ). Too tired to coherently RP characters.

Are your guys armed?

IC:

There seems to be no response, and so the door swings open slowly on its bearings, figures moving very slowly from it, arms up.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/tmbboarding.jpg (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/boarding.jpg)
(I didn't feel like building up some Technicians but they have a similar general shape with a much lighter physique, no hard shell of plates (having yellow scales instead), and are about half the size. These blue ones are standing around 2 to 2.2 meters tall; sorry if the scenery doesn't mesh up but I made it before I read the description.)

There's no one to see it, so they look around a little and lower their arms. The large blue ones move carefully, carrying rod-shaped devices with odd pistol-style grips slung over their shoulders, what appears to be a muzzle pointing downwards. The smaller yellow ones take to investigating almost everything. One, the largest of the blues, notices the security camera and taps it slightly with one claw, examining it noiselessly with an unreadable expression. (F-F) Well, perhaps we are being watched.[/color] Jaw remains motionless, throat silent until he starts speaking to the camera in the hopes there's someone watching on the other end.

"Ch'gaskol," he says once again slowly, "Chasti Okkche'e'terrchangjon Xonmik. Vaskol setcak gerr." (F-F) [i]Do you think this is getting through?

No one seems to look up from their work as their commander speaks. (Engineering Mook 1) The area is still powered and most of the internal systems seem functional. It should be, Warrior, if they are watching.

Fourteen-Fingers does something analogous to frowning internally as he looks at the dull lens of the camera. He sticks out one clawed hand, looking over momentarily at one of the smaller yellow creatures. () Hand me a tool... whichever one you think is most universal.

The little Technician thinks for a moment, rummaging through its kit, while others examine the lighting and run long, sinuous fingers through the thin carpet. Soon, she (at least, it may be female but the physiology is unknown) produces a large heavy mass at the end of a rod-like handle and delivers it to the requesting blue creature.

Fourteen-Fingers looks at the hammer. () If I use this, it will look like I am threatening to smash their skulls rather than repair their ship or "rescue" them. He returns it to the Technician, who rummages a bit more in her kit and produces another tool with a long handle and a roundish 'mouth' at one end notched as if to slide over some sort of radially symmetrical flat-sided object but not to rotate freely around it. The Warrior looks at the tool momentarily, balls one hand into a fist, placing the roundish mouth against it and then making a wrenching motion with the tool. "Vassetcakche piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij gerr."

(Engineering Mook 1) Perhaps it would be a good idea if we left our weapons here as a show of good will?

(F-F) No... we do not even know if they are getting this. Still, perhaps it would be an idea if one of you tool-users went to make first contact? If they do not shoot you on sight then perhaps we can assert ourselves a little more. I would prefer to not just spend hours here breathing in and out to get what we want. With how this vessel is designed, I doubt the occupants will be overly afraid of Technicians.

While this line of thinking would generally elicit some quip about "really in a sacrificial mood today, hey boss?" among a great deal of humans, it seems reasonable enough to the Technician addressed. A sufficient amount of dopamine to not mind the explicit suggestion of being used as meatshielding also doesn't hurt. (Engineering Mook 1) Understood. I will use the ultrasound detection system to find where they are hiding and attempt contact.

(F-F) Meanwhile, I want everyone else to stay within line-of-sight of this camera. If they know that only the smallest of our number is meeting them, perhaps that will make our time easier.

Of the ten creatures who entered through the airlock, the smallest yellow one breaks off and starts investigating doors with her ultrasound stethoscope. Finding one that has both air and the sounds of life--heartbeats and breathing--on the opposite side, she knocks with light rapping on the door, again following the cadence of "Shave And A Haircut."

OOC:

But of course (for context and weaponry). Contextually, they got the idea--the entire idea behind closing with the main vessel is to get inside minimum-safe distance of observed detonations, so I don't see why we need to disturb the flow with so much chatter... ;)

There's nothing wrong with shooting a lighter-load of mooks, but it seems so... common. If I was looking for a contest of who has the shinier weapons I'd go post on the self-aggrandizement fleet threads I've seen in my wanderings. :P

OOC:
They're behind the forward blast door, actually, so assume what she heard was part of a computer or life support sub-system.

Also, the observed minimum safe distances were only for the laser-heads, which release around 5 gigatons and focus roughly half into a scything beam; the hundred-megatoners flew straight in.

And I like chatter; we're posting hours apart, so there ain't much flow to disrupt... tho I supose I'm used to multitasking anyway, so I probally wouldn't really notice it that much.

IC:
Annika sood off to the side, watching the secCam's display on her padd; they had already discussed the possible 'help' or 'harm' intentions of their boarders, and as she watched Fourteen-Fingers' display, she mused aloud, "Either these guys are the dumbest pirates I've ever heard of, or the most optimistic repair crew I've even seen; these isn't a fusion drive left to repair, idiots."

While she was occupying herself, Alex had rolled up a legnth of carpet and removed a foor panel beneath to reveal a fairly large maintaince access trench running the width of the corridor just befor the blast door, and situated himself in it, with the tower shield held horizontally against the floor to cover himself, and Rowlen, who sat next to him just in front of the trench.

"Ok, I think we're ready Anne," Alex announced, steadying his carbine, "Where are they?"

"Um, all but one are still in the airlock," she summarised, showing them the display, "Smaller yellow one's alone, examing one of the side doors with some device."

"Probally as good an opertunty as we'll get," Rowlen mused in their minds, pseudo-voicing the concensus; Annika keying a series of commands into the blast door's controls befor hoping into the trench and drawing her side arm, just in case.

With a slight hiss, the blast door's armoured black panels cracked open, befor silently parting fully over the next three seconds; the bone-white centeral door's radial framework revealed to have been sandwiched within, thick plates of armoured, polarising, anti-laser coated glass-analog within the thick-membered framework.


Two figures behind the glass had weapons not quite pointed at the technician, squatting in a meter-deep trench, while a house cat stuck it's head out from behind the steel-grey rectangle the furless of the armed pair used to partly shield himself.


Rowlen mentally sighed befor steeling himself, then making eye-contact as best he could, reached with thought out to try and touch the other's mind...

OOC:
The blast doors would apear somewhat reminicent of those on the Pillar of Autum in Halo; nice to be able to do a visual inspection without opening yourself to direct fire/vacume/etc.

The Technician blinks slowly at having the muzzles of efficient-looking weapons pointed almost at her; the smallish creature's response is to continue moving slowly, palms out. It should be no surprise that sophonts tend to think in their singular languages rather than in abstract concepts without name or word. () Chaskolniv ooh'aklo. Listassokfie chang'e'terrlo, i'ko listaschangiv.

A different voice in the same mind. () Ch'gaskol puh gerr. Gasmasfieviss puh listas.

The scan produces nothing intelligible but it does indicate a curiosity. Depending on the sensitivity of the psion detecting, it would appear that the creature has a definite central nervous system that acts just like anyone else's, the second voice seems to come through a secondary organ (?) in the Technician's chest and dispersed throughout a billion points in the Technician's body. There is definite activity there but the exact means is not definable at the moment.

Meanwhile, the others pack up and walk resolutely to meet the first, still being careful not to incite anything. (Engineering Mook 1) What should I tell them?

(F-F) The most important thing is that we get information, which will certainly come in time. However, as they have not fired yet, there is a chance to be even more helpful. Offer our services to take them home and tow their vessel as well. I will call up the auxilliary vessel immediately and begin those operations.

(Engineering Mook 1) Do we not have to know where "home" is for them, first? Practically every major body in this system shows signs of habitation, and there is no guarantee that they are all related family-empires.

(F-F) That is just something you will have to find out.

Hissing softly to herself in thought, the yellow reptilitan squats down on her tripodal haunches, rummaging through its kit. Removing the wrench-like tool, she holds it up with her right hand and points at the Kanuckistani crew with one long digit of her middle six-fingered hand. "Piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij gerr."

She takes a much smaller tool that looks like a curious pair of pliers in her left hand, pointing at herself with her middle hand. "Piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij verr." Another larger tool, this time a small cutting instrument larger than the wrench, held and waved a little with the narration "Ko piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij verr."

A slight pause. How do I show that they lead and it is not us abducting them? Setting down the small tool, the Technician looks about with alert, greenish eyes and points out a chair on the bridge. "Kai pij gerr." She makes a vaguely spherical gesture with her hands, then points back at the crew. Looking over her shoulder, she points back down the corridor then at herself again. "Kai pij verr." Returning her attention to the tools, she takes the one representing the "piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij gerr" and puts it in front of the one representing the "piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij verr" and moves them slowly towards the chair previously indicated as "kai pij gerr."

"Vasgacha gerr puh kai pij gerr, puh vesh pij verr." A sort of hopeful emotion emanates from her as the larger creatures show up very slowly, palms out and with the one that talked to the camera earlier taking the lead.

Fourteen-Fingers looks down at the Technician. (F-F) Now is no time to play with your tools.

OOC:
I probally should have clarifyed that the bridge would be a ways farther down the hall, behind them, past several more side doors. Meh, I guess someone left that door open.

IC:
Alex adjusted the grip on his carbine as the others left the airlock, watching them warily, tho Annika was more focused of the mook befor them, trying to make sense of the message, her head slightly tilted at an odd angle as she pondered; unfortunatly, she wasn't making much progress, and her shipmates were otherwise focused.

Rowlen, meanwhile, was stairing at the engineering mook, "Just jibberish so far, and couriousity; I'd like to try pressing deeper, see if I can find it's language-concept association root and make some sense of it's thoughts.. tho, it'll definatly feel it, ma'am."

Annika paused, listening to his thought-speak, then bit her lower lip, eyeing the blast door control program on the nearby pad, "Go ahead, just, gentle, or whatever."

Rowlen's ears flaged amusment despite the situation, but neither of him companions were looking, "Aye ma'am"

The Technician blinks slowly, pausing in her movements. The thoughts are still unintelligible, but a bit more cautious and ideas are beginning to filter through.

[concern, mild confusion, question](Engineering Mook 1) Erm... that felt... odd. What was it?

Now the gruffer voice can be attributed to the ten-fingered blue creature. [mild confusion, question](F-F) What?

A third distinct "voice" of sort appears, but it seems rather ethereal in quality and has that sort of choral mellowing reserved for extremely large groups of people speaking softly simultaneously. Also, its origin is indeterminate. It's within line of sight, but it seems to be in more of a cloud or a haze instead of a particular body, apparently growing steadily. There seems to be little to no emotion to detect and the symbology is quite a bit different and varied. /We experienced it as well. Apparently there is another who shares our attribute and is capable of projecting as we do when we reach sufficient mass. We have insufficient mass, of course, but the source appears to be That One. We can resist./

[nervousness, question] (F-F) What is he trying to do?

/Currently it appears that he is trying to decode our language. We do not think our silent form of communication will be secure for long./

This is unheard of; Fourteen-Fingers starts drumming nervously on one plated forearm with his opposite hand before stopping himself. [calculation, statement] (F-F) We are achieving our objective, and right now our goals will be easier to accomplish if we have language. The simple matter is that we say that we wish to return them to their homes and we do. Motivations remain unthought as does the nature of our previous ploy. Allow him to get what he wants but deny access elsewhere.

/We understand./ The third voice fades away, and the Technician willingly submits to the search. While it's not much for understanding the words that come out of one's mouth, it is good to understand the thoughts projected (which leads to hearing one thing and comprehending another, so to speak).

"Chaspivil raye'chasfiecherr?" [curious, question] (Engineering Mook 1) Can-you-question think-same-action-me?

OOC:

I'm going on a camping trip and so won't be able to respond until Tuesday or Wednesday or so. Hurrah for a language with an almost Mandarin tendency to drop individually-meaning syllables together to form more complex ideas.

OOC: Back online after a few days break

IC: The Shiv slows gradually to a stop 3000 km away from the three other ships. The sensor officer reports, "One freighter, it seems to match a Kanuckistani profile, hard to be sure though, it has heavy damage. Two corvettes of unkown type. I've never seen anything like them."
"Hail the freighter and request ID and hull status. If they have a breach we need to get over there to help. Hail the other two for ID and purpose in this area, ask if they know about the explosion."
"Aye sir"

A voice suddenly comes to life on the comm systems of the ships in question.

[code:1:c5f85b5394]
To unidentified Kanuckistani freighter:
We are the SSV [i]Shiv[/i] of the Squornshelan Space Fleet. Please Identify yourself and the status of the damage to your ship. Do you need assistance, and do you know anything about the other two ships in this vincinity?
[/code:1:c5f85b5394]

[code:1:c5f85b5394]
To unidentified space vessels:
We are the SSV [i]Shiv[/i] of the Squornshelan Space Fleet. Please Identify yourselves and your purpose in this area of space. Also we request any information you might have about the origin of the damage to the nearby frieghter. Please be assured that we have no hostile intentions toward you.
[/code:1:c5f85b5394]

OOC:
TAG update. I'll be posting in the next day or so; things've gotten busy, so I've been putting this off until your ETA back from your trip.

Chief-Enlisted Many-Scars growls softly to himself aboard CC-1 as he watches another friendly icon appear in the local area to accentuate the green and yellow pyramids of the freighter and the new warships snooping about.

What this new icon represents is an Auxillary Dry Cargo vessel simply blinking into realspace, no wavy gravitic distortions or whirlpools of light or flashes of brilliant colors, not even a sort of fading-in-from-nothing. To an external observer, first it isn't there, then it is, as if it were a poorly-edited film with several frames missing. Unlike the sleek one-hundred-thirty meter corvettes, the ADC is two hundred and ten meters of ugly rounded bulk, doors, and automated transfer umbilicals. It also lacks the defining virtue of most warships--heavy weaponry--save for two multibarreled ball turrets on ventral and dorsal support pylons.

Unbeknownst to the Kanuckistani crew (as this conversation is well outside line-of-sight), Many-Scars exercises what little initiative he is expected to.

() As far as I can tell, it has not indicated hostility yet. Given the situation, if they were hostile I think we would already have weapons inbound.

(M-S) They are probably curious as to who we are and what we are doing here. I suppose we could tell them... if they understand is a different matter. Prepare to transmit.

() Ready.

"Ch'gaskol. Vasti Soovchangpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr Mik pij vesh pij verr. Vassetcak piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij pikthid, ko vassokfievook puh kai pij e'terr."

Meanwhile, aboard the Kanuckistani vessel, the incoming transmission is inevitably heard by the boarding party. Lacking understanding, they look each other and shoot quick thoughts of varying degrees of concern until the big one missing a finger points towards the communications set.

"Gasmasviss puh listerr ko gaschagarafieviss listerr vassetcak." (F-F) You-speak-please to them and you-meyou-think-action-please them we-good-maintain.

The reply echoes around the Bridge of the Shiv for a moment.

[code:1:d5265a86e2]
"Ch'gaskol. Vasti Soovchangpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr Mik pij vesh pij verr. Vassetcak piksokfiewiffgrre'terr pij pikthid, ko vassokfievook puh kai pij e'terr."
[/code:1:d5265a86e2]

"They aren't from around here I guess. Communications, run that through the universal translator and see what we can figure out. Keep all weapons and sheild powered down but be ready to bring them up in a split second."

Commander Rick Oliver takes charge of the situation quickly.

Send out a tight beam radio message to bring in any other patrol ships in this area, I don't like being outgunned, even if they aren't acting hostile.

"Sir," the Communications Officer spoke up, "the translator can't make head or tail of this message."
"Let me hear what it came up with."


[code:1:d5265a86e2]At slow now run take clunk turtle pencil cannon northern particle happening yestarday them shotgun do jacket grunted friendly were dash question basketball.[/code:1:d5265a86e2]

"Ok, keep working on that and see what we can get done. Engineering, bring us in for a slow flyby of the freighter. We'll rebroadcast our message and see if we can get a reply, their Comm equipment may be damaged."

OOC:
Gawds I'm sorry this took so long; things've been busy and I've had scant opertunities for online activities. The fact that my alliance recently went to war didn't help.

IC:
Rowlen mentally sighed, speaking into his comrad's minds, "I think I've got enough to get the jist of it; the small one probally wants to know if I can undersand it's th..."

He was, however, cut off by a voice echoing from the bridge behind the Kanuckistani crew; the Squornshelan transmission coming in aloud over the comms.

Several seconds passed afterwards, during which Annika and Alex exchanged looks of hope and worry, befor Rowlen's mental voice sounded in their heads once more, "And now that big one wants us to tell the newcomers that they're not hostile... I think."

Annika groaned, "You think?!, " then sighed, "Sorry, Ro, just... just tell them to take us to the old Orbital Transfer Station in LEO; I have a hunch," recalling the smaller alien's earlier gestures.

Rowlen gave a mental affirmitive, befor gaving at the littlest yellow alien; the navigator's mind projecting an astrogational plot of the solar system, a dotted line running from roughly their current position to Earth, then zooning in to display a fairly small station in low earth orbit, with the Asperation docked to it.

Meanwhile, Annika composed the following text message, laser whisker secretly beaming it to the Squornshelan vessel. It read;

"SSV Shiv, this is the prospector Asperation; hostile craft encountered and eliminated, but vessels remaining of unknown intent, faction, or language, and they have boarded us in force. Tentitive psionic communication established but only semi-clear; they're presently behind a blast door and apear non-hostile. Possible connection between eliminated hostile and aliens probible but unconfirmed. Please relay to Kanuckistani High Gaurd; aforementioned data and a request for assistance-in-force. And we'd feel alot better if you stuck around until they showed up. Asperation out."

The lemon-skinned Technician slowly snaps her jaws once with a soft 'clack' sound of teeth colliding before looking up at the large ten-fingered blue creature. [explanation] (Engineering Mook 1) Star-born it-thinks-past that home it-is three-ordinate in this star-planet-family.

[question] (F-F) Can-you-interrogative yours-mine us+ there?

Psionically, the creatures are becoming fuzzy around the edges somehow.

[assent] (Engineering Mook 1) Yes. I-need-future to I-be on star-have-action-live-work-thing to...

[assent, mild imperative] (F-F) I-think-same-action. You-walk-please. Well, perhaps not "please" but something else indicative of an imperative statement. It "sounds" like an order.

The yellow one makes a quick thought of assent and scuttles off, leaving the others to their thoughts, which are models of studied blankness. Meanwhile, the lighter disengages from the docking port and flits back to the corvette that launched it as the bulky ADC craft settles into position fore of the Kanuckistani freighter before taking hold of it with magnetic grapples attached to thick tendrils of coiled metal. Meanwhile, Many-Scars transmits a visual message to the Squornshelous warship that is a simplified repeat of Rowlen's thought-picture. Basically, a simple nine-ring system around a central yellow point, a blue circle indicating more-or-less where they are, and a green line proceeding from there along a slightly curved path to the third ring out from the yellow point. A blue circle then appears with green blobs drawn on it resembling a child's rendition of the basic landmasses of Earth from orbit.

Also, with other warships about and the possibility of counter-boarding quite possible, the physical paper-like star charts used to orient the relatively simple computers are rigged in their special air-hypergolic envelopes, guaranteed to burn the contents into a cinder if disturbed inappropriately and their drive cores' "contingency operation method" locked into standby. Messages are silently sent higher-up that observation may be wise and "intervention" may be necessary to prevent the distribution of sensitive information, which receives quiet acknowledgement.

All standard first-contact procedure*, based entirely on the "just in case" principle.

Its PN-impeller drive going into action, those aboard Aspiration feel a gentle shift as it begins to accelerate and slowly increase acceleration from point-one to one-gravity and beyond, leveling out at about three gravities if it seems as if those aboard can handle it without issue. The corvettes take up escorting formation yet do their best to remain on an alert but non-threatening posture.

Fourteen-Fingers sits down easily in an odd three-crossed-legged position and idly taps on the clear-armored and probably airtight blast door as he seems to muse in a wistful, gentle tone. (F-F) We-come-together, we+-good-maintain, but you-think-love(serve?)-good-negation. I-think-same-action, but it-be sad. In time, we-thought-action-will to-think-same-action (infinitive form?).

* Reference: Leinster, Murray. "First Contact" (First published in Astounding, 1945).

http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/raylac.JPG

"Several ships present, Captain. A badly damaged freighter, what looks to be a couple patrol ships of recognizable designs from two different nations, plus a squadron of unknown craft, apparently xenoc in origin. Mass and size roughly equivalent to Loki-class without a MAM pod."

"Um. Right," says Lt. Fletcher, commander of the tiny ship now slowing to a halt fifty thousand kilometers from the freighter and its companion ships. A standard fifty-meter Bumblebees Light Attack Craft, Australia-38 was carrying light capital linegun and CREWS pods for its two mission-adaptable modules . This armament, however, was not terribly reassuring when faced several craft massing significantly more than the parasite. "Ok, here's what we'll do. So far, there doesn't seem to be any hostilities. They might just be stopping to help a crippled ship, and not be involved at all in the incident itself. Tactical, keep us with shields active, but weapons on standby. Helm, plot an escape course ? I'm fairly certain we've got legs on everything else here. Comms, dig up a standard first contact protocol and prepare to transmit." A chorus of acknowledgments from around the cramped command center follows the string of orders.

A few minutes later, the large CREWS projector on one side of the ship begins sending a stream of harmless, not terribly well collimate photons towards the nearest Rayverr ship, in a blue frequency. First some a series of fairly fast pulse of constant amplitude. Following this is are several sets of longer pulses, with two different distinct amplitudes. These come in a set of the same number of pulses as the first set, a short pause, then more pulses. After about half a minute, the pulses cease. After a moment, the entire exercise is repeated, only this time using red light, then microwaves, then radio.

If the pulses are interpreted as simple on/off signals and the first series of pulse as the number of pixels per line, the Rayverr would receive an image something like this:

http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/raydiagram.GIF

After a minute or so, more detailed grayscale images are sent, using much the same method but with varied amplitudes. These show male and female pairs of humans, kzinti, and sakkrans.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/tmbrayverr-adc-ani-fore.jpg

Aboard ADC-1, Field Officer Fast-Runner grumbles softly to himself. (F-R) They are trying to communicate. Make it make sense.

Another run through an algorithm-finding computer for a solution, trying for simple binary with initial parameter codes. Images distort and bend in monochrome on the viewer on the cargo vessel's moderately more spacious bridge until the right number of bits are included as "width parameter," at which point the picture snaps to crystal clarity. (F-R) THERE! Keep it there. This works. Studying the picture, the azure-hued Warrior idly rubs out a scratch on his natural armor as he thinks.

At least the concept of the pointing-claw seems universal. Image in the upper left-hand is probably this system... one star, one internal asteroid field, eight major bodies... simplified to leave out the smaller outlying ones. That they indicate the seventh planet is curious; it did not seem inhabitable from range... and why the thick circle around it? Mater will be interested in this.

Now... the box underneath that... The stick-figures do resemble, in some regard, the glyph "rayverr," one of the few multisyllabics that has a singular symbol. It would be unwise to assume... but the thought pictures sent from CC-1 would indicate at least the first... again, Mater would be interested.

They describe their vessel as coming from a larger one, like a lighter. He looks again at the sensors display indicating what they can figure out about the LAC. Rather large lighter. They image it as encountering a corvette and... our corvette comes from that tendriled-circle they used to describe their own star. What does the curved thing next to it mean?

The Warrior repeats this last question aloud in his mind, eliciting very slight grinds of teeth from the Technicians that surround him. () I do not know, Warrior. It's apparently a glyph from their language, but we have not been able to ascertain meaning. If I were to hazard a guess... I would say that they have defined where they live and expect us to do something similar.

Fast-Runner can do naught but blink. "They defined where they live? Not just, perhaps, a base of operations, but their own world that grew and raised them?"

"We are in their system, Warrior," the Technician replies, "so it was only a matter of investigation anyway."

"But... the rashness involved! Certainly they know... must know the risks! How can anyone strike you when they do not know where you live? The sixth planet was unsuspected..."

"I can assume, then, not to transmit vague indications of where Sh'kai is?"

"Certainly not. Mater would consume us both whole for that. Still... we must reply to keep up the ruse. Transmit some image that describes the obvious... we are from quite a long ways away."

The conversation ceases as more images appear describing the physiology of what appear to be three different sentient species. Mater will certainly be interested...

Between inertial equalization feilds and their preoccupation with their 'guests', the crew never noticed the acceleration; indeed, it would take several hundred gravities befor the compensators started to strain.

------------

Annika was staring at Rowlen.

"Huh? What?" he thought-spoke to her.

She motioned at the fourteen-fingered one with her sidearm; the same one Alex was not-quite pointing his carbine at, dew to it's closeness to the blastdoor, while still keeping an eye on the other aliens.

"What did he just say?"

Rowlen projected a mental shrug, "Ah, it's complicated; I can see several radicly different possible interpretations... but I think it's just voicing it thoughts; thinking aloud, rather than trying to comunicate."

Annika sighed, sitting back in the trench, so that only the short vixen's ears rose above the deck proper.

"Any sign of response?"

"No reaction at all, Captain," replies the communications tech. Sighing, Fletcher leans back in his command couch and continues to review protocols dredged up from deep in the LAC's computer. The vast majority of them were designed for Contact vessels or even regular military ships. Psionics - Fletcher had a bit of intuition, but nothing useful for talking with aliens. Near-sapient dedicated translator EI - wouldn't even fit in the comp core. Inform command - done, but so far the only reply had been orders to proceed with standard protocols and wait for a contact ship, which likely wouldn't arrive for days. On the other hand, at least they didn't seem overtly hostile, which put them lightyears ahead of, say, most critters from the Black Flag nations.

On the gripping hand, someone was responsible for that cloud of radioactive debris they'd detected. Fletcher, however, was not going to put it past his fellow H. sapiens to have caused it.

"Ok, let's try this. As they're in the system, we showed them our point of origin. We'll continue along those lines for now. Send them a picture of Saturnspace - one of the PR ones, nothing that shows anything like ships or stations. Then start on language ? English, at least for now." Meanwhile, Fletcher pulled out a pen and tried to figure out how to convey the the existence of multiple nations in and around Sol with stick figures.

The image that is transmitted (this time using a standard uncompressed radio stream) is a large, full-color view of Saturnspace. At the center is Saturn and its natural rings, along with several of its moons, one of which shimmers blue and white. Circling the entire thing is the Ring, with its alternating sections of light and dark highlighting the continents and vast oceans on its visible surface.

After that follows a basic demonstration of the Arabic numbering system, with simple pictures that wouldn't be out of place in a children's book. 1, one dot, then 2 and two dots, on up to one hundred to display that a base ten system is used. Next comes a display of English letters, along with a few simple words to demonstrate that they have different meanings in different orders - or at least that's the hope.

OOC:
The eight empty launch tubes on the Asperation should be readily obvious; the area where explosive bolts blew away a hull panel concealing them slightly less so.

[code:1:14485dd54b]0
1 .
2 :
3 :.
4 ::
5 ::.
6 :::
7 :::.
8 ::::
9 ::::.
10 :::::
11 ::::: .
12 ::::: :
...

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
DOG
GOD
...[/code:1:14485dd54b]
Fast-Runner and the communications Technician watches this progression with interest after registering the location images in their databanks for transmission ahead to Mater along with the pictures of the aliens. (F-R) Simple numerology at first... the second? What do you think those glyphs are?

() Glyphs, Warrior. I know there are very few of them...

The Warrior scoffs. (F-R) One cannot construct a language of twenty-six concepts. They must be sending a simplified version. Assemble something similar and send it to them... use their numerology to indicate understanding. Also try to give them a basic idea of the nature of the empire-family and our own physiology... but not too much.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/rayverr-basics.gif

* - * - *

The ADC settles into its maximum sustainable acceleration of four gravities, and Fourteen-Fingers does some mental math. Some of the concepts, while readable, are somewhat jumbled, although fifteens, fifteen-times-self-one-occurances, fifteen-times-self-two-occurances, and various over-fifteens, over-fifteen-times-self-one-occurances, and such play a prominent role. The end result is five-fifteens-nine day-nights, followed by the easily understandable Too long.

Then there is that ethereal, ghostly choir-voice again, but only for a short phrase that comes and go too quickly to be read.

Its next thought seems directed, but not at anyone aboard Aspiration The locus of thought--the origin--is most fuzzy indeed now, and that pattern seems to be common among the rest of the creatures behind the blast door. (F-F) You-go-imperative to star-born-planet with fast-star-running-not-sky-ground (reality?)-life (living?)-tool.

* - * - *

Many-Scars transmits both to the Cetagandan and the Squornshelous vessels another crudely-drawn image of the ADC towing Aspiration and the corvettes escorting following a green line towards the a blue circle third out from a large yellow asterisk. A red circle appears on the green line, and the ships disappear into it. A few moments later, a similar red circle appears far further along their course near the blue circle and the crudely drawn ships emerge from it.

This done, he gives the other ships time to react as the vessels in the small Rayverr detachment begin to power their drives with regulated slowness.

OOC:
She motioned at the fourteen-fingered one
Ten fingers. Nominally four on each manipulator-hand and three on the large central gripping-hand; missing one of the manipulator fingers. Now isn't the time to describe the history of the name. ;)

"Interesting. Base fifteen counting system, and what looks to be several different subspecies of their race. Sorta like the Alpha ants, maybe," comments the tactical NCO.

"Hold on, there's still more coming," says Petty Officer Gilberts at comms. "Looks like they're planning on towing the freighter through some kind of molehole or similar FTL portal to Terra, and suggesting we follow. Well, that second is pure conjecture, but they're not going all that fast."

"Send it on to HQ," says Fletcher, before groaning slightly. "Terra. That would be Fleet Admiral Mazian's sector."

"Yeah. Hey, if a bunch of marines didn't screw up first contact with the spacedy ants, what could he do?"

"Mr. Gilberts, those marines splattered some kind of space roto-thingy, set fire to a forest, and blew up a shipyard."

"A valid point," Gilberts conceeds. She then adds, "Reply from command. 'Follow alien craft if possible. Otherwise, expect pickup within an hour.'"

Fletcher shrugs. "Helm, follow the aliens. Keep our acceleration low enough to match theirs."

As the ship accelerates slowly along with the Rayverr ships, three images are sent. The first one shows some simple diagrams accompanied by words. The second show the eight main planets, each one numbered. A final image is that of Earth, with a small label of 'PLANET 3' above it and a much larger label of 'TERRA' below.

http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/ray2.gif

(OOC: These are separate, but in the same image below for convenience. They are cunningly label (1) and (2) and seperated by a red line. I decided not to mutilate the homeworld even more, so use your imagination for picture 3.)

Fast-Runner does something that, most likely, the humans sending their pictogram and simple English messages would recognize.

He scratches his head. (F-R) What do you make of that? The icon of their ship, then it with the universal sign of the pointing claw, then with us, then us... but those glyphs do not match up at all. The symbols for their ship do not match up at all with ours, nothing which would indicate possession or even the 'ship' concept.

() Warrior, our 'ship' concept covers five glyphs.

The Warrior looks down at the yellow reptillian at his clawed feet and snorts. (F-R) Yes, yes it does, one for each of the thought-components that go into describing the concept of 'ship.' The etymology of our language is knowledge from the egg, Technician.

() You misunderstand, Warrior. It would be foolish of us to assume that their 'ship' concept in written language is similar. It could be that, to them, the concept of their own ship is an extension of their bodies while our ship could be an external object. It would be like... comparing the concepts of some sort of outer-skin and a tree. The concept-patterning involved would be completely different... and, also, we assume that their language follows the same rules as ours.

This elicits only a confused look, so the Technician continues. () We are making assumptions based on our own knowledge. We know that their ships, designed to fulfill a similar purpose to ours, are not like ours. Why should their language, designed to fulfill a similar purpose to ours, be like ours? Language may be an organically-evolving construct but it is still several orders of abstraction beyond base nature and breeding-growth. We can expect them to have eyes and hands and mouths because nature follows basic patterns of least resistance. As for their minds... we cannot pretend to imagine to know how they think. Not yet.

The Field-Officer growls. (F-R) There must be easier ways to accomplish this. Besides, perhaps they're just trying to point out the differences between 'us' and 'them,' using ships as icons... and it would stand to reason that six-glyph word before the number is 'planet' to describe the third planet in the system... but such a long thought-structure to describe the planet-concept. The word below it could be another word for 'planet' or perhaps some name.

() If I may, Warrior, I'd like to send some sort of response. The second panel in the third image suggests motion, much as we've been using the pointing-claw to indicate us moving from here to there. Perhaps that is their verb describing motion... I do not understand how the third word relates to the concept of us going together, as they seem to be describing.

(F-R) Syntax. If I were to meet you then follow you, I would first identify myself, say I was going, and going with you. Perhaps that is a preposition indicating a relation between us and them.

The Technician makes a gesture of dissent. () More assumptions based on our own systems. He then begins working on a response.

The response shares the same format, except the iconography of the LAC and the corvette are switched. The blocks read in a script of claw-like scratches, each of apparently one character each; the "WITH" block is left blank. The planetary system message is skipped, and the third image of Earth is labeled with another slash-scratch single character different from the rest followed by the three-pronged numeral for "three." Where "TERRA" was is left blank.

Immediately after that, the apparent mass of the vessels decreases rapidly, soon reaching a negative amount of some magnitude before they simply blink out of existence like a character in a badly spliced film. There is some subsidiary gravitic wash in space, but nothing as extreme as usually seen.

(OOC: Oh dear... I must start making a written form... oh dear indeed...)

OOC:
And my characters twiddle their thumbs until arrival, assuming, that is, that this in-system hop is pretty short or instantanious?

Then they tightbeam the navy, and you get to see a Kanuckistani Tunguska-class Battleplate up close.

Fletcher sits pondering the Rayverr counting system as he waits for a reply. "You know, it looks like base fifteen, but then there's that repeating six. Why does it do that?" He thinks for a few minutes, and then suddenly shouts, "SIX PLUS SIX PLUS THREE IS FIFTEEN! Er. Don't you people have better things to do than stare?"

Luckily, the newest transmission arrives at that moment. A moment of study brings about the conclusion that the language doesn't use an alphabet, but instead uses something more akin to some forms of written Chinese, Japanese, and other languages where each character represents an idea. "This is going to make things difficult, I bet. They -" Fletcher breaks off as the alien ships disappear. "Um. Well."

"No sign of jump wake, background distortion, power spikes - nothing at all," reports man at tactical. "None of the usual indicators. They just vanished."

A minute later, everyone on the bridge winces as they here a man's voice in their heads. ::Sorry to intrude like this, but it appears we need to bump up the schedule a bit. Lieutenant Fletcher, please stand up and transfer command to your executive officer.::

Hesitantly, Fletcher stands and says, "Ensign Willey, you have command." He then realizes why he was asked to stand. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shi-" Suddenly, he feels a wrenching feeling around his navel, and disappears from the bridge with a pop of displaced air.

DISCONTINUITY
He reappears in a room atop a tower, where several people are lounging on couches. He barely has time to register the Callisto landscape and the massive globe of Jupiter hanging above before he feels another pull and
DISCONTINUITY

is suddenly on the bridge of a ship once more, this time above Terra and doing his best to keep his lunch down. "I hate teleports."

From around him comes a woman's voice with a slight British accent. "Welcome aboard the Contact Lancer Music With Rocks. My name is Bridget. I apologize for the sudden transport, but your friends just appeared in our skies and we needed you here faster than we could get a carrier or jumpship to you."

"A pleasure the meet you," Fletcher replies, looking around and finding the ship's avatar on a screen. "I assume you're the ship's Mind. Where's your counterpart?"

"I don't have one, actually. I only just finished fitting out, and didn't have time to choose one before getting tapped for this job. I'm the only contact ship in the sector - GCC Little Rascal went off to look at some radio signal a bunch of Imnsvalers detected."

"Oh. Situation report, please. Do you mind if I sit?" At her nod, he sits down in the command chair and tries to quell the queasiness in his stomach.

"We're on fast approach to the alien squadron. Currently, TF 3.1 is in an equatorial low orbit and TF 3.2 is at L5. TYCS forces include 4TEF, 6TEF, and 4TCF. We're expecting a Kanuckistani warship to notice their freighter any moment and to head this way - Admiral Mazian has orders to prevent a confrontation if possible. As you're the closest thing to an expert around, you've been given a brevet promotion to lieutenant commander for the duration, to give you a bit more clout when dealing with the outlanders." At that last, Fletcher whistles - a three-grade promotion was more than a little generous.

"I need a datapad - we better try to get across the fact that we're not all under the same government quick." A floating drone gives him the item. "Thanks. Hmm, what the hell does a battleplate look like?"

As the 150-meter ship approaches the alien squadron, it beams this image at them.

http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/ray3.GIF

A given number of seconds later, the Rayverr vessels bump-cut back into realspace near the orbital station suggested.

The fact that the first thing sent to them is an astounding jumble of boxes and spaceships fails to ease any minds. (F-R) ... ?

() Well... our ships are in one box and two kinds of ships we've contacted are in another. Perhaps we're dealing with multiple empire-families? We already knew the area was factionalized from what little we've gleaned from probe data.

(F-R) That must be it.

Settling into an orbit matching the orbital transfer section, the ADC lets Aspiration loose and the Rayverr vessels break off to a respectful distance, maintaining formation. CC-1 launches a lighter to dock again with the cargo ship, but behind the blast door the collected Warriors and Technicians wait for something other than having guns pointed at them.

from internal sensors."

Again claws play across the data pad; the ship's dorsal comms lighting off with an encoded radio burst transmission.

---------

No more than a minute passes befor a massive vessel simply... apears, befor the Rayverr fleet, not twenty kilometers away, filling the sky; an equalateral triangle thirteen kilometers across, it's surface a hive of literily thousands of armoured weapons blisters, dominated by a dozen huge, kilometer-across emplacments spaced evenly about a hull who's composition simply didn't exist upon the periodic table.

Epicly powerful barrier feilds enveloped the ship, while matter-annialation reactors fed massive banks of volt-sink capasitors with planet-rending energies; there could be little doubt that enough firepower to reduce an entire world to the consistancy of chunky salsa was now leveled squarly upon the small Rayverr squadren.

But then, the nation was currently at war, and their kin befor them injured and dead; those who knew this, and how protective the nation rumored to be was of it's people, would likly find the Admiral's restraint suprising.

Seconds pass now, as a gravitational sheer 'gravy gun' is reconfigured for tractor work; a lance of force reaching out to draw the Asperation towards her.

OOC:
How does your people's aparent psionic communication work? 'cause that Battleplate may soon be jamming it, when the Asperation gets within range of it's ASPEW feilds.

No transmissions yet, as they know you can't understand language, but the two ships' markings would be somewhat similar, and include renditions of the nation's flag.

Oh, and that Battleplate would be the KHGV Jagged Razor of Methodical Dismemberment, Admiral Hayes commanding. Cetaganda shouldn't have any problems knowing this; he's held that command for a few centuries by now.

If the sudden appearance of a battleplate is intended to impress... it somehow fails to. The crews of the "fleet" (perhaps "detachment" would be a more accurate naval term) simply start accumulating more information and send it up the line. Pulses do not raise, breathing does not quicken, pupils do not dilate; adrenaline simply does not flow, crews following the training of the egg.

The fact that it is obviously on combat footing is noted, as well as that all available weapons appear to be locked on them. Obviously (to them) the Kanuckistani must not be used to getting help in any way, shape, or form, and thoughts generally concentrate on possible alternatives. Programs are fed into navigation computers based on current data; options are left open and responses set to various potential triggers.

Aboard Aspiration, the nine pseudoreptilians receive this information and remain where they are. Their thoughts become fuzzy, then unreadable through a sort of chaotic noise that could either be the ASPEW fields or something else altogether. Running is of course not an option, as that would probably indicate complicity; all that remains is to stay the course.

Seeing as the Kanuckistani are not interested in talking, the Rayverr do instead, playing a short animation with the now-accepted corvette/Aspiration iconography. Two of the corvettes are blue, chasing a green corvette, the two sides exchanging yellow dots. Aspiration comes along in grey, receives yellow dots from the green vessel, and is subsequently obliterated by a yellow dot from Aspiration. The corvettes near Aspiration, a blue icon resembling the ADC appears, and they fly to a surprisingly nearby rendition of Earth.

Now a grey equilateral triangle appears, dwarfing the rest, that draws Aspiration in towards it. Of the three blue icons, one of the corvettes flashes momentarily, then turns and flies away.

In reality, the three vessels hang in fifty-kilometer formation, maintaining zero velocity relative to the battleplate.

OOC:

I've read Schlock Mercenary too. Decent strip, that. Must say I prefer the name Post-Dated Check Loan, though.

I'm afraid to say that my psionics simply work; by the most Holy Order of the Plot Device (and our own particular form of instantaneous hyperspatial communication) jamming attempts will probably fail. Your psion is primarily just reading the minds of a few who act as tranceivers more than traditional causality-bending psionics.

And it looks like your first bit got cut off there.

OOC:
Damn, didn't notice that; a hazzard of typing my posts up in notepad.

BTW, that's not a Schlock Mercenary Battleplate, I just borrowed a few names.

As for my ASPEW feilds, well, here's something I typed up for another thread;


Now, as for the ASPEW feilds, they operate by 'tweaking' reality, universal constants, and the laws of physics within their area-of-effect, creating, in effect, a designer space-time continuum that's overall similar to our own. Hence, certain things can be selectivly rendered physicly impossible, like psionics, magick, etc, the nature of time is also altered, and contextual reality is altered so that the bubble simply does not exist if you try and enter from anywhere but plain 'ol truespace.


So, yer 'psionics' won't work within the feild, being physicly impossible within the area-of-effect. But then, so are Rowlen's; it's a spiffy catch-all, my ASPEW. Oh, and I'll say when the Asperation enters it; it doesn't extend out very far past the sheilds.

Oh, and the part that was cut off was basicly the ship responding to a standing IFF query, the crew realising they were around Earth, and Annika grabbing all external and internal sensor data and sending it to the High Gaurd in an encoded burst transmission. Hence, the BP knew that you were possibly hostile when they jumped in.

Anywho..

IC:
Admiral Hayes watched the transmission from the Razor's thickly armoured bridge, burried deep within his ship. Upon it's conclusion, he nodded to himself, "If they make to leave, don't stop them," he ordered casually; he was waiting for something...

"Sir; we've got the Asperation within max Inversion feild radius, just clear of the ASPEW. Holding her there as ordered."

Again Hayed nodded, befor a blinking icon on his console caught his attention. Triggering it brought up a a/v display;

The scene starts off with a video of the entire encounter that led to the Asperation's damage and return, fast-forwarded in parts, split-screening in others; a datastamp shows the feed to originate from the recon probe Hayes had tasked, which had been jumped a distance some MSK from the original encounter, so that it's high-resoloution sensors could see the light and other lightspeed signitures of the incident. Unfortunatly for the Rayverr, the probe catches several full minutes of telemitry regaurding the ship that attacked the Asperation, from befor the deception began, as it flys in formation with it's true comrads. This is then followed by an AI generated visual analisis of the Asperation's own sensor recordings of the incident.

As the presentation comes to a close, Hayes sighs, leaning back as he weigh's options.

It doesn't take him long, and fifteen minutes after the Rayverr's own message was recived, the recording that Hayes had reviewed was forwarded to them, along with, over the next hour, every 'universal' translation database in the Battleplate's expansive database, starting with the Interlac material; each language devided by a short time's silence in the otherwise constant RF noise.


OOC:
Gah; 3am. Tis all fer tonight; I'll deal with the Asperation's crew tomorrow.

OOC:

This must be what I've seen called "godmoding." Pity; it was going so well and I had high hopes for my first sally forth. Oh well; I'll just carry on carrying on, as they say. Impatience isn't going to get anyone anywhere; I have a feeling from Cetaganda's posts that there will always be some people willing to put sufficient thought into a problem to solve it.

Aha, but hyperspatial communications certainly are possible in your field... or else your shiny battleplate would be something lacking in command-and-control. As such, I shall continue as if it is still effective.

If you are so willing to boast of destroying planets and pulling magical probes from nowhere, certainly you can grant me this one small boon, especially seeing how it is solely a form of communication and naught else?

IC:

Every translation matrix the battleplate has is simply a form of switching from Swahili to Urdu to Esperanto. Just as one cannot create energy or useful work from nothing, one cannot make someone understand their language simply by adding volume to their voice and waving their arms.

Still, the fact that Hayes--nor anyone else, for that matter--knows the command structure or nature of the Rayverr is not lost on the Field-Officers as they think to each other. An additional part of the plot is contrived, and that is that the now-destroyed vessel went rogue upon detection of the easy prey.

Despite the constant blare of currently-useless systems of how Hindustani relates to Sanskrit and the other Indo-European language groups, they transmit a message that rewinds their iconographic depiction of the attack, with the green ship turning blue and all three flying in formation. The grey Aspiration appears, and the cartoon freezes. Each blue ship gains a single new red line, kinked at the end like a tent stake to form a sort of arrowhead. Two point away from Aspiration, one towards. The lines seem to wax and wane in size until the blue ship with the arrow towards Aspiration turns green. The two other ships follow, their red lines pointing away gaining emphasis by growing larger, then the green ship's arrow disappears, followed by the blue ships' arrows with a sort of flicker. Then the firing starts.

If that does not appear to be sufficient, then that is what the current programs in the computer are for.

The antechamber is a voluminous room, dome-shaped, fifteen pillars along the circumference of the room arcing up along the stone walls to form an arched vault seven meters high with a globe glowing a bright but cold white hanging down from the apex, lighting the chamber. The floor is a parquet of alien woods, slight blue and green tinges to the red-stained timber, the designs intricate under a thick layer of slightly whitened veneer. Low cusions lay arranged about, but they remain empty. Instead, Big-Gripper paces in a circle around the room, bony yellowed talons clicking softly on the floor, sharp points raised to ensure no damage to the veneer. His broad four-fingered hands remain folded under his back, gently tapping against his armored thighs as he slowly scuttles on his three legs. The talons of his central arm quietly click together in time both to his hands and his waltzing pace, all nervous fidgetings uncharacteristic of Warriors.

() Enter now.

Making a quick gesture of acknowledgement to the empty room, Big-Gripper spins on his heels and stalks over to the huge wooden double-doors on one side of a room, recessed into the wall via a short arched vault. He opens one door just enough to slide in, then closes it behind him with his central arm as he looks up at the Ancient. The Rayverr were traditionally larger than most things they encountered, that inborn sense of superiority countered by an unreasoning unease around any being larger than themselves... something capitalized thoroughly in the command structure of the phenotypes. Remembering himself, the Warrior bows low, kneeling on his rear legs, hands flat against the floor, palms-up, in complete submission.

Mater nods her massive purple-scaled head, then turns, short green and black robes twisting and rolling slightly with her motions as she sits down on one of the oversized cushions in her chambers. This room is a series of five cells larger than the antechamber, connected with low, wide arches to form a plus-sign. Each cell has a specific function; the one nearest the antechamber serves as a living area with cushions, one has communications and command equipment, one acts as a sleeping area, one as a gym, and the central one is slightly lower than the rest, it's dome being a massive glass skylight, through which the yellow light of Lax shines. "There is no need to grovel, Company-Officer." Her bass voice booms to fill the room, an unavoidable result of her physique, yet somehow it does so gently.

Slightly suprised, Big-Gripper stands. "I understand you want to speak to me of my... hr... mutiny?" he says uncreatively.

Mater responds with a gesture analogous to a nod. "That much is obvious. Please, child, sit down." She indicates a portion of her cushion with a clawed finger. The Warrior complies without visible reluctance, despite his thoughts on the matter. It is certainly one way to emphasize size advantage...

Mater chuckles softly, her teeth lightly chattering. "It is, but that is not wholly the intent." She shifts to allow the blue-carapaced Warrior more room. "The problem is, Company-Officer, that you are right."

Big-Gripper blinks slowly. "I am... happy to know you see it that way, but how is it a problem, other than my obvious disregard to direct orders?"

"There is a difference between insubordination from resistance and insubordination from... something higher," the purple-scaled creature replies. "If I send you back to your command, I have a feeling you will consistantly see things better than I do and make better decisions than my orders allow. That would only set you up for additional mutiny from your higher source, which would be my error, not yours."

"But I would be the one punished," the Warrior offers wryly.

"Exactly. However, because of your admittedly superior vision in this regard, you are too valuable to simply eliminate, the usual punishment for mutiny."

Big-Gripper allows himself just the barest example of an acknowledgement-gesture. "I had a feeling that if I were to be eliminated I would already have been so..."

"Quite possibly. My only other option, it seems, is to put you into a position where you will be most useful."

The blue-plated Warrior blinks slowly.

"The Commandant is primarily just a mouthpiece of mine; I may as well issue orders instead of him, and I often do. I think you could make a valid replacement, if you continue to prove your astuteness in these matters. As such, I am assigning you to the command of our task force in that system. The General-Officer currently in command there will be rotated to a more... conservative front."

"Hr... thank you."

"We have more intelligence since you were in hyperspatial transit. You will be briefed on your way back to BB-1, General-Officer."

"Thank you, Mater." Another gesture of submission.

"Well, get going, General-Officer. The plan cannot wait!" Mater chuckles softly.

* - * - *

We have been practically invited to the sixth world, and the contacts from there have been primarily peaceful. Plus the existence of three possibly sentient species... it is a definite priority, but one requiring subtlety. The third world seems to be less stable, which allows for greater freedom to act there... although subtlety is still probably the best order there. Must remember for squadrons there to be equipped with kinetics drones. More costly in resources, but probably quite necessary.

* - * - *

Corvette squadrons start appearing with more regularity along the borders of Terrestrial and Saturnian space, again following their pattern of nonaggressive shadowing, primarily observing and trying to keep low. They do attempt to contact individual civilian ships or small groups of smaller ones, trying to be cautious and yet as non-threatening as possible...

"Please, make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant." Nodding to the servant, Lt. Fletcher sits down in the indicated chair in a small office. One wall was a large window, looking out over the palace gardens, but otherwise it was bare expect for a simple desk and another chair behind it. He didn't have a clue why he was here - he had been scheduled for a debriefing with Admiral Gwendolyn Serrano of the Frontier Fleet, the latest in a string of such interviews, but had been told to report to the Imperial Palace rather than the Fleet wing of Kelmikarn Fortess.

Suddenly, the door behind the desk opens and a man steps through. Fletcher leaps to his feet and salutes, saying "Lieutenant Harrison da'Espel vor'Fletcher reporting, sir!"

Gregor silently sits down behind the desk and lays out several plastic flimsies before him, then waves in the general direction of Fletcher's chair. "At ease, lieutenant. Sit down."

He shuffles a few more flimsies, then continues, "It seems you've cause quite a stir with these aliens of yours, Lieutenant Fletcher. Tell me, why did transmit to them images of the Ring and its inhabitants?"

"It seemed a logical extension of the procedures that say to indicate Earth as the point of origin of humanity, sir, and the other races were included because in the end, we represent the Triumvirate as well in first contact situations." Fletcher pauses, then adds, "I didn't think they'd miss the Ring on a complete system-survey anyways, my lord, and it would be better to be upfront with them."

"I see, I see," says Gregor in a neutral tone. "Are you aware that, over the past few weeks, we've seen a significant number of those ships poking around Saturn, Earth, and the trade lanes? Our civilian ships have been instructed to continue normal operations, but they, and the TDF and other Saturnspace forces are a bit twitchy. Those ships may be small, but we've seen some rather high power readings when we've got clear scans." He studies one of the flimsies in more detail. "I see you started sending them basic language lessons - that's good, much more productive than certain other people. Another question - why did you not request the immediate assignment of a telepath?"

"There was no time to do so, my lord," replies Fletcher. "By the time we realised it was a first contact with an extrasolar species, we had already initiated glyph and image exchanges. For that matter, we didn't have room for a full psionics team aboard, and a single person is risky for telepathy - I was thinking of the S-14 contact in particular."

"True," acknoleges Gregor. He them looks at another printout. "Let's see - you've taken the basic contact courses, plus a few other electives in the area. No formal EI counterpart training beyond the intro course," he muses. "Class of 1602 - wait, were you in Colonel Retcully's Advanced Diplomacy course spring semester 1600?"

"Er. Yes, my lord. Why?" Fletcher tried to think how that had any special relevency.

"Harry Fletcher. Yes, I though you seemed familiar," says Gregor slowly. "You're the one responsible for the incident with the cats."

"Oh," was Fletcher's only reply. That was right, the Emperor had been at the Academy the same time as he had been.

Gregor raises an eyebrow. "Well then." He looks through more printouts, occaisionly looking up at Fletcher. "He still passed you, though. Right, here's what we're going to do - first of all, you're not getting that transfer to exec on the Despite." He pauses a moment, then continues. "I am, however, bumping up your promotion to major, keeping you at your brevet rank for the moment, and assigning you to the Music With Rocks. Bridget BX-1033 has agreed to have you as her counterpart. She's been refitted into a sloop with an expanded contact module. Your assignment is to try and establish contact with these aliens. A lancer is small enough to not be threatening, we think, but large enough to take care of itself against ships like we've seen and outrun anything it can't outgun. At least that's what ONI and OSRD think."

"But sir, I don't have any experience with first contact, or diplomacy!" protests Fletcher. "Or real counterpart training - that's part of ATS courses!"

"Whatever. You did fine aboard Australia's parasite, despite what a few flag officers have said. And you did pass the Advanced Diplomacy course, an achievement even without that little event. There will be a few specialists along. Besides, a lancer is hardly irreplaceable if you screw up. Let's see what happens."

"I, er, thank you, my lord. I shall do my best."

"Indeed." Gregor stands, gives Fletcher a jaunty salute, and turns to leave. "I suggest you use your home leave while you can - I expect you'll be gone quite some time."

The outside view

By now, given relatively regular surveillance and attention paid to reports, it is probably well known that the Rayverr ships encountered thus far operate in groups of three warships tied to a auxilliary support vessel. So far, only vessels in the corvette and the cargo ship range have been encountered; there has not yet been another incident requiring the use of auxilliary parasite small craft such as lighters since Aspiration. Total numbers are unknown, but up to six of these squadrons have been known to operate at any given time, a maximum of three in each theater of operations.

The plan is usually rather simple: A squadron appears from nowhere usually around a hundred million kilometers distant, then approach to within ten million kilometers of any point of interest, entering into a polar 'orbit' that is more akin to flying rings around a body than actually falling in a circle. This continues for anywhere between a week and a month before a squadron leaves to disappear once again. At any given time both Earth and Saturn have two squadrons each assigned to it, with the third appearing to relieve an earlier-deployed squadron.

Occasionally, they break off to shadow vessels that cross their path. They always maintain a respectful distance from anything resembling 'civilization,' however.

The inside view

Perhaps it is terrain claimed by a sovereign nation; perhaps it is not. Either way, a lighter descends through the atmosphere above it, dropping silently as it bends the rules of inertia with sufficient amounts of esoteric matter and energy. Inside, thirty blue-hued Warriors shift about in their stool-like seats as the craft is buffeted lightly by terrestrial winds, their metal armor glistening dully in the dim sulfur yellow lighting.

(Private-Enlisted) First to touch down--exciting, is it not?

Of course it is. All of their adrenaline levels are elevated, endorphins set just short of inducing euphoria, dopamine at carefully controlled presets over nominal. Senses heightened, muscles ready to act, fear and pain centers oddly sluggish.

(Sergeant-Enlisted) Resistance expected is minimal?

A yellow-scaled Technician gestures assent, holding on easily to the rails that run the length and breadth of the lighter's hold. () Resistance expected is nonexistent. Orbital surveillance indicates that this has an extremely low population density and no visible defenses. That's why we picked it for our first landing.

The sergeant chuckles as he thinks inwardly. Nonexistant. Meaning any resistance we find should be enough to bowl over.

() Reconnaissance mission, Warrior. Avoid contact if possible unless you can do it quietly.

(Sgt) Of course, of course.

OOC:

This can be any relatively secluded area on Earth with a low population density and very little in the way of surface-to-air armaments (or orbital defenses or such... essentially, we're trying not to get shot down on the approach and landing). Examples would be Siberia, the Amazon, or the Northwestern American woodlands. There has to be some life, though, something of interest. The Saharan desert would be thusly excluded.

The invitation is open for this to be someone's country; just telegram me if you would like to play host to a little alien encounter. Technology level is irrelevant; I'm open-minded.

"Interesting. Captain Fletcher, we've be sent a message from the Third Fleet, about an alien group that isn't following the usual pattern. They think it just dropped a shuttle of some sort," says Bridget BH-2033. "Yeah, looks like it to me. I wish we could track those drives better."

"Is it headed anywhere important?" replies Fletcher.

"No, its pretty much uninhabited."

"Right. Ask them to keep a ship in position to observe, but have it stay out of potential return paths back to the alien squadron. Keep as many sensors trained on the area as they can, including any passing sats."

"Righto, Captain. Observe, record, but don't interfer. Got it."

Sixth planet

More of the same. Quick-Snapper rests his large muscular jaw on one fist as he stares at the green-yellowish holodisplay. The sixth planet was apparently a fortress world, far more unified than any other major planet in the system and exceedingly well protected. It had been discovered early on that the hyperdrive refused to exit closer than a given radius from the planet, and the defenses were certainly too dense to risk simply trying to sneak in the old fashioned way. While it seemed to present endless riches in culture and people, it was simply beyond the reach of the Family-Empire at the moment.

Of course, this is why General-Officer Big-Gripper had assigned the light gripping hands to a constant surveillance orbit. Perhaps, if the forces of the Rayverr waited long enough, a chink in the defenses could be found or a proper way to engage them determined. For now... just more orbiting.

() Are there any lone vessels to shadow?

() No, Warrior.

Quick-Snapper grumbles softly to himself as he switches arms. So dull.

Third planet

The Rayverr landing party quickly snap into action, quickly grabbing fistfuls of soil, ground cover, samples from any nearby plants of every different kind and stuffing them into plastic bags. Samples of bark and leaves from trees; heads of flowers; seed-cones of conifers; whatever is avaiable is picked up, tossed into a bag, and quickly relayed back into the lighter. Any animals, no matter how insignificant, are treated the same way; insects are snatched up by the handful and small mammals chased back to their burrows, the burly blue-armored Warriors sticking their plated arms in after them, extracting them gently with their claws. These larger animals are put into clear plastic cages, seemingly self-contained, and are then passed on into the lighter.

Askavii Spaceport
The Ring, Sol VI

As her autopiloted PersPod zipped over the spaceport's souther landing fields, Talent-Major Allison Korhal relaxes while watching the various ships pass below her out of the clear bubble hatch in front of her. Ahead, she could see a freighter made of a General Purpose C2 hull, a pair of GPA5 Light Attack craft fitted for extended escort and no doubt bound for a convoy, a spheroid dropship loading supplies, and a GPB1 Contact lancer lifting. Then, a sleek three-hundred-meter triangular shape caught her eye and she leaned forward. Yes, that was definitely a GPB2 hull under all that extra module mass, and the forward linegun and twin optical mounts on the forward faces showed it was a military brig. Brig - she never understood why the shellpeople and EIs that were the ship's Minds of Imperial-run capital ships insisted on using ancient sailing classes and didn't just call it a light frigate like any other ship its size in other fleets. Yes, calling an exploration ship a battleship or destroyer might not sound right, but at least it would be consistent.

Her pod landed and she hopped out, striding towards a small open access hatch in the ship's hull even as the pod reseals itself and lifts off to ferry some other passenger. Above her, a pair of drones were maneuvering a cutter into on of the oversized hangar bays with tractor-pressors, and a cargo shuttle was attached to one of the docking collars at an impossible-looking angle. After cycling through the personnel lock, she hesitates and glances around before continuing down the corridor. She barely avoids being bowled over by a young man who comes careening around the corner.

"Whoa. Oh, Major vor'Korhal," says the man, saluting. "Welcome aboard. I'm Major - er, Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Fletcher."

'Him?!?' came a sudden chorus in her head, which she quashed. Not that she didn't agree, as she looked the gangly young man with major's pins so new they were probably fresh from the fabricator. Allison returns the salute, and replies, "A pleasure to be here, sir. She's an interesting ship. I'm not too familiar with the latest in shipbuilding, but this doesn't look like a normal design."

"Come on, I'll show you around," says Fletcher, gesturing down the corridor. "You're right. Music is on of the new brig designs, but her modules are non-standard. A normal Contact fitting wouldn't carry everything we wanted. Take the bays, for example. We've shoved in a cutter, two perspods, and twelve drones in, compared to two pods and six drones on a normal GCB. There's still plenty of cargo space, too."

"I hope we didn't sacrifice too much elsewhere to gain a few small craft." Granted, it didn't look too cramped, but you never knew what some military engineers might consider enough space for a long-duration trip.

"Well, we've got plenty room still in the primary hull. Full biosciences and medical labs, a technical section, plus reasonably sized crew quarters," Fletcher replies as they climb a level, gesturing toward what she assumed were some of those areas. "As for weapons, we've got some of the newest stuff. Four extra lineguns, four more heavy FRAG cannon, twelve lighter optical mounts, eight twin pulse turrets, and eight missile tubes, pluse a couple of point defense guns. We spent most of the mass on energy weapons, since we may be for quite some time."

*It sounds...adequate. That nice round ship had far more weapons, though, and it was smaller. Why couldn't we-* 'Shush' Outwardly, Allison raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like you brought everything but the kitchen sink."

"We would have brought more guns, but we didn't want to sacrifice the science systems. There's only a single marine squad, as well. On the other hand," Fletcher grins and lowers his voice conspiratorial, "I managed to get us a small Alchemist.

^Oooooohhh. I want.^ "Is that wise? What if we're captured?"

"Ah. Yes, well, Bridget has instructions regarding that possibility. For that matter, there's instructions on crew sequestration, computer infiltration, and about every other paranoid dream that ONI and InSec could think of." Fletcher grimaces and rolls his eyes.

"A wise precaution." As they entered the bridge, Allison gives a quick bow towards the hullmetal column near the front. While it no longer actually housed the ship's EI or shellperson like in the 'old' days (a few decades ago), the column retained to give the crew a place to visualize the Mind as being. "As I understand, I'm going to be acting as your XO, as well as being in charge of scientific side of this endeavor?"

"Yes. Given your previous experience and your, um, condition, you seemed like the best person to do so. The crew's quite small, only twelve officers and a hundred enlisted, plus the ten marines and thirty science types, so between your, Bridget, and I, we shouldn't have any problems. I hope."

At that moment, a chime sounded, and a holographic Corgie appears at the front of the bridge. "Captain," says the dog with a woman's voice and a British accent, "we've just receive a report of ship sitting outside the interdiction zone. We've completed loading supplies and personnel, so I think if we lift now we can catch them."

Fletcher didn't seem to notice the odd avatar at all. "In that case, inform the crew that we're going to leave ahead of schedule, Bridget."

"Aye, aye, Captain." The dog barks and seems to run off through the wall.

"Oh. You may have noticed. Bridget doesn't usually use a humaniform avatar. Says its more fun this way."


A few minutes later, Music With Rocks lifts from the port and cruises sedately towards the alien craft.

http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/raycontact/musicland.JPG

() Warrior, new contact bearing to starboard port dorsal, heading towards us.

Quick-Snapper raises his head from his fist and growls quietly. () Purpose and status?

Technicians shift at their stools, yellow-scaled hands and long fingers flying over controls. () Does not exactly match any known ship type, but it does follow the design philosophy of Contact Three. Purpose unknown, but does not appear to be coming in at combat-ready status.

() But I thought we were scanning outside their sensors range...

() Correction, Warrior--at the edge of our own sensors range. A gamble. Apparently their sensors are superior to ours.

() Still... turn us about to face them, but maintain current translational flight plan. Slowly put us onto combat-standby; the baffles should cover our signature. Report to com--

A voice from above. (B-G) Problems, Company-Officer?

Quick-Snapper instantly stiffens, consciously out of respect and unconsciously out of a sort of mental protection, not a preventure of attack but a steeling of resolve to weather one. (Q-S) No, General-Officer, a situation. The observed peoples of the sixth-world appear to be sending a vessel to contact us--

() Then contact them. The disembodied voice chuckles very quietly inside the Warrior's head. I am busy myself, so simply remember--empathy. We should be better at that than we are.

The communications Technician, unaware of the reason behind his captain's sudden tension, looks over her shoulder. () Directives?

(Q-S) Prepare to hail them. Use contact protocol three.

------===------

"Chgaskol." The image sent along with the voice message looks something like this:
http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/hail.gif
"Vasti pohlislo pij vesh pij verr, vaskol i'chang ko gerr vasraye'chasfie." The image associated with this sentence is a long string of symbols blocked off in this pattern: 2 3 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 4. There is a diagram of ship icons trading green dots, green asterisks blooming between and on them that is suddenly covered with a red slash, the entire diagram replaced with the same two ship icons with nothing occuring between them saving the opening and closing of symbols resembling greater-than symbols with a curved triangular bit extending from the vertex between the two 'legs' of the symbols.

"From the pictures, I'd say they're trying to convey a desire not to start shooting at each other. I think the second part suggest we communicate." Is Fletcher's first comment. "You know, telepathy might be useful to help speed up -"

"No," said Allison, cutting him off. "Now, those symbols are grouped in blocks that match the number of syllables in the spoken language."

"But that would indicate a phonetic language, not a symbolic one like we saw before," says Fletcher. "Could we be dealing with different regions, perhaps, or maybe they have two written languages?"

"Its possible. Bridget, prepare to transmit." *Hopefully you can manage to make first contact without blowing anything up this time.*

'What did you expect from a bunch of marines?'

The two officers quickly sketch out some images and a short message. First, the word 'YES' is sent both written and on audio, a 1 present with the written portion. This is followed by 'NO' in the same formats, with a 0. Next, the Rayverr images are repeated back, followed by the word 'YES' both in print and over the audio link but without the 1.

After a short pause, more follows. Carefully enunciating, Fletcher says, "This is Cetagandan spacecraft Music With Rocks. We talk with you. What is your name?" Accompanying these is the written message. Portions are blocked off with images below them.

{THIS IS } - arrow pointing at a representation of Music
{CETAGANDAN} - Cetagandan flag, with an arrow pointing at image of the Ring
{SPACECRAFT} - a generic spaceship, as well as representations of the Rayverr vessel
{MUSIC WITH ROCKS} - This time, the representation has the name shown overlaying the ship.

{WE} - an image of Music, with tiny stick people inside.
{TALK} - an imaged of the two ships with a double-ended arrow between them, and symbols going back and forth.
{WITH} - an arrow
{YOU} - an arrow pointing at the Rayverr ship, with tiny Rayverr inside

{WHAT IS} - a question mark.
{YOUR} - an arrow pointing at the Rayverr ship.
{NAME} - first is an image with the word MUSIC pointing at a representation of that ship, then another with SATURN pointed at a crude Saturn, and finally a question mark pointing at the Rayverr ship.

() The interrogative symbol again. They are asking for us to identify ourselves.

Quick-Snapper adjusts himself on his wide, molded stool. () Yes. That would make sense... they are identifying themselves with the pointed claw, and using the pointed claw to reinforce labels announced in previous contact. But listen to that language. He ponders "This is cet-ah-gahn-don spaysss-krahft myoo-sik with rox" for a moment. There are twelve syllables and yet they have... how many symbols? Two-fifteens and ten? How alien.

() Perhaps they experience or understand sound differently? It does not really matter, the Technician offers, because note how they block off groups of symbols and assign them singular meanings, at least in effect, much like our conjugated verbs and compound words. It is possible that their symbology and language is far more precise than ours both in sonic and conceptual terms.

() As you say, Technician, it does not matter. Send them the simplified symbol-sound comparison chart and be sure to indicate our own interrogative. At least we are making some progress.

------===------

The lead corvette first sends a combined audio-visual transmission that does not seem to follow in any previous grammatical footsteps. One symbol, one sound, another symbol, another sound. This is repeated three times and can be made to form a simple matrix like this one (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/symbol-sound.gif). After that, the commander's distinctive raspy voice takes the air, with appropriate symbology to what he says appearing.

"Vasti Soovchangpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr Mik."

{[VAS][TI]} - A line drawing of the corvette.
{[SOOV][CHANG][PIK][SOK][FIE][WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]}{[CHOSS]} - Appears, then is superimposed onto the corvette. The symbol for [CHOSS] is the symbol for the numeral 10 as revealed in previous contact.

"Gassivvil?" {[GAS][SIV][VIL]} - A line drawing of Rocks, with the symbol for [FIE] next to it with a question mark next to it. The [VIL] in the portion showing the written form of the word changes to a question mark while the question mark next to [FIE] changes to [VIL]; they swap a few times and then return to their original configuration.

"Kai pij gerr vasokkvinn."
{[KAI]} - One of their check-mark arrows indicates Saturn. This symbol turns into the word "SATURN" and back a few times.
{[GERR]} - This symbols appear, with a check-mark arrow pointing at the line-drawing of Rocks. It turns into the word "YOUR" and back a few times.
{[VAS][OKK][VINN]} - The symbol for [FIE] appears next to the image of the Rayverr corvette; it then flies a loop around Saturn, the 'side' of the circular [OKK] symbol with the triangular irregularity always pointed towards Saturn. It does one circuit, then stops.

"Gassivvil?" The same set of imagery as for the previous instance of gassivvil repeats.

"Ok, let's make the assumption that these creatures thinks reasonably like us," begins Allison. "Many of these words have a repeating prefix structure attached. That's probably verb tenses or plurals, that sort of thing."

"Look at this," says Fletcher. "There's the shape they sent in response to the images of humans - 'Ray-ver'. That's probably the name of the species. And here, a stick human - 'erth-kai-thid' - Earth kaithid. And here, they indicate Saturn as 'kai' - planet, maybe - and 'thid' has a rather complex shape. 'Earth-planet kind' or something like that, perhaps."

^Sensible reasoning.^ Allison nods. "Yeah, that may work. We'll get them some actual names in a minute." She angles her head and studies the images. " 'Vasti' is probably 'us' or 'we' - possibly both. There's a number at the end of the rest, so its probably a squadron designations - much like how we designate riderships and dropships by mothership name followed by number."

"Gassivvil - or gassivfie? There's 'fie' in the identification string, too. Um - you know, the way 'fie' is attached to everything, perhaps its indicates a question. And gassifie might be asking if we understand ," continues Fletcher.

"Next is planet, then your - note the order of the noun and adjective. That might be something to do with orbit next."

"But they're not really orbiting the planet," replies Fletcher, "Maybe it has to do with communication - you know, sorta like an open mouth. Notice the repetition of 'vas' - it could be coincidence, but it comes along with another drawing of their ship."

"You're right," Allison says, biting her lip. "Wait - we asked for ID, they've given it to us - I think. What if this is telling us what they're doing?"

"Right, observing us. Ok, let's start composing our reply," suggests Fletcher.
--
First, a set of images are sent, along with the word in both audio and writing.

"Rayverr" - an arrow pointing at a line corvette, followed by the image sent of a group of stick Rayverr. There is also an English approximate spelling with all Rayverr words.
"Earthkaithid" - the symbol from the Rayverr symbol set.
"Human." - an image of a human.
"Kzin." - a kzintosh.
"Sakkran." - a Sakkran
"Elf." - an elf.
"Reploid." - several reploids of various shapes and sizes.
"Il Adib" - look ma, no eyes!
"Dolphin." - squeak
"Dragon." - Rawr.
"Seldane." - a blue person, from Imnsvale apparently.
"S'pht." - A big cloak and a metal cap-esqe thing. See Imns for more details.
"Orc" - icky.
"Vrakian" - a walrus. no, really.
"Earthkaithid." - the symbol again

"Electronic" - the image of a circuit board, and then a generic computer system.
"Intelligence" - an arrow pointing at a stick human's head.
"Electronic Intelligence" - A photo of a SHODAN avatar.

"Triumvirate." An image of three five-pointed stars, with lines joining them.
"Triumvirate of Yut" - an image of the ToY seal, then a circle with twenty-two circles inside, each with many tiny dots inside them, and finally an image of the Saturn system.
"Yut-kaithid." - A photo of all the species of the Triumvirate wearing uniforms, but with a ToY patch (or painted on, in the case of a Reploid and a dolphin's water tank) prominent, plus a SHODAN avatar.

Next, the first two lines of the Rayverr message is repeated back. Then, Fletcher sends, "You are 'Wif-grrrr-e'terr' Ten? Yes? No?" This is accompanied by the an arrow pointing at a line corvette, with both the Rayverr symbology and an English approximation along with the image. 'YOU" shifts to 'gerr' and back several times. 'Yes?' is at the bottom, and after a moment, a large X crossed the entire image, and 'NO' is at the bottom. These are alternated two times.

After a pause, the word 'vasokkvin' is repeated, along with its accompanying images. Next comes "Clarification". The accompaning image is a very fuzzing Saturn. Clarification is added to the bottom, and the image becomes clear.

"Vasokkvin," Fletcher says. "You observe Saturn? Yes? No?"
{YOU} - Once again, an arrow pointing to the corvette. This is replaced with 'gerr' several times.
{OBSERVE} - First, a human head, with an arrow pointing to the eye.
{SATURN} - The set is finished with a stick Rayverr, with little eyes on it, and an arrow pointing from the eyes to Saturn, and a question mark at the bottom. The same yes/no imagery as before is used.

Then, 'vassokvin' is repeated once more, followed by another message. "We orbit Saturn? Yes? No?"

{WE} - the corvette and Music
{ORBIT} - the two craft circle Saturn several times.
{SATURN} - the two ships continue their motion, while the while the yes/no imagery is once more repeated.

Quick-Snapper scratches under his chin lightly with his sharp, bony, yellowed claws. His jaundiced eyes, the color of tallow, dance with fascination over th Roman letters, the pictures. () Most fascinating. I believe we are finally making progress. Their "yu" is equivalent to "you," apparently, and they appear to have come to understand some of our more basic concepts. Still... do you think they have that many planets?

The Technician performs the tripodal reptilian equivalent of a graceful shrug. () We assigned our designation to them based on the name of the planet at the time and body shape; they can recognize that symbol to be them as we recognize our symbol to be us. They also show understanding for the word "planet." That long list of beings bracketed by our designation for Earthlings would tend to indicate they understand that concept... but the repetition for whatever this "Yut" thing is... it appears to be connected to their sixth planet, their "Saturn," but they never refer to Saturnians... only Yuttians. They have not indicated any planet Yut.

() That would make sense. We do not reveal our homeworld, after all, and these Yuttians could have the resources for interstellar travel. Technician, now I believe the time has come for us to attempt closer contact. Explain the word they appear to have trouble with in greater detail, then invite them over. If we can break this language barrier, there will be much less difficulty. Luckily they share the concept of the negating claw.

------===------

"Vasti Soovchangpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr Choss. Urld." The voice pauses for a moment with a soft ululating hiss similar to the sound one makes when hissing while undulating the tip of their tongue very gently against the back of their teeth, then continues hesitantly in an obvious imitation of Fletcher's voice, far too bass and thus coming off in a sort of low falsetto. "Ye-essss."

{[WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]} - This comes with a picture of some sort of mechanism, with turning bits and pendulums and such.
{[PIK][SOK][FIE][WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]} - A collage, or, more accurately, a slide-show of the corvette, Aspiration, a Kanuckistani battleplate, the Cetagandan LAC, Music With Rocks, Lady Charity, the Rayverr corvette, any number of civilian and military spacecraft...
{[CHANG][PIK][SOK][FIE][WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]} - The same slideshow, but only carrying those heavily armed and mostly military, such as the battleplate, the LAC, various ships sighted around Saturn (the more guns, the longer it is put up)...
{[SOOV][CHANG][PIK][SOK][FIE][WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]} - Basically, little more than the Rayverr corvette and the LAC, except the LAC appears with a [VIL] symbol that turns into a question mark and back.

{[GERR]} - this is replaced multiple times with "YOU," with "YES" at the bottom. "YES" converts to [URLD] several times.

"Vasokkvin." Another pause, then another portion in low falsetto. "We... vil...?"--it adds the particular lilt, exaggerated, that indicates an interrogative in English--"ob-zerv. Urld. Ye-ess."
{[VAS]} - A picture of rayverr.
{[OKK]} - A picture of a rayverr's head (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/rayverr-face.jpg) with a red arrow of the rayverr fashion pointing towards the eye, replaced with the Cetagandan transmission associated with {OBSERVE}.
{[VIN]} - A picture of the Solar System, everything revolving around the Sun like an orrery... before pausing and then going in retrograde.

"Vasokkvin," the voice repeats, "we or-bit Saht-uhrn. I'urld. No."
{[VAS]} - The Cetagandan image is repeated, then crossed out with a red arrow going from lower-right to upper-left. This arrow turns into a red "X" and back, labeled with and "NO." This image is replaced with a group of Rayverr much like transmitted in the previous contact, purple, red, blue, and green, all surrounded by a circle and next to a composite symbol of [VESH][PIJ][RAYVERR]. A picture of [i]Rocks appears, and a red arrow far removed of it points to the rayverr congregated in the circle. [VAS], the arrow is labeled. Another arrow points towards Rocks, labeled [GERR]. Finally, a branching arrow that points at both [VAS] and [GERR] appears, this one labeled [CH'GAS].
{[OKK]} and {[VIN]} - same as above

Finally, an image with line drawings of the corvette and Rocks appear, both filled with little [RAYVERR]s and [EARTHKAITHID]s. The little stick people come out of their ships and meet in the middle, with the symbols for {[CH'GAS][KOL][VIL]} and {[MAS][FIE]} appearing. "Chgaskolvil? Vas'hmm'miff'fie gerr okk."

"Ok, so they're observing us. A paranoid voice in my head says that they probably don't have good intentions," says Allison.

"What makes your...voice think that? They haven't made any hostile moves yet," replies Fletcher.

"That we know of. Would you want to try and make a move on Saturnspace without knowing what's here, even if they've got larger ships out there somewhere?" argues Allison. "They've landed somewhere on Terra, and we've no way of knowing what really happened out there with that freighter."

"You may have a point. Still, I think our best bet to get information on them is to agree to a meeting. Bridget, do you think our airlocks are compatible?"

"I believe so, Captain," replies the shellperson. "The cutter's lock should be able to attach. Worse case, we latch the two ships together using my adaptable docking collar topside."

"Good. Do you think its safe, Allison?"

"I...think it should be safe. At the very least, the ship's firepower should keep them from trying anything funny - we might not take them all, but I bet we could slag their flagship before they could cripple us, and there's about eleventy-hundred warships within shouting distance anyways."

"I concure. Bridget, prep the cutter. Then advise lieutenant Hawkins that Allison and I are going on a trip. Meanwhile, we'll send them a bit more infomation."

----

"We will launch a shuttle to dock with your warship."
{WE WILL LAUNCH} - a tiny spaceship leaves from Rocks
{A SHUTTLE} - a pictogram of tapered cylinder with an obvious cockpit and airlocks
{TO DOCK} - the tiny ship attaches to the Rayverr ship.
{WARSHIP} - the Rayverr ship, Rocks, a ship bristling with omninous-looking protrusion. It is replaced several times with [changpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr].

{SHIP} - a space craft
{BATTLE} - two spaceships, one of which resembles a Supreme Emperor and the other vaguely like a Sky Furnace, trading lines and dots, until the Furnace blows up in a rather enthusiasticly detailed explosion.
{WAR} - fleets of ship trading fire, stick tanks rumbling about a stick landscape, bulky stick humans shooting dots and lines from stick guns at other green stick figures wielding stick swords and axes.

Following a pause, the word {AIR} is sent, along with an image of a square with a haze of dots inside, followed by a planet also surrounded with such a haze. arrows indicate the clouds in both cases.

"We breathe air."
{WE BREATHE} A stream of particles entering and exiting a stick-figure's open mouth.
{AIR} - a haze again.

"Elements."
{ELEMENTS} - this is accompanied by an image of a simple periodic table of elements. Each box is contains the number of protons, in both arabic and rayverr numerals.

"Our air is composed of these elements."
{OUR AIR} - more haze
{COMPOSED} - a section of haze is circled, then the image zooms in to show lots of tiny particles.
{ELEMENTS} - This is followed by a chart showing the breakdown of Earth's atmosphere. 71/100 of element 7 {NITROGEN}, 21/100 of element 8 {OXYGEN}, 99/1000 of element 18 {ARGON}, and tiny amounts of various other elements.

"We poisoned by these elements and compounds."
{WE POISONED} - a stick figure breathes in some air, then falls over.
{BY THESE ELEMENTS} - the periodic table again.
{COMPOUNDS} - a simple molecular diagram, with lines connecting numbered circles.
Following this is a chart of elements and compounds such as sulfur, cyanide, and some other common deadly substances.

Scratching lightly under his chin again, the Warrior looks down at the Technician. () Certainly they jest. Make first contact by docking to the ship itself? We could overrun their party... or their party could actually be a boarding crew. Something does not seem right about this.

The yellow-scaled creature hisses softly in a show of ironic humor. () Smells too much of the honorable Company-Officer Fourteen-Fingers' "good idea?"

Quick-Snapper leans back on his three heels... or at least the closest things to heels on his clawed feet, unconsciously entering a defensive stance. () Not so extreme or as contrived as that, no, but...

The two watch the quick lessons on the terminology of violence, continuing to share thoughts throughout. () They are not showing hostile intent... are they?

() The best argument has a bit of threat, I suppose... and we did the same by revealing our nature as a warship, although I doubt we are a match for this vessel. Aaaaand... they are explaining the obvious now.

Waving one hand, the Technician taps the screen with the fine manipulator hand hanging over his head, fine, long, almost skeletal fingers wrapped in dextrous muscle. () But still useful, Warrior. Terminology--we know they breathe the same gaseous mixture we do, essentially, but we know they call it "ayr." We know now that "webreev" is anologous to "breathe." And this diagram here is their attempt to tell us exactly what they need... it looks familiar, but I cannot place it.

The Warrior hisses softly. () Send it to the medical facilities and send it upwards. Perhaps someone with the appropriate learning from the egg might be better at interpreting that... A sudden pause, a point of a claw of yellowed bone. Are they showing what I think they are showing?

Watching in amazement as the transmission tells them specifically how to kill humans with simple chemical formulas--although that much is not immediately evident--they then look at each other, making eye contact. () That determines it. They are not docking here.

* - * - *

"Vasrissvook jolsokfiewiffgrre'terr kol laz jolsokfiewiffgrre'terr pij gerr." The raspy, deep voice speaks slowly, then even slower as it speaks again in a sort of falsetto--still low-pitched, but quite a bit higher than its usual voice. It seems to be an attempt at matching the human's inflection, accent, and vocal pitch. "We lawn'ch... sshhut'le. Dok... sshut'le."
Displayed is essentially a repeat of Rocks' transmission, with a few edits:
{[VAS][RISS][VOOK]} - a little line drawing of a lighter leaves the corvette
{[JOL][SOK][FIE][WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]} - a line drawing of a lighter
{KOL} {LAZ} - the lighter meets the tapered cylindrical pictogram halfway
{[JOL][SOK][FIE][WIFF][GRR][E'TERR]} {[PIJ]} {[GERR]} - the Cetagandan's pictogram, unaltered.

"Vaswifffie wifftol." Another pause, with a slight ululating noise like someone softly humming while they roll their tongue against their palate repeatedly. "We breev ayr."
{[VAS][WIFF][FIE]} - Rayverr stick figure, taking in and expelling dots in a manner similar to the Cetagandan cartoon
{[WIFF][TOL]} - Same imagery as for {AIR}, and replaced with {AIR} repeatedly.

The periodic table exercise is not repeated. Energy signatures aboard the vessel raise a bit as one of the hexagonal doors just aft of amidships on the superstructure opens, giving Rocks a clear (albeit oblique) view of the inside of the bay and the nose of the lighter nestled tightly inside.

* - * - *

() Get me another Warrior and four Technicians. Two medics, two engineers. Meet in Lighter Bay Three. Quick-Snapper stands gracefully, pulling away from his stool with an ease unexpected from his massive frame. () Chief-Enlisted Dark-Eyes, you have the ship. Field-Officer Sharp-Fingers, command the squadron in case I lose contact.[/i] The ship is a very orderly hive of just-wide-enough hallways with no thought whatsoever given to any sort of aestetic beyond 'it fits here,' all gangways and manually sliding doors (simply because they take less volume), save for massive pressure bulkheads in the sulphur yellow light.

Once again, outfitting for exploration with an emphasis on 'be prepared.' Plate armor, open helmets, weapons stowed over shoulders, firmly pointing downwards. The lighter is loaded and ready, needing only for hangar control to release the locks and send it on its way.

"Well. Looks like they didn't like the idea of us visiting them much," Allison comments.

"Yeah. Maybe we should have sent them a cake or something," Fletcher replies, shrugging. "Still, they're willing to meet us midway. It should work."

"We're not going to rebuff them, are we?" Allison asks worriedly. "It may not be a good idea to insist on docking with their ship."

"No, of course not. We'll meet them halfway like they suggested. Head on down there now, and have Sergeant Killian detail a pair of his marines in full armor. Let's see...we'll also bring a tech along, plus a medic who's got training for non-human physiologies."

"Aye sir."

After Allison leaves the bridge, Fletcher faces the main screen. "Bridget, keep the remote control for the cutter active. Don't hesitate to raise the gravity a few gees or pancake us if they attempt to capture us. You know the drill."

"That I do, Captain. We should be ready in ten minutes or so. If you start now, you'll have time to send a reply and get suited."

==

"Shuttles dock at midpoint."
{SHUTTLES} - the two line shuttles.
{DOCK} - the two shuttles attach to one another
{AT} - an arrow pointing at a point halfway between the motherships
{MIDPOINT} - a line connecting the two motherships (although not from any gunport), with a different-colored dot at the middle which is circled.

"Shuttles attach airlocks."
{SHUTTLES}
{CONNECT} - an extendable tube connects the two shuttles
{AIRLOCK} - two rooms. Inside there is air and a suited stick-human. The man steps through into the smaller of the two rooms. The connecting opening closes, the air is removed, and an outer door opens.

+=+=

About a minute after the message is sent, one of the hangar bays open and the cutter emerges. Inside are seven humans. Five of them, including the pilot, wear grey, nearly skintight pressure suits with gloves, which are adorned with insignia and the occupant's names. They do not have helmets on, but the thick collars contain clear memoryform units that extend to surround the head when given the appropriate command through the wearer's augments. The other two occupants of the passenger compartment wear powered combat armor. It is very similar to TYCS standard battle armor, albeit sleeker. The Cetagandan marine corp chose to pursue increasing the abilities of smaller armor rather than develop bulkier, if much more powerful, assault armor. Each suit has an integrated anti-personnel laser in one forearm and a neural disrupter/stunner in the other, short but lethal claws at the fingertips that can extend like a cat's claws, and hardpoints for attaching small missile launchers or heavy energy weapons. In this case, each marine carries a CREWS energy rifle slung on their backs, a pistol at each hip, and a variable sword. No heavy weapons or explosives are currently carried - shuttles make poor places to use such weapons. The weapons are all set at standby and not fully armed, and as such giving off only minimal tell-tale energy signatures. While their helmets are on, their armored visors are open.


http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/raycutter2.JPG

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/tmbrayverr-lighter-cc.jpg (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/rayverr-lighter-cc.jpg)

The lighter is an ugly, tubby vessel a little more than eleven meters long and perhaps five to six meters tall. Its half-bulbous, half-flat hull shows no obvious indications of means of propulsion, although its apparent mass does seem to decrease when sensed from head-on. It smoothly passes the kilometers between the corvette and the midpoint, accelerating at around fifty meters per second per second--around five times normal Earth gravity. Coming up to the cutter, it slides alongside, proffering one of the circular doors on its side below a stubby, angular wing assembly. Silently, a ring around the door is propelled outward with a tiny burst of amperage, an accordion-like boarding tube following it as it latches onto its opposite number on the cutter's hull. The segmented ring takes on the shape of the Cetagandan vessel as best it can before it exudes a small amount of stickyfoam, creating an airtight seal against the hull.

The tube pressurizes, its sides expanding slightly, then plays host to the six Rayverr making their way through--all in fully enclosed baggy suits made of clear material and sporting hard plastic collars of some sort. The transparent material clearly reveals what they wear underneath; the two large blue Warriors augment their carapaces with plates of composite armor and wear both weapons and glowing frustrums on harnesses; the four Technicians wear floppy garments that resemble a cross between enclosed HAZMAT gear and ponchos. Their reptilian heads are apparent behind the broad plastic visors of the plastic hoods draped over their shoulders. Climbing hand-over-hand along a central guiding line, they move in a choreographed ballet, elegant in its simple purpose.

The Warriors lead, then flatten against the hull to the sides of the airlock door, followed by a single Technician with a conical device resembling an unpowered megaphone with a rubber seal at the broad end. The baggy-suited Technician places this end against the airlock door and pulls the trigger to let loose a single ping of ultrasound, then references the ghostly images that appear on a handheld display hooked to the megaphone by a thick cable covered in glossy black insulation.

Rolling her shoulders, the Technician leans back and detaches the megaphone while the Warriors cycle the outer door and enter. The process is repeated with the inner door.

Quick-Snapper rolls his shoulders at a particular thought, then cycles the inner door, hands well away from the pronged weapons at his hips or stowed over his shoulder. He, and the other Warrior, are still sufficiently equipped to open their own chain of personal defense equipment shops. Violence is a universal language, and so the knives, pistols, and rifles probably appear to be exactly what they are.

Looking around at the assorted Humans, he keeps his clawed hands--all three of them--open and visible, palms out, as do the rest of his party. The Warriors, easily capable of standing about two and a half meters tall, crouch comfortably to maintain eye-level contact; the meter-tall Technicians fan out around the larger beings' legs and simply look up. Their long legs make it look as if they could stand perhaps neck high... perhaps that would be uncomfortable. Nevertheless, they all look curiously at the humanoids that surround them.

With another roll of his shoulders and a glance from a Technician, Company-Officer Quick-Snapper puts his claws to his collar, twists, and pulls, removing the crinkly clear hood with a hiss before stowing it on a back harness with the talons that extend from his center arm. Looking at the humans, he blinks slowly.

"Chgaskol." Hand against his breastplate, high up at the base of his neck. "Chasti Okkche'terrchangjon Ssschumkoachike'terrfiejon pij Soovchangpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr Choss. Chasmasvinn laz gerr."

As the airlock opens, the first thought through Fletcher's mind is, 'Wow, but that's a big one.' Analytically, he knows the lead alien isn't much larger than a kzintosh. The rest of his brain reminded him that kzin were damned big to. Steeling himself, he steps forward from the rest of the humans in the compartment, as Allison moves to remain just behind and to the left of him, while the Marines remain as non-threatening as large, dangerous people in combat suits can look and the other two humans watch with slightly wide eyes.

Allison sends into his audio implant, <"I'd say that was something along the lines of 'Greeting. I am position - note 'okk' for look and 'chang' for battle or war - then name and possibly rank, of light warship ten. Chas is I, plus a verb, the something-you. Request for indentity, perhaps.">

<"I agree,"> he subvocalises back. He then gives the Rayverr leader a nice, hopefully non-threatening no-teeth kzingrin, and places his hand on his own chest. "Hello. I am Captain Fletcher of the Cetagandan brig Music With Rocks." Then, with a slight bit of inaudible prompting, he does his best to say, " Chasti Captain Fletcher pij Cetagandan-soovchangpiksokfiewiffgrre'terr Music With Rocks," with it coming out as reasonably unmangled as can be expected from a human mouth.

The Warrior lets out a soft ululating hiss from behind its sharp teeth and rolls its shoulders. The rest of the Rayverr party doff their helmets, the other blue-plated Warrior turn-unlatching his helmet while the four Technicians pull off their hoods with a slurp, revealing their lemon-scaled heads. "Set, Kap-tayn Fletcher. Chasokk gasrafie masfie pij verr."

A moment passes, and the Company-Officer blinks slowly to fill it. Gastetiv sook mas'e'terrlo, he mutters to himself as he looks around, then draws a square with his claws, making eye contact with Captain Fletcher, then looking at the imaginary box he just drew. Drawing it again, he takes one claw and waves it about inside the perimeter of the box. "Okke'terr." Growling absentmindedly, he taps his breastplate, then gently pokes Fletcher in the chest. "Ch'gas." Taps himself--"Chas ko..."--pokes Fletcher--"gas ti ch'gas. Chas. Gas. Ch'gas."

That concept hopefully being explained, he continues. Ch'gasmas... mas, talkvil, mas ti talk, laz okke'terr." Another short pause. "We talk laz okke'terr." He again draws the box in the air and the scribbles inside it.

"Okke'terr?" For a moment, Fletcher is puzzeled, and mumbles "See, then that e'terr thing again." Then, turning to Allison, "I think he means a display - probably a computer." She, in turn, looks behinds her. "Tech Garrison, get the tablet out of the stowage bin." After a few moment of rummaging, the tech hands a large, flat tablet with rubber sides to Allison, which she gives to Fletcher. Holding it out so that the Rayverr leader can see it, Fletcher depresses and slides a switch along the top. After a moment, surface lights up. Along one side, there are several boxes, inside which are colors and geometrical shapes. He runs a finger through the blank area, resulting in a line where he touched. He then clears it by tapping a particular glyph. "Okke'terr? This is an interface."

(OOC: Basically a Paint-style interface. Very durable device, it won't break/scratch/what have you unless you really try.)

The large rayverr doing all the talking rolls his shoulders then accepts the tablet, experimenting momentarily with the iconography and making repeated use of the 'clear' function. After figuring out how to assign colors to lines, he selects the blue color and quickly draws the less-than symbol with the scythe inside representing mas, then writes "TALK" in careful block letters. Pointing first at one then the other, he says "Mas'e'terr." After that, he draws a quick line-drawing corvette... erases that... then draws, under the Rayverr symbol, a hesitant blue blobby shape that looks something like his head, with lines coming from the mouth. Looking at Fletcher intently momentarily, eyelids closing to slits, he draws a human face with an open mouth, lines coming out of that. Pointing at the pictures under the words, he says "Okke'terr."

He points again at the word-symbols, repeating "Mas'e'terr," then at the pictures, "Okke'terr."

Allison the telepath, passively sensing, would sense something quite like the psychic on Aspiration saw--a sort of slowly expanding cloud about the various rayverr, quietly buzzing with energy of various 'flavors,' perhaps.

The rayverr not immediately talking--in other words, the rest of them--fold their hands in plain sight and look around curiously, spreading out as far and peering at as many things as the armored Marines seem ready to allow.

Nodding, Fletcher turns towards Allison and says quietly, "I think that mase'terr may be writing, and okke'terr drawing. Do you agree?"

Allison jumps slightly, then answers distractedly, "Yes. That e'terr form keeps cropping up. Spacecraft and what we think is machines also has it. Maybe it indicates action in some way." Shaking her head and closing her eyes, she goes back to what she was doing - trying to find out exactly what the odd feelings around the Rayverr were. It wasn't anything like any telepathic or empathic link she'd felt before - not the solid links between communicating humans, nor the massive mesh of the PanNorm groups that she'd touched before, much to her detriment. For now, she stayed cautious, not doing any active probing, simply observing and watching for any possible probes on their parts.

Fletcher gently takes back the tablet, and begins some sketches. First, he sketches out some of the rayverr symbols, and some letters. First, he carefully writes out mase'terr and WRITE, while saying, "I write words." He then points at the words, and says "Written words. Mase'terr. Urld? Yes?"

Next, clears the tablet and writes DRAW and okke'terr. He then draws some simple pictures, saying, "I draw pictures. Okke'terr. Urld?" He circles the drawings and writes PICTURES with an arrow pointed at them. "Pictures."

Neither the marines nor the other humans make any special effort to obstruct the view of the technicians. Along the each wall and in the ceiling are three bulges that look to be cylinders deeply embedded into the walls, which run from near the middle of the compartment to the rear, with several clearly outlined and labeled access panels. The panels nearest the Rayverr could be easily read as THRUST 1-C, with each cylinder having a different number. The floor is clearly designed to be pulled up, though some of the panels stand out due to labels. Under the technicians is a section THRUST 3 that appears to correspond with the position of the cylinders that are visible. Near the center of the compartment, roughly under the two commanders, is large panel outlined in red, with the words MAIN POWER on it. Near the forward end of the compartment, where most of the humans stand, are more floor panels labeled MAIN LIFE SUPP and INT GRAV. The walls are lined with several lockers along the top, as well as a row of seats. Just past the end of the seats, roughly where the humans stand, is some kind of enclosed sink on one side. The other side has an odd chair with some kind of chamber under it, with a curtain that is clearly designed to conceal the seat. At the very front of the compartment, there are two hatches through either side wall, with NOT AN AIRLOCK written above them in red and controls to the sides. Light comes from soft glowing panels in the ceiling. Behind the humans is a open hatch that leads to a control compartment where a human sits operating controls.

Tag.

OOC: I'll look at this more tomorrow, but for a quick briefing, what is the farthest reach of the raiders? Have they penetrated the galactic edge yet? The Edge Territories have been seeing drops in shipping in recent months, mostly on unarmed patrols, but at least seven combat ships have been lost without a trace.

EDIT: Reading the last few posts, it could be something more. I'll just read the whole thing tomorrow.

The large blue beasts and the small yellow beasts speak with their minds, seemingly centered on their chests. The cloud of... thought energy (?) spreads slowly, not appearing to be a conduit of any of the communications and moving with no apparent purpose beyond the uncertainty inherent in Brownian motion. It soon diffuses throughout the cabin; quite tenuous and ethereal as ever.

() [interrogative]
() [declarative] [uncertainty] [postulate] [postulate]
() [postulate] [uncertainty]
() [uncertainty]

The large reptilian that described himself as Ssschumkoachike'terrfiejon takes up the pad and makes a soft hissing noise before speaking in what can only be described as a voice of patient explanation, if not a bit deep and sibilant. "Urld... yehss... word tasti mase'terr. Mas'e'terr, word. Word, Mas'e'terr. Yehss, pik-chures tasti okke'terr. Okke'terr, pikchures. Pik-chures, okke'terr. Rrrite..." He thinks momentarily. "Rrite tasmessti mase'terrfie. Mase'terrfie, rrite."

Allison detects something else murmuring, its presence indistinct at best, ghostly in its pervasiveness. () [declarative]
() [declarative] [imperative]

Slowly, words start making a bit more sense than they probably should as the creature keeps speaking. It sounds like "Vassokfie oonra'e'terr. Listassetcakvook ch'gasmas" but feels like "We-carry-action small(extremely)-think-things. They-good-action-will(future) us-speak."

(OOC, Green Lion: Feel free to telegram me with ideas. I still need an Earthbound nation to deal with my little landing in The Middle Of Nowhere...)

OOC: By "earthbound" do you mean currently residing on Earth? Cuz if so, you're about 34,000 light-years off. ;)

(OOC, Green Lion: Read the thread and you will understand. The two statements (contacting me with any ideas and needing an Earth nation) were intended to be exclusive, but too bad you don't fit that niche.

Oh, and please keep any additional OOC comments in this vein to telegrams--just to keep this clean.)

Fletcher is momentarily satisfied with his successful translation, until the alien drops the next sentence on him. Taking the tablet again, he bites his lip as he tries to translate it. After a moment, though, Allison places a hand on his shoulder. "We think they have a computer to assist in translation," she says softly in his ear, not taking her eyes from Ssschumkoachike'terrfiejon.

"How do you know? Telepathy?" he asks back.

"We-" she pauses, eyes closed for a moment, then goes on "- I don't think its telepathy, not in the usual sense, but yes, something like that."

"Do you feel up to sending what I mean to them?"

"I...yes, I think so. I can do it without more than a surface touch. No deep scans, though, no little tricks like planting english in the language centers."

"Ok. Make a transcript of what you feel and send on your implant, and keep it updated with Rocks." Squares his shoulders and tells Ssschumkoachike'terrfiejon. "We can try to connect our computers, let them teach each other our language faster. Then they can translate." He slides open a side panel on the tablet to expose optical and electrical interfaces and point at them, miming connecting wires to them.

Allison, for her part, sends to the leader, *We-attempt join think-things. Think-things exchange-teach-learn word-pictures-ideas fast. Think-things speak-change for us.*

As they wait for a reply, Fletcher uses the cutter's comms array to relay back to Rocks, <Bridget, please prepare a basic english-language dictionary. Include spoken and written with some pictograms, some science and engineering terms.>

>Aye, Captain. Give me a minute or two, and I'll relay through the interface you've been using.<

The leader thinks to no one in particular in a curious way. () They-carry-action one feel(mentally)-doer(?)

A simple enough response, oddly unemotional and truly pervasive in origin, seeming to fill the entire cabin. () Yes. You-be-imperative emote-caution.

The big blue creature rolls his shoulders, then looks to Allison. It speaks aloud, but it is beginning to be partially understandable to the mundanes. They hear "Tasti set kew gaspi raye'chasfie verr," but it groks as "It-is good that you-can think-thing-action us." As that last bit doesn't seem to work out so well, it makes a soft snickering sound. "Jol i'lis-lis." This comes out as "Small few-many."

After a momentary pause, the Warrior motions to a Technician beside him for a portible computer link to the ship, then hands it to Fletcher. "Gaszolvinn sook. / You-want-previously this."

Fletcher hands the device off to his own tech, who studies it, selects an appropriate variable adapter from a pouch on his belt, and then connects it to a wall port. "Ready when you are, sir."

Fletcher relays this as, "The link to our mothership's computer database is ready to begin," while Allison translates this as, 'Connection-to origin-vessel think-thing remember-sort ready-start.'

As soon as a connection is started, the EI back on Rocks begins working with the other computer to establish a translation protocol. Following orders from the captain, 'she' is careful not to reveal that there's anything more than an advanced, but not sentient, computer aboard the ship.

The Rayverr computer is a calculator.

Literally.

This could be said about any computer system below the level of sentience, but the Rayverr computer is a cold, digital calculator. No use of quantum uncertainty whatsoever... no use of qbits or quantum computation at all, actually. They are sufficiently powerful, but they operate exactly like a binary computer, which is probably hideously outdated by Cetagandan standards.

It receives the Cetagandan transmission, then responds with its own simplified dictionary and translation matrix. Meanwhile, aboard the ship, lines of Technicians pore over the data provided, quickly reading it and trying to add to the understanding that surrounds them.

Back on the shuttle, the Warrior in charge waits for a few moments.

Hideously outdated would be an understatement as far as the EI is concerned. It was, in her opinion, almost an insult to call that thing on the other ship a computer. As she processes through the translation material, she idly wonders why the Rayverr didn't have quantum computation. It seemed unlikely that they could be completely unaware of the possibility and have space travel. Could it be some kind of psychological aversion to the idea, or religous proscriptions , or a bad experience with sentient computers? It would probably be interesting to explore that at some point. Still, it gave her even more reason to conceal her true nature.

Realising that she had finished her work within a matter of seconds, far faster than one could reasonably assume that a squishy person could, she decides to take the time to consult with a few linguists, both on and off the ship. She also squirts everything they've learned back to headquarters over a secure quantum link. After a few more minutes of doing the EI equivalent of twidling her thumbs, she shoots over to the Ravyerr ship a more complicated dictionary that builds on the previous one, with some minor corrections for errors in the previous example.

>Captain, we should be ready for basic translation. Try to stick mainly to material and technical things and simple ideas for now. We're not ready to discuss the meaning of life, the universe, and everything quite yet.<

<We can't say forty-two yet?>

>...anyways, I'll get back with you later. Rocks out<

"Um...So, can you understand me?" says Fletcher to the lead Rayverr. After a moment, his suit's external speaker repeats what he says in Rayverrspeak.

The large blue creature in charge pauses momentarily, tapping two bony claws on his left hand momentarily as (to Allison) around him the 'cloud' around it thickens a little, becomes a little more energetic. He moves his jaw experimentally, making soft noises, before replying. "We... I... arrr... am? get'ing therr." He hisses softly, a sound resembling a snicker or a chuckle perhaps. "Thisss langw'age of you... yours? iss diff'rent."

The Technicians trace their long, thin fingers over the markings they see, then bring out digital clipboards and start jotting quick notes, all looking around quickly as if to take down absolutely everything they see.

"Yours seems strange to us, but what matters is that we can understand one another." After a moment's pause, Fletcher continues, "I suppose introductions would be a good place to start. I am Captain Fletcher. I command the vessel that we came from, which is a ship belonging to the Cetagandan Space Service. We serve a nation, the Imperial Union of Cetaganda, which is based in part on the Ring that orbits the nearby planet. Cetaganda itself is part of a federation of nation-states, the Triumvirate of Yut." He gestures to the people behind him. "These are a few of my subordinates from my vessel, who carry out tasks related to its operation."

There, he thought. Nice, simple, informative - but not too informative. "What about you?"

Comms Relay <>Allison
>> Would you mind seeing if he tells the truth?
<< I can try. I might be able to spot any blatant fibs.
>> Excellent.
<< By the way, he's almost certainly in some kind of telepathic communications with someone. I think the people back on his ship are translating for him.
>> Interesting.

The technicians aren't bothered, so long as they don't try to actually open anything up or move into the cockpit.

More thought-noise, indistinct; sometimes it seems concentrated in the Warrior speaking, at other times, it seems to fill the cabin. In the mundanely recogizable, the blue creature splays one four-fingered hand on the plate armor covering his chest. "Therr iss noh dyrekt..."--he practices with his mouth for a moment--"ee-quih-vale-ant of my rank to youhrs, at leest not one we cahn ssee rihte now. My nahme, at leahst, is Quihk-Ssnapp'r. We arr saylorrs of... us." Another soft hiss. "Anoth'r thing that does not quite... transslayt. We call ourselves 'Rayverr' or 'the we who think.'"

He motions to the other Warriors. "Thees arr eequihvaleant to those." He points at the Cetagandan marines. "You underrstand, first meet'ngs cahn be...""--he looks around as if searching for a word--"diff'kult? Un-e-see?" He mumbles something in his native tongue which comes out in the hearer's minds through whatever translation he has as 'so many overlapping concepts and phrases.' "Thees yelloh ones," he indicates the Technicians, "are workhers. My crew, for my ship.

"We thoug't," he continues, carefully pronouncing the 'th' dipthongs to make them distinct from 'ff' sounds, "this 'Yut' wass a planeht, not an... or-ganh-ih-zaytsun. Yutkaithid or Erthkaithid means...
'Yut-planeht-born' or 'Erth-planeht-born.' It ees eequihvalant to 'Erth-ling.'" The creature looks as if it attempts a smile, but its musculature simply cannot pull the sides of its mouth up right, instead causing several odd sneers that reveal glistening yellowed teeth. "You cahn see how we werr confuzed."

All of this seems true, with no 'creative thinking' (read: lying) regions of the brain active past nominal background levels.

"Yes, we'd suspected we might have translated that wrong after a bit more study," admits Fletcher freely. He shrugs and spreads his hands, "I'm sure you understand, our ship, while geared for exploration, is still a warship with limited space for specialists in first contact. A pure explorer could not be dispatch ed because first meetings are not always as peaceful as ours. Constant vigilance must be maintained to protect our people."

Studying the differences between the different castes that 'Quick-Snap' indicates, he then asks, "I hope this does not seem intrusive, but I am quite curious about this. Do the different sizes and forms of your subordinates indicate what function they perform in your society? And is it something that is determined from birth? My our kind has no such natural divisions, besides those related to reproduction."

Besides him, Allison suppresses a wince.
<< Captain, given how many Earth cultures like to hide issues related to sex, I'm not sure mentioning it to aliens at this early a stage is a good idea.
>> Really? I suppose so...I won't bring it up again for now unless they do.

"Much lykh ours," Quick-Snapper replies, "not pyurly for reeserch... it iss a... sskowt." Another poor attempt at a smile. "Vijill'nce is a virrchew for both our peeople."

He listens quietly to Fletcher's question, blinking slowly, then nods hesitantly. "Yess. They are diff'rent... kasts." He pauses again momentarily.

Thoughts abound, none of them in English but all quite understandable to the psychic. From the large Warrior: (Q-S) That is not the word, is it?

From one of the small Technicians who seem to find the crew of the shuttle more interesting than the shuttle itself: () Not exactly, no...

From the ether: () We are still trying to locate a term equivalent to the phenotype concept. It does not appear to be very common. Remember that mindspeech is not secure, especially at this moment.

(Q-S) Understood. Please indicate the telepath.

[Burst of nonlingual information]

Quick-Snapper bows slightly towards Allison. "We un-derstaahnd that you can hear uss." He taps a point on his chest, a bit to the right of center. "It iss a... tahlent, lykh yours."

() We are detecting evidence of a silent communications system. We do not believe it to be on the same method as Ours.

(Q-S) Fair enough. Acknowledged.

[Two bursts of nonlingual information]

Quick-Snapper blinks slowly, then turns back to Fletcher. "It is deetirmyn'd at brrth, yess. Theese yellow ones mahke other yellow ones. Red ones, which you have noht seen, make other yellow ones. We have wayhs to mohderate theyr procrehation. Do you lahck the abihlity to speciahlize your kihnd?"

"For the most part, our specialization comes through what is taught to human as he or she grows from child to an adult, based on their aptitudes. One who is skilled with math may become an engineer or physicist, for example. There are very few who have any innate specialization," responds Fletcher.

"As you have sensed, I am an exception," continues Allison. "I have a talent we called telepathy, the ability to communicate mind-to-mind. I suspect it is similar to the communications I can sense around your kind," She gestures towards the air between and around the Rayverr. "It is a genetic trait. There are other talents as well, some which are inheritable, some which are not. Those of the Imperial line, for example, have a Talent for binding psionically with their subjects, so that they can better rule."

"We do have the technology to selectively alter our genetics, for improvements or for specializations,"Fletcher says in a indifferent tone. "We choose not to utilize it, save for the removal of a few genetic diseases and minor improvements. We feel that one of humanity's advantages is the ease with which members of our species can adapt to new situations. Overspecialization can lead to an inability to respond to changing needs, and designed genesets can be vulnerable to targeted biogenetic weapons."

"There are a few minor programs been conducted over a thousand or so years," finished Allision. "People with Talents like mine are encouraged to have children together. Also, over time our two main castes have grown slightly but noticably apart. Those castes are subject and citizen - to put it in simple term, those who serve and work, and those who lead and fight. Those who prove capable based on ability become citizens, and the two castes tend not to intermarry, leading into a degree of physical and psychological seperation. It is more a case of classical evolution than deliberate design, however."

After canting his head curiously at Fletcher's description of humans growing into their duties, Quick-Snapper nods slowly to Allison, making the motion as humanlike as he can; this does not change the fact that he is a rather large blue-and-yellow-carapaced almost reptilian thing trying to nod in an emotive motion that is not natural to him. "I see," he replies in a somehow soothing tone, "we have dyrect..."--a quick pause as he thinks for an appropriate world--"control over our genetics. We use thiss to our advantage, but this knowledge is not my specialty."

In the psychscape of the room, the medical Technician snickers a little, then cringes with a slight snap from the Warrior. In mundane reality, nothing happens except that same Technician seems to pause momentarily in its observations of the human form, eyes losing focus for an instant, then continuing to watch how the humans move naturally. (Medic Arm-Setter) Warrior, I believe we are reaching... check that. We are doing quite well. I believe Mater will be pleased with our diplomacy.

(Colonel Quick-Snapper) Understood. I must admit, he thinks as he tries another abortive smile at Allison, then rolls his eyes and draws little upward curves in the air from the ends of his mouth with yellow claws, it is something of a stretch for me. This is closed with a wink.

The yellow medical Technician, Arm-Setter, finally speaks. "Our genome is... complex due to our hisstory. The only way for it to be truely effectyve or have even some ssemblance of efficiency is to selectively control it. We have... capabilitiess in that regard."

Meanwhile, Quick-Snapper continues to take advantage of those 'capabilities,' very slightly tweaking dopamine levels and following instinctual training from the egg. "I must admit, this meeting hass been far more... successful than I would have previously hoped. I believe you can understand it when I say that your territory can cause... unease. I assume there is a reason why this star system is so militarized?"

Aliens should abduct you, all of your citizens, and then eat them and you alive, that way you are dead and I win. :cool: :cool:

"I am not an expert at those matters, either, so we're even there," says Fletcher, shrugging broadly. "I'm sure it would prove a fascinating comparison study for our respective experts should information exchanges or trade be established at some later date."

{Local Secure Comms Fletcher -> Party}
>> Sanders, that biological stuff sound reasonable?
<< Quite possible, yes. There are a few metahuman species capable of similar feats. I suspect that they can moderate their bodies' internal functions easily, much like can be achieved through various kinds of training or augments by humans.
>> Any threat there?
<< No more so that usual. We've got no baseline for strength or reflex comparison yet. Given the possibility of control of typically autonomic systems like heartbeat and breathing, you'd want to make sure its really, really dead in case one's playing possum. Vampire treatment should do it - critters don't like missing their heads and or hearts.
>> Righto.

Allison picks up with the next question. "While the inhabitants of the system are mostly human, there are many, many independent nations, many of which desire the same resources. They often try to take what they want by force from their neighbors. Even peaceful nations must be able to defend themselves."

"The Triumvirate of Yut is based upon a shared ideology regarding certain basic principles. Among these are a shared defense and a belief that unnecessary conflict is wasteful, inefficient," explains Fletcher. "Through our cooperation, we have become one of the most powerful blocks in the system. We use our military power for defense, and for discouraging lesser nations from practices such as genocide. We have open trade of both material goods and information between us. Our cooperation and complementary skills have made us as strong as we are. "

"There are a few other secondary powers, but there is only one large opponent to the Triumvirate - the Five Kingdoms, based primarily on a continent called Arda," finishes Allison. "They are ruled by an entity known as the Dark Lord Melkor. His ideology is diametrically opposed to ours - he seeks to conquer everyone and everything through brute force, killing those who oppose him and enslaving the rest. While we are not afraid of violence, we prefer to use other methods. Melkor and his warlords relish in bloodshed, even the deaths of their own minions. At the moment, there is a state of cold war, with neither power directly attacking the other but rather concentrating on the lesser nations and acting through puppets. Military buildup continues. They have a general superiority on the ground, while our forces rule space."

This is not, perhaps, a fair and balanced viewpoint. But then, the Cetagandans didn't particularly care about any offence that Ardans might take over their views.

(Colonel Quick-Snapper) This is an interesting development... are you listening, overhead? They know of our mindspeech.

(???) I hear. This is certainly of import and must be pondered. Remain as long as you need.

(Colonel Quick-Snapper) Where do we go from here?

(???) They appear... friendly. Let us see if they are willing to accept a... representative?

"This ecksplainss many thingss, and openss many other quesstions," Quick-Snapper replies, "sso many that they cannot be ansswered in ssuch... closse conditions. I ssuppose it would be assking too much of you to sstay here for too long jusst to appease our curiosity."

Meanwhile, seratonin levels are bumped just a little higher as the cloud of psionic energy becomes denser and denser, and dopamine is adjusted as well. Drowsy people, even minimally so, tend to be less quick to pursue questions. "Sstill, the fact this contact hass been quite cordjial holdss hope for future relationss. Perhapss we can leave a point of contact? Thiss sshould ease future... interakchion."

"Perhaps. I must consult with my superiors on such a matter. I will return momentarily, and you may direct any questions you have to Telepath-Major Kohal." Commander Fletcher gestures towards Allison, and then slips through the connecting hatch to the cockpit, sliding the hatch shut behind him. Nodding to the pilot, he drops into the copilot's seat, gets comfortable, closes his eyes, and lets his augments connect with the chair's built-in interface systems.

Secure Fleet C-Space
A moment later, he finds himself standing in the middle of an archetypical endless white plain. Before him is a desk, with a chair on his side, a woman in uniform sitting on the other side, and a raven on a perch on the desk itself. Bringing himself to attention and saluting, Fletcher says, "Lieutenant Commander Fletcher, GCB Music With Rocks, reporting."

"Good afternoon, Commander. Sit," replies the admiral. "You have something to report?"

"Yes, Admiral Serrano," he says, sitting down across from her. "Contact with the Rayverr has gone well. They've requested to send a more permanent representative to faciliate further contact."

"I see." She shuffles a few papers on her desk, a virtual representation of her reviewing files. "At this point, we still don't know all that much about them. They seem friendly enough, but so can a Kalessini lord. We can't forget that the first time we saw them they were involved in some kind of battle."

"No, ma'am, of course not," agrees Fletcher quickly. "However, I'm not sure how much further we can get in the current situation. We're sitting in a cutter between two warships. Their leader is a warrior, and from what we can tell, they're a specialized race. He may not have the skills, authority, or knowledge needed for real negotiations. For that matter, neither do I, and I-"

Admiral Serrano raises a hand to cut him off. "You know protocol - the officer on the spot for first contact continues with the contact until relations can be established in order to maintain continuity and familiarity. Australia's captain should have sent someone with more seniority along in a potential first contact situation. However, you've done fairly well, better than some people expected. And we have gained some useful information. Wouldn't you agree, Casius?"

The raven on the desk cocks its head toward Fletcher. "Indeed. Commander, the Minds on the Strategic Planning Board, as well as several in Contact, have been monitoring the situation through Rocks. Its our assessment that further contact could create valuable trade and technological advancement opportunities."

The admiral nods. "Find out what exactly it is they want for a representative. We'll get in touch with experts and the relevant TYCS authorities to see what they think. Depending on the exact details, we may either have them establish some kind of embassy here in the capital, or something on earth or Valhalla."

"Aye, ma'am. Give me a moment."


Shuttlecraft, just outside Saturnian Space

Allison tilts her head slightly, as if listening, then asks Quick-Snapper, "How many beings would this 'point of contact' be comprised of? We will also need to have information any special environmental or dietary needs sent to our ship in order to determine where best such a contact could be hosted."

Quick-Snapper nods and watches Fletcher retreat to the pilot's cabin before looking down to Allison. Blinking suddenly, the creature looks back to the pilot's cabin as the major asks her question, then shakes his head in a sort of shudder, the psionic energy surrounding him and the others pulsing around a little.

"How many?" the Warrior asks with a slow blink, "yess, how many. I am noht cohmpletely ssertain, Mayjor Kohal. It would make sensse to have one or two Warriors, a few Technicianss to assist, perhaps a few Workers to ahct as servitors... no mohre than fifteen tohtal, fohr ssertain." The creature's accent appears to have stablized, with a tendency to add a bit of sibilance and elongate various vowel sounds--short vowel sounds have a definite addition of 'h' after them, like this: "Ehnvirohnmehntahlly..." The blue-skinned beast squints momentarily at the lights, its large pupils squeezing into thin slits. "The light is brighter than we are used to, and a little more green."

A Technician looks up from her boxy multisensor at Quick-Snapper expectantly from under its rubberized hood; the blue creature rolls his shoulders, permitting the yellowskin to speak with the slightly tinny tone of his suit speakers. "It appears that the average wavelength of your chosen illumination, discounting heat-radiation and stellar-radiation light, is somewhat higher than ours. Everything here, to us, seems to have a greenish tint; I think, from the information you've sent, that our light would appear more... orange, but I'm not sure."

"This is why these Technicians are useful to have around," Quick-Snapper quips with a soft ululating hiss indistinguishable from a snicker. "Your environment is completely tolerable and I cannot think of anything else, although we can have our Technicians work out any problems we cannot think of at the moment."

C-Space

"My second reports that it sounds like they want a small embassy or consulate-style deal. Fifteen at most, including a few of their technicians, some servants, and some warriors," relays Fletcher, before adding thoughtfully, "We still haven't heard of any higher decision-making or 'thinker' caste, but my telepath says the lead warrior is in contact with someone. Given their apparent specialized forms, I bet there's some kind of queen equivalent."

"Perhaps," says the raven avatar. "Not necessarily, though. There's different kinds of Awakened Sakkrans, but there's nothing like a queen. Well...I hope not."

"In any case, I think an embassy is a good idea," says Admiral Serrano. "It'll make arranging for cultural information exchanges and possible trade relations. Cetaganda and the Triumvirate could benefit a great deal from opening up a new market and acting as intermediaries - given their other contacts, they may be cautious in meeting others." She leans forward and grins. "We can also see that they meet the right kind of people in the international scene."

Fletcher slowly nods. "Of course, admiral."

The EI adds, "We can have an appropriate building and grounds prepared in the diplomatic quarter in about three days - that will also give us time to make sure there's no virulent germs causing your crew to drop dead yet. The facility will, of course, be quite clean of any bugs. We can rely on more passive observation methods from nearby buildings." It fluffs its feathers. "We'll see it has all the normal public data networks. It shouldn't be too hard to infiltrate their systems given their apparent lack of real computing. Not terribly surprising, that, when you consider they have something like a hive mind. I wouldn't be surprised if they lack augments as well. We can try to keep that stuff low key for now."

Fletcher looks mildy uncomfortable with all the plotting, not to mention the phrase 'causing your crew to drop dead,' but shrugs. "I'll inform Quick-Snapper, then."

"Good," says the admiral, standing up. "I look forward to seeing you in person, Captain Fletcher."

Shuttles

Fletcher emerges from the cockpit and gives the lead alien a smile. "Colonel Quick-Snapper, my government has agreed to host your representatives. It will take approximately seventy-two hours to prepare an appropriate building in the diplomatic sector of our capital. I suggest that a ship carrying your representatives and anything special they need come to our current location relative to Saturn to await escort through our defence perimeter. There are a few restrictions -" he raises a hand to forstall any comment, "-they are the same as for any other embassy. Weapons must be registered and be below a certain yeild, any plants or animals being brought must be declared so we can insure they pose no health risk, that sort of thing. A specific list can be sent to your ship."

"We do not plan on bringing any such creatures if we do not have to," Quick-Snapper replies, quickly picking up on the curiosity, "although if you would be interested in studying them, we can arrange it. We are not... immediately certain of the amount of time you suggest," he continues with a few clicks of his tapping bony fingers, "so we will simply prepare immediately and stand by for your signal. Please, send your list."

The Warrior looks back towards the airlock door for a moment. "If that is all, we look forward to seeing you again, but we have quite a bit to prepare and an uncertain amount of time to do it in."

"Excellent. We shall send a ship here to transmit a signal and await your arrival once we are prepared. Goodbye," says Fletcher. Once the Rayverr have vacated the cutter and the airlock sealed, the humans settle back into the chairs lining the walls. There is a slight shudder as the ships break apart, and they're on their way back to Rocks.

"Thoughts, people?"

"It should be fascinating to study their biology," offers Medic-First Amberwood.

"The yellow ones seemed very interested in our ship," adds the technician, Petty Officer Corwin. "Could be a good sign for trade. Or they could just have been studying it to find something to copy or a weakness."

"Well, that's nice and pessimistic," replies the medic, rolling her eyes. The specialists continue to discuss their observations with the captain, offering what data they have and plenty of speculation. A short time later, the cutter returns to the hangar bay. As the ship spends a few hours lesiurely making its way into the FTL inhibitor zone and through the layers of defenses surrounding Saturn, the passengers remain in the cutter for a period of quarantine to see if they fall ill from some alien disease. While most diseases are unable to jump species even between Terran species, let alone ones of alien orgin, it never hurts to be careful. Eventually they emerge, and after a quick check for any shapechangers, mind control, or other Bad Things that can happen in first contacts, the seven people go about their normal business on the ship.

Of course, that number doesn't count the passenger that tech' Corwin seems to have picked up.

A frenetic, almost ecstatic report reaches Ra'che'e'terrchangjon Big-Gripper as soon as the lighter detaches from the Cetagandan shuttle; not a little amazed, he repeats it verbatim to Mater. Immediately, a three-way conversation ensues, each phrase crossing both many trillions of kilometers and no distance at all simultaneously, from Sol to Sh'kai and back; from mind to joined, yet distinctly different, mind.

(Mater) They simply let us in? The massive robed beast gets up from one of her piles of cushions, walking slowly towards the crossing as she looks through the trestled dome that opens up to the night sky. If these creatures are as intelligent as you believe they are, General-Officer, then they must be up to artifice--just as we are.

The Warrior named rolls his shoulders silently to himself as he settles a bit on his stool aboard his Big-Starkiller battleship. Resting his spiked elbows on the slender yet sturdily-built armrests, he taps his bony yellowed claws together, one after the other. (Big-Gripper) Perhaps. Still, initial sensing indicates that if it is artifice, it is not artifice to counter our own. While they recognize our Gift as something similar to their... telepathy, they do not realize yet its nature. This is true, is it not, Company-Officer?

Quick-Snapper lightly drums the bottom of his naturally armored fingers against the side of his central leg's thigh, ignoring the back-and-forth chatter of the Technicians gabbering about what they had seen. (Quick-Snapper) Yes, superior. I was careful to not indicate that nature, although they may have intercepted some messages from the Gift. We do not believe they evaluated the nature of those messages correctly... and I have better news.

Mater pauses as she looks up at the starry sky, her green and yellow checkered robes swirling gently along her arms and legs with the sudden cessation of movement. (Mater) Better news?

(Quick-Snapper) Yes, Ancient One. While some of the humans have some form of resistance to the Gift, we know that one at least has been Gifted to self-sufficiency. It is currently only passive, but we are tapping his senses as if they were our own. It seems, at least from the one, that they are mostly... curious about us. Wary, but curious. Despite their checks, they have not detected the Gift.

Mater blinks quickly with this revelation then reaches out, enthusiastically yet gently, to verify this for herself. Riding the chain of Gift-networks, she eventually comes to a mind wholly alien, but becoming clearer and clearer. (Mater) Good... very, very good. And they agreed to allow us a small settlement? She finds herself almost salivating with the thought.

(Quick-Snapper) They call it an "embassy," but yes.

Big-Gripper growls softly. (Big-Gripper) We can be expected to be watched on their soil.

Far away, Mater rolls her shoulders slowly. (Mater) Yes, but they appear to want to inspect our livestock and our plants, not us. We must simply ensure that anything we bring lacks the Gift, which is not so hard... the Gift is not for them. Now, who do I send that I can trust to act with the appropriate skill?

(Big-Gripper) A Mind Queen would have the required initiative. Company-Officer Quick-Snapper, while performing well in this first meeting, was finding it difficult to think around the situation. We will be watched, and we know they have feelers. Workers can spread the Gift just as well as Warriors, and Technicians can apparently avoid such questioning as long as they avoid positions of leadership. Warriors tend to... lack the initiative needed to skillfully obfuscate the truth.

The Ancient One hisses softly to herself, thin lips twitching in tiny spasms. (Mater) You have done your duty, Company-Officer. Depart. Waiting a moment until she can feel his mind retreating, she continues. You have all these skills, General-Officer. Why not send you instead of one of my Precious?

(Big-Gripper) If you send me, you have two options. One--put the fleet under the command of another Warrior, who lacks the initiative which led you to assign me here in the first place. Two--leave the fleet at my command and have these Set-ah-gahn-dan feelers spy on my every thought to our Warriors. If you assign a Second-Generation or even a Third-Generation Daughter with no other responsibilities, these humans will be fooled into thinking their curiosity further sated while we establish a Gift-network without actually resorting to the Gift while being watched.

(Mater) You speak truth... and we cannot let my closest advisor be observed, can we? She hisses again to herself. Very well. A quick snap of orders; a response; exhortation to comply and submission in response. A Third Daughter is assigned--her obligations can be divided among her sisters until another can take her place. She is young, but she knows enough; and she does not know enough to duly harm us if it comes to it.

At least, not after the conditioning process.

Askavii District, Imperial Union of Cetaganda
Sector 135, Ring of Powerfulness
Sol System


"Fleet perspod GCB-13-1, this is Askavii Air Traffic Control. Please transfer flight controls to municipal piloting."

"Roger that, Askavii control. Setting remote circuits to ATC main beacon one-one-niner." After one of the numerous ATC flight control EIs took control of his craft, Lt. Commander Fletcher takes his hand off the flight controls and relaxes, taking in the view through the large bubble window. Below him, the low mountains suddenly dropped off in a cliff as the small pod skimmed out over the wide river valley. Dead ahead lay the capital, with the broad Askavii River wrapped around the circular city. Another minute of slowing flight had him sedately following other traffic over the river and then the high, weapon- and sensor-encrusted hullmetal walls that surrounded the city. Some might say that the shield walls, just like the deep, diverted river that flowed on all sides of the city, were archaic holdovers from an age long gone. Others would point out that most artillery and tank-mounted weapons weren't up to pounding through tens of meters of capital ship armor while under fire from a staggering assortment of weapons.

The interior of the city was a intermingled maze of tall towers and greenswards, with angled mirrors to reflect 'sun'light down into the apparent canyons. Most buildings shot up at least fifty stories, with the tallest topping out at nearly two hundred; beneath the ground the basements, sublevels sank almost as far, with vast civil defense shelters below that. The streets had long since disappeared, replaced with easily sealed subterranean tunnels and parkland topside. There were no long, straight areas for infantry and armor to streak through, but rather a horribly complex maze out of an insurgent's vision of paradise. Halfway towards the city center was a second great wall, another around the palace complex, and radial walls further subdivided the city into sections. One would think that the city was as much designed for repelling invasions as easing commerce.

Fletcher's pod drifts over a large parkland towards the center of the capital. It was near here that the embassy district was located. The theory was the easy access to the large park would make the ambassadors feel more welcome. It was also a convenient distance from the Imperial Palace and, coincidently, Castle Tarleton, the headquarters of Special Circumstances. The pod was heading towards an embassy in the far corner of the district. The building's grounds abut the two hundred-meter grassy kill zone around one of the towering radial walls. It had once belong to some non-human government on Terra that had long since gone un-extant. It was now being crash-renovated in preparation for the arrival of new occupants. Like most of the embassies, it was small compared to the surrounding buildings. In this case, it was about four warrior-sized stories tall, with a sublevel below that and a garage for groundcars, with access to the tunnel network.. Most of the interior had modular walls and utilities access to allow the occupants to fit the interior as they desired. The building itself was situated atop a low hill that looked to have undergone recent landscaping.

Stepping out of his vehicle, Fletcher takes a look about. All around him, the skyscrapers of the city rose skyward, with the starboard Rimwall towering above them and the top few dozen kilometers of the port 'Wall just visible on the other side. Saturn hung dead above, with one of the Ringsuns drifting placidly along towards antispindward below that.

"Ah, Lieutenant Commander Fletcher!" calls someone over near the building, who he quickly recognizes as Admiral Serrano, with a bird perched on one shoulder. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to show up."

"I'm sorry for the delay, Admiral," replies Fletcher apologetically. "Allison - that is, Telepath-Major Korhal asked me to assist her in tracking down some odd telepathic vibrations or something like that. She said it felt similar to those she experienced around the Rayverr. We think its just an echo of sorts."

"How interesting. See to it that a report gets filled with the appropriate authorities." She turns towards the bustling workers and drones around the embassy and opens her arms. "So, what to you think?"

"It. It looks great," offers Fletcher, wondering what one was supposed to say about a building.

"It is great, in many ways," agrees the Admiral. "Give the man an example, Casius."

The bird on her shoulder cocks its head and looks at him through one beady eye. "Well," it says in a melodic voice that doesn't belong in a raven, "for one thing, we've got an excellent view. We've to all the passive sensors on the son the Wall trained on this building, so we can see who comes and goes topside. The transit tunnels are all wired, not that that's a change. We can monitor all 'net traffic, because we control the landlines and have sensor webs deployed to catch wireless - they're limited to disclass blue stuff, but it'll be interesting to see what they look at. We bought space in several of the surrounding towers and jammed them with just about every listening and watching instrument you can imagine. If we're really lucky, we can get the boffins in Camp Restricted to get us one of those nifty moleyes that they're playing with."

"Moleye?" inquires Fletcher.

"Never mind that," says Serrano over her shoulder, while waving furiously at some worker.

"Anyways, where was I," says Casius, preening. "Ah, yes. As we know they're a bunch of telepaths, we're going to cover that angle too. See that building over there? That's a CT&T local transfer depot and message drop center. Who's going to notice a few more telepaths hanging around there? You might also notice that the building has a clean line of sight to the Tower on Blazing Hill, full of all sorts of arcane monitoring goodies."

"Really?" Fletcher walks up the hill a bit, mindful that he doesn't get squashed by a cargo pallet. "Wow. That must be incredible luck to get a clean line this deep in the city."

"Actually," Serrano comments, "we built this hill, then used a ridership with tow pods to lift the building up on top of it using tractor-pressors. No expense is too great to take care of your aliens."

"Well, I wouldn't say they're my aliens, really-"

"ANYWAYS, as I was saying," the raven interjects loudly, "we'll have plenty of passive telepathic, psionic, and magical eavesdropping and detection on site. Oh, we won't do any prying - yet - but if they're careless enough to let stuff leak - and from what your telepath says, boy do they leak - and we have experts at xenopsychology listening, well, its hardly our fault."

"We'll also have a few Inquisitors occasionally pass through as delivery boys and the like," says Serrano. "Plus, of course, you. You're going to be one of our main contact points."

"Me? Ma'am, excuse me, but I-"

"Oh, I know what you're thinking. 'Diplomats to odd places or species always come down with a strange alien plague that turns them into apes or melts their brains.' Don't worry, you'll be getting an additional biowarfare package to add to the command package you already have."

"Actually, no, that wasn't it at all," replies Fletcher in a slightly faint tone, wishing that he hadn't had that thought planted in his head. "Its just that I'm not qualified at all. I don't have the experience, the seniority, the rank - even with this brevet promotion - the kind of skills needed in a all-out diplomatic setting. First contact is one thing, but this is completely different. I never studied the correct forms for chatting with aliens over hors d'oeuvres about the latest international snafu. Ma'am."

"Well," says Casius in what it probably thinks is a consoling tone, "I'm sure Signy Mallory was saying the same thing after she had to assume fleet command following the destruction of Europe and South America at the Battle of Tyler's Rock."

Fletcher finds this thoroughly insane logic. "No, she wasn't."

"Well, boy, you're no Signy Mallory, either." Still smiling, she pats him gently on the shoulder. "I know how you feel. 'I'm frontier fleet. I should either be exploring, on piracy patrol, or hunting down a fleet of renegade EIs.' Still, the fact of the matter is, the aliens know you, so for now we need you and your ship here."

"Well..."

"Also, your inexperience may prove useful. You have this air of not quite knowing what's going on that may trick them into letting their guard down. They seem friendly enough, but they didn't tell us anything about where they're from, and jumped at the chance to send people here. Could be curiousity, could be more."

"That's another thing. I'm not really comfortable with all this sneaking around." In Cetaganda-speak, that means preferring tacnukes to sniper rifles.

"I understand. In our line of work, we sometimes have to work with the spooks, especially if you're in Contact. You're just loosing your naivety - I won't say innocence, given the reports involving your first shore leave - a bit sooner that the rest of your classmates." Her eyes soften. "Don't worry. What's the worst that can happen? If the aliens are planning on using us all as hosts for their young or something, its not like you can make things worse." She turns back to study the continuing construction. "You and your crew have another day of leave yet before we finish. At that point, your ship will head for the rendeavous along with a Home Fleet patrol squadron to escort the Rayverr delegation to the Ring. We've made the appropriate arrangements with the TYCS. Dismissed."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Fletcher heads back towards his craft, shaking his head a bit.

===

Meanwhile, 'Tech Corwin is having a great time bar-hopping. A few of the serfs he comes in contact get an interesting addition to them.

===

Almost a week after the first meeting, Music With Rocks returns to the original coordinates. They're a bit late, but then military construction doesn't always adhere to schedule. Besides, the Rayverr weren't clear on the time frame anyways and the engineers needed figure out how to signal the aliens. The ship sends a series of radio transmissions in case there's a probe nearby, accompanied by a general hyperpulse signal.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/tmbrayverr-ring.jpg (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/rayverr-ring.jpg)

Green-Stone leans back into the cushions halfway-arranged in her 'personal' section of ADC-4's cargo hold, idly watching the approaching ringworld on the monitor hooked to a local datafeed in the wall. Given her personality and general disposition, being hauled in a cargo hold like a pallet of starchroot or a few thousand Warriors would normally offend her, but instead she relaxes comfortably, enjoying how her thoughts move slowly and generally not being overly troublesome to the pawns escorting her to this barbaric settlement past the fringe of civilization. She allows herself a little hiss between her sharp teeth. Actually, I can help bring civilization to them.

Not too many kilometers away, Company-Officer Quick-Snapper shifts comfortably on his stool in the cramped 'bridge'--more like a tight closet--of his corvette. All seems to be going well, and the past five laxcycles had been filled with creating a code. An analysis of the two contacts--the one with the Kan-uck-ih-stahn-ee and the one with the Set-ah-gahn-dahns--revealed how communication was achieved in both. In the first, a feeler had done essentially what Quick-Snapper did in the second contact, both times allowing contact but breaking security. That the humans of the Set-ah-gahn-dans had not learned from the humans of the Kan-uck-ih-stahn-ee indicates that they lacked the efficiency of mind-to-mind of the Rayverr, and so it was unlikely that the Set-ah-gahn-dahn feeler had been able to teach her knowledge of the Rayverr mind so quickly to her compatriots. The Rayverr certainly wouldn't be thinking in Ing-lish, and it was unlikely that masfie was yet widely known. Care would simply have to be taken that feelers identified by the Gift would then be avoided by the same Gift... and the easiest way to do that was to keep it as limited as possible. A potential concern, but that would simply mean more care and more patience.

This is what General-Officer Big-Gripper had said, at least. Quick-Snapper wasn't to even think of it once he regained contact with the humans... which would be right about now, according to the radio signal the Technician to his right silently informs him of. (Q-S) Begin transmitting. I will reply.

Another bonus--why should the humans learn masfie when the Rayverr are willing to speak their languages? "Colonel Quick-Snapper of Corvette Ten to the Set-ah-gahn-dan authorities." At least, that was the rank that Big-Gripper thought Quick-Snapper should use. It seemed to match well after backtracking through captured signals intelligence. "We are escorting Auxilliary Cargo Vessel Four, carrying our envoys to your lands. We acquiesce to your control for direction, protocol, and landing."

The Warrior leans back slightly and waits, claws tapping quietly against his armored thigh.

http://homepage.mac.com/ambrosia512/picket_squadsmall.jpg (http://homepage.mac.com/ambrosia512/picket_squad.jpg)

Decelerating as they approach, a group of warships near the four Rayverr craft. They range in size from five-meter drone and fifteen-meter fighter to three ships that are twelve hundred meters long. While they have active scanners tracking the Rayverr ships, the large, obvious pulse cannon turrets are in parade position and the energy weapons are uncharged. A transmission is sent from the carrier that hangs at the rear of the group.

"This is Vice Admiral Vassily Sorinson of the First Picket Division, attached to the Home Fleet. My task force shall be escorting you to your destination. Navigational instructions are being transmitted to you now. Please deactivate any long-range active sensors before beginning your approach."

The Cetagandan ships assume formation around the Rayverr. Ahead flies a group of riderships, fighters, and drones; to the sides are the two large and two medium-sized ships with their own escorting drones, and behind are more riders, with the carrier behind them. The ships all maintain about a hundred kilometer separation from the Rayverr ships at all times. At times, other ships may be spotted at the edge of sensor range, but none of them appear to be military. Eventually, the group is in an orbit around Saturn, a short distance (astronomically speaking) from the Ring's position.

At this point, the instructions call for the cargo ship to break from its escorts and begin the process of matching the Ring's acceleration; the warships may wait in orbit until their ship returns if they wish, explains traffic control, but regulations do not permit most warships to approach population centers. The Cetagandan warships remain with the corvettes, with only a trio of the spherical riders and a few fighters continuing in with Auxilliary Cargo Vessel Four. As they enter the atmosphere, the riders break off, and an approach beacon at their destination locks on - as do several unobtrusive ground-based weapons arrays using passive sensors. The flight ends at an wide landing grid seperated by kilometer or so from a very large, very active spaceport. Near one side of the grid by a cluster of buildings stand number of uniformed people, including a squad of marines in power armor, as well as several vehicles. Once the cargo ship has landed, the fighters break off and head skywards, while the party on the ground approaches the ship and waits at a safe distance for someone to come out.

The sleek corvettes are about a hundred and thirty-six meters long; the bulky cargo carrier two-hundred and ten. The sheer size of the Cetagandan vessels is impressive, but other possible effects relying on symbology is utterly lost on the Rayverr crews. The various examples of military hardware arrayed around them are just that--tools to be observed, scanned, and analyzed as the situation allows.

(Quick-Snapper) What are those small ones--they appear to be equivalent to our atmospheric superiority aircraft.

() They do, yes. They are not powered by turbine engines, however--obviously. They seem to operate on the same principle as the larger vessels... primarily gravity-based, probably.

(Quick-Snapper) If possible, we will have to acquire this technology. In time, I suppose.

The corvettes hold station with the Cetagandan warships, letting the cargo vessel continue on ahead, landing easily and silently on its reactionless drives. Once on the ground, one of the large side doors rolls open, revealing a group of the tripodal reptilians that run the range of the family of the Rayverr.

The largest is a blue-violet creature (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/wz/queen.jpg), almost a royal purple shade brightened by the artificial sunlight reflecting off her scales, that stands about three and a half meters tall, covered in shimmering blue robes with gold trim and designs that run its length. Standing around her is a group of four Warriors (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/wz/warrior.jpg) in the same kit of metal plate armor and wide, shallow helmets as has been seen before, all of their personal arms stowed safely. Their visors automatically dim to account for the glare of stepping out into the light. Along the sides are eight of the the one meter tall, yellow-scaled Technicians (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/wz/technician.jpg) in an assortment of guises, usually very utilitarian in their design--bandoliers of tools over vests coated in patch-pockets, made of a far coarser material than the larger being's robes approximately equivalent to denim. Finally, in back, are three unclothed red reptilians (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/wz/worker.jpg) blinking quickly, their eyes oddly dull. They stand about the height of a human yet are far more muscular and solidly built; they have an odd slowness to them, however.

The party steps down from the support vessel's cargo ramp onto the landing field, continuing to look around. Any psychics within line of sight and actively looking would hear some chatter, but it remains in the Rayverr language and very quiet. Emotions conveyed are primarily that of curiosity, but no apprehension.

The first thought that went through Fletcher's mind was, 'Thank god they went with the double-high ceilings.'

The next thought was, 'I hope she can fit into one of the transports.'

'Is she even a she?' is his third thought. At that point, he realises that Admira Serranol had stepped forward, introduced herself, and was saying something he should probably be paying attention to.

"...and on behalf of his Imperial Majesty Gregor Vetinari, I welcome you to Cetaganda," she was saying, doing her best to maintain eye contact with a purple alien more than twice her height, "We look forward to a long and mutually beneficial relationship between our peoples. " A ping on his implant signals him to step foward. "For now, Lieutenant Commander Fletcher will be our liason to you, and will assist you with settling into your facility and with any needs you may have."

"It is an honor to meet you," he says, taking his cue. He waves at a group of tracked vehicles and bored-looking me behind his party. "I have arranged for ground vehicles to transport you and any supplies or equipment you may have, as well as laborers to assist with loading or other physical needs."

The monsterous creature looks down at the two humans, smaller than Warriors or Workers yet larger than Technicians. "I am Third-Daughter Green-Stone," she says in a deep voice that would be booming if she weren't being careful with its tone and volume, "the envoy of We-Who-Think to your people." She places one broad manipulator hand against her breast, the large blue robes wafting a little with the motion. "Thank you for allowing us this embassy--we look forward to knowing you better."

She turns slightly, heels remaining in place, head looking over her broad shoulder at the red tripods behind her. "We have laborers of our own to assist in moving our equipment, but your help is most appreciated. Working together, the task will go more quickly and smoothly, should it not?"

And have several quite-intended advantages to the Rayverr, but that goes both unsaid and unthought at the moment.

"Please, lead us to the accomodations you have arranged." The massive being attempts a smile, but her thin lips are only slightly better suited than the Warriors' maws, resulting in a toothy upturning that probably looks more sly than she intends.

"Of course, Green-Stone. If you'll follow me, we have transportation waiting. I'm afraid it may be a tight fit; as you can see, we're a bit smaller than you." The transports in question are retrofitted army cargo trucks with padded benches stuck in, the wall between cargo section and cab removed, and a clear top added to the dignitaries could see out. There was no need to mention that the third-queen was being carried about by something meant for bulk cargo.

After a bit of shuffling, the Queen, three of the Warriors, and a few of the technicians are squeezed into the first transport, with Fletcher and a driver sitting in the front. With nothing more than a slight hum, the vehicle rolls off the grid and onto a road. As they ride along, Fletcher talks with the Rayverr queen. "The capital is located a short distance from here. We're taking the overland route to give you a better view." After a few minutes of high-speed travel, the transport comes over a ridge and the city is visible in the distance. "You'll notice that we tend to build up rather than out. Our cities are quite dense, leaving a great deal of open wilderness. We've kept this style even after we moved to the Ring."

The transport zips over a long bridge, past gun turrets, and into a long tunnel through the other wall. The road emerges through the other side onto a skyway. Down below the road can be see a bustling crowd of pedestrians. "Most of our transport net is underground," explains Fletcher. "We have an extensive mass-transit system in addition to personal vehicles." A few minutes later they pass through another wall and into an area with a great deal of open space and low buildings, dropping to ground level. They approach on in particular and pass through the gates of the fence around the compound. The vehicle slows to a stop near the front door, and everyone clambers out, after which it decends down a ramp to the garage.

"We selected this building because it was previously occupied by people approximately your size," says Fletcher, gesturing towards the building with its oversized doors and windows. "We've taken the liberty of selecting some human-sized furniture for any guests, and can assist in finding anything else you find you need."

Below ground, the other Rayverr and their human helpers arrive at a underground loading dock on a freight line. Working together, it hadn't taken them long to transfer the freight onto automated cargo floaters. The dockworkers had found the alien workers to be strange, to say the least, but didn't comment on it. As far as they were concerned, it was just another job. They'd tell the high-paid military types about it and let the experts deal with it.

Green-Stone looks out the transport's window, yellowish eyes taking in the city and its unusual architecture, the strangeness of its design. The Warriors around her take more notice of police spinners, the armored turrets, the fortress nature of the city. They take note, but remain silent, for now; all disembark and Third-Daughter Green-Stone stretches out slightly, unused to the cramped nature of the alien conveyance.

"Thank you for providing this for us," she says as she looks over her new home, "we will accomodate ourselves and, if we have any requests, we will adapt and request your assistance as needed." She looks back down at Fletcher and attempts another smile, again looking far more sly and toothy than intended.

Meanwhile, the ruddy-scaled workers labor well under the guidance of the single Technician set to act as interpret the orders of the human laborers. They are strong, very much so... but they didn't seem bright at all. They lacked the labor-saving tricks of the humans, and all of the Technican's orders sounded short and simple.

"So, anything interesting yet?"

Up in a room in one of the nearby towers, a man sitting at the window shakes his head and leans back. "Nope. Just a bunch of alien babble. There is that cloud of weird psychic energy, but it doesn't seem to be actually doing anything. Probably just something related." He taps the glass a few times, then adds, "Oh, wait. You see those big red buggers? Not sentient. I bet they're just for manual labor. The little yellow ones probably do anything technical."

"Well, that's boring," replies the telepath's companion. "I suspect this assignment's going to be nice and peaceful."

===

Back down with the Rayverr, Commander Fletcher asks Green-Stone, "So, do you have any question at the moment? I'll do my best to answer them if I can."

Meanwhile, the laborers assisting the Workers move things and and techs showing the Technicians how the utilities and services are receiving a completely unexpected Gift, in such a easy way that none of them even notice it.

Green-Stone presses her fingertips together, lowering her head just a little in thought as she stares through the forward bulkhead of the transport. Her mind runs through several possible questions, and the image they may portray when asked. "I have many, as you are new to us and we know little. Perhaps you can tell me more about your people and how they live? Certainly there must be cause for the fleet to escort a small squadron of corvettes in, and driving past walls of defensive turrets." She again coaxes her mouth into her unintentional parody of a sly smile, muscles moving in an unaccustomed fashion.

"Is this system truly that dangerous, or was there a desire to... impress us?" She hisses softly in a ululating fashion, tongue pressing up against her front teeth. "Perhaps both?"

Fletcher chuckles, and gives a sly grin of his own. "I'll admit, the escort in and taking you through the overland route was as much to impress you as it was from military necessity. The squadron you were brought in by was simply one of our home defense squads, though, they weren't brought in specifically for the occasion. The city's defenses are as much tradition as anything else. Oh, they'd hold off a ground assault, and the air defense net is equally impressive, but if an enemy got past the fleets we'd probably be facing bombardment with capital ship weapons or nuclear strikes."

"Our society. Hmmmm," he muses. "I'll try to give you a general summary, and I'll make sure that one of the more in-depth reports created by the International Relations division is sent your way. Basically, you've got the Emperor, or Empress if that happens to be the case, we don't discriminate based on sex, only on competence, at the top. It's a hereditary title, although there are qualifications that need to be met, such as military service and intelligence. Sworn to him are the district lords and ladies, who run the various subdivisions of the Imperial Union. Sworn to them are the Imperial subjects, or serfs as they're more commonly called. They're the ones who don't meet the service requirements for citizenships. They mainly do all the basic labor - farming, manufacturing, that sort of thing. They have less privledges, but also less responsibilties."

"The other caste is the citizens, people who have gone through a period of military service. They are our engineers, scientists, warriors, things that require a certain degree of education, intelligence, and decision-making ability. They're allowed to call and participate in votes of no-confidence, which is one way we assure that the lords, Emperor, and other government officials are running things reasonably well. They also elect a portion of our Senate, which sets budgetary policy - the rest of the Senate is made up of merit-award seats and the District nobility. Citizens are all members of one or more Imperial Directorate, which are the branches of Imperial government charged with the day-to-day running of the Imperial government. Engineers are part of Engineering and Technology Directorate, career warriors part of the Military Directorate, and so one. The most skilled of each branch become the leaders, ensuring that we have qualified people carrying out the policies of the Emperor."

"Any questions before I go on to touch on some societal issues?"

It was, overall, a reasonably concise summary of the government structure. It all could be easily confirmed by history books and publications available to anyone in the system. The only glaring omission would be the chain of psionic bonds and protections that helped hold the entire thing together. Data on that was restricted to citizen and a select few others; in general society, it was something that We Don't Talk To Strangers About - or, for that matter, even really think about. After all, you don't think about things like daily workings of the insides of the local Department Of Watercraft Registration or the Imperial Bureau of Labor Statistics. As long as they do their thing and don't bother you, who cares? This is especially true when the 'We Don't Think Of It' is being subtly reinforced to people in the 'Don't Need To Know' category (aka serfs) from birth by society.

She figures it's safe enough to ask; if they didn't know now, they'd probably find out soon enough. It's not anything the Rayverr try or even can hide very well, and intelligence about this system was conflicting. "A question, but only slightly related. All sentient, I presume? You may have noticed our Workers are somewhat... lacking in that regard. Also, do you optimize your castes to their particular tasks, or do you rely on the element of chance in breeding?"

"All sentient, yes. There is very little optimization towards tasks, either, at least among Cetagandan humans. We do have a few subspecies that are more suitable towards some tasks than others - people with better senses, for example - and other nations do have very active post-human genetic engineering programs that lead towards optimization." Fletcher think for a few moments, before adding, "I suppose there is a bit of optimization, now that I think of it. There are some lines where its pretty much expected that you go into the family business, especially among the leading clans, and to an extent the laborers as well. Children of farmers tend to go into agriculture-related fields, many spacers are born and die in space with planetfall being something that happens for trade. A specific example might be the Fleet Families. They've been in the Fleet since the Fleet was a wet-navy. Oh, sure, they may go into command, research, the Corp of Engineers, or Contact section, but its rare for their work not to be Fleet-related in some manner. I can't think of a single ship I've served on without representatives from at least a couple of the Fleet Families, either."

Fletcher chuckles. "Who knows, perhaps given another few thousand years we might see significantly greater degrees of physical and mental specialization, especially among the spacers."

The violet-scaled creature nods quietly, quietly evaluating this admission and deciding to volunteer a small amount of information herself. "You have certainly seen our various castes; they are an example of our willing optimization. We have found that each caste, specializing in what it does best, appears to be more efficient and effective than a single multipurpose caste attempting to do everything... in our context, at least. You mentioned another group which practices optimization? Interesting. Perhaps we could meet them and exchange concepts... assuming, of course, that they do not work for this opposition you told us of earlier." She flashes another unintentionally (?) sly grin. "They do not sound like very nice people.

"Please," she continues, "tell me more about your people and culture. A caste system without dedicated castes is intriguing."

Fletcher glances at her odd smile, and goes on, "Well, Cetagandan society is a bit of a melting pot culturally. You see, the Imperial Union as it is today is the result of over one and a half millenia - a millenia being a thousand orbits of the third planet of this system - of expansion, much of which was reasonably peaceful. Travel across our section of the Ring and you'll see bits and pieces of just about every variation of human culture you can imagine. There are a few common threads - certain basic principles about free choice and human dignity, loyalty to the Emperor, love of a good fireworks show. In many ways, its very much like the Triumvirate of Yut, of which Cetaganda is a part of. Dozens of different nations, with numerous species, cooperating together towards common goals and with a few shared principles. Even government styles vary, from the Scolopendrans, who have a socialist democracy where the people choose the leaders, to a few dictatorships like the Dominion of Dread Lady Nathicana, where a single person rules, to the Territory Co-Prosperity Sphere, a combination of corporate rule and anarchies. That last might be a good place to meet some modfied humans, actually. I'll have my superiors look into arranging a meeting."

He takes this opportunity to sneak in a bit of intelligence-gathering of his own. "So, what about your society? I'm every bit as interested in your people as you are in mine."

This part was practiced, but doesn't sound it--it wasn't practiced in English, after all. "You can probably guess somewhat from our questions. We optimize our genetics into castes that serve specific purposes. The red Workers are for simple labor; the yellow Technicians serve in detailed technical roles; the blue Warriors act as lower leadership and... warriors... and Daughters such as I serve diplomatic and hierarchal support." She flashes another sly-from-physiology smile. "We are innately curious about others, which is why we have been probing this system.

"Unfortunately," she rumbles quietly, "this system does not seem to respond well to visitors. This is why we have been cautious."

"Yes, I'm afraid that not everyone is quite so polite as we are to newcomers," agrees Fletcher Then, trying to get more information beyond what was blatantly obvious to anyone with eyes, he asks, "Did these castes evolve naturally, or are they the result of a breeding or engineering program. Also, you said you were a Daughter - does this mean there's a Mother in charge of your society?"

Green-Stone nods her massive head once, rumbling quietly in assent. "Yes, we are a matriarchal society. It appears our system of Daughters, ruled by one Mother, is approximately similar to your system of 'nobility,' although I suppose that is inaccurate as they are not the same family. All of the Rayverr are one family of the species--as any species is--and thus our title, Vesh pij verr, is directly translatable as 'the family of us.'

"The castes are engineered, and constantly re-engineered," she continues, drawing a small circle in the air in front of her with one extended claw of her dorsal hand, "because any single species-family is a closed set. Beyond natural genetic deviation, any species-family is close enough to itself to continue the propogation of ill traits once they develop if it is allowed; the problem becomes worse once the species-family separates into smaller, isolated sectors such as colonies." She points nowhere in particular with her left hand, claw moving away from the circle she draws with her dorsal hand to draw a smaller circle of its own. "While natural evolution would eventually improve us, it would also break apart the connection of species-family depending on where the species lived and is inefficient, having in its due time genetic misperfection and congenital failures that the species-family would have to contend with. Controlled breeding is faster, but also inefficient and is best used to maintain the species-family as a whole. The most forward-looking way, in our view, is to actively continually improve ourselves through direct manipulation. This way we ensure our viability over the long term and fitness to survive in difficult environs." This last word is explained with an expansive movement of her hands, suggesting that 'environs' is equivalent to 'everything.'

"Well, we haven't done much in the way of deliberate engineering ourselves, beyond the removal of some genetic diseases and a few similar modifications," admits Fletcher. "I'll definately make sure that you get some more information about human nations that do mods similar to what is sounds like you do -" more accurately, the SIS Multiverse Factbook's public files on said nations "- sometime soon."

"From the way you talk, it sounds like your entire species is united under one ruler. It must be quite a shock to see the number of independent nations, states, races, and species sharing this one system."

The huge reptilian nods slowly. "Yes, we always have been. Such is the nature of the Vesh. We are not overly surprised, no, that other species could be so fractured; we have discovered that very few species share the characteristics needed for a proper Vesh." As Green-Stone says the masfie word, she continually makes motions with her hands describing a ball. "While you have different concepts for 'family' and 'nation' and 'empire,' they are all vesh to us," she tries to explain.

"We are surprised at the sheer magnitude of it all in this system," she continues. "That there be so many abundant species is... almost too much to be hoped for. For our curiosity's sake--there is simply so much to learn." She smiles that sly-by-physiology smile again.

"The way she said, 'too much to be hoped for,' was a little creedpy. Of course, she is an alien..."

"What sort of characteristics are needed for vesh?" Fletcher asks quickly, hoping to get more information.

Green-Stone notes the quickness of the response and carefully scales back her enthusiasm. It simply would not do to scare the hosts, not right now--they are probably already taking enough precautions as is. "There must be a unity, the bond of family--after all, all creatures of a species logically derive from their common ancestors, no? From what we gather, even inside your empires and nations there is a disunity, a distinction between 'us' and 'them' of different bloods. We are of the opinion that is unfortunately myopic--then again, perhaps history has been fortunate to us in that regard."

Fletcher notices the slight change in attitude, but decides there's no point in pressing any issues this early in their peoples' relationship. "Perhaps the mental communication helps unify your people. We have seen more species that have grown into specialization before, but they're not all so unified as you describe. I'm particuarly thinking of the Pan-norm, an insectoid species that recently arrived - well, within a few centuries, depending on your point of view, I've never really understood the way time gets so fluid in places. Until they encountered a Triumvirate exploration force, they had been infighting for millions of years. Very interesting people.

"'Grown into specialization?'" Green-Stone blinks slowly, then rolls her shoulders--before replacing it with the equivalent human gesture, a nod. "They must have had a great deal of time to do so. Interesting--I think our curiosity demands that we eventually meet them as well." She pauses long enough for an unintentionally-sly smile, then continues. "I must thank you again for your hospitality here--it is most unexpected, and most welcome. We look forward to learning more about your people and your culture from the inside."

"You're welcome, and we look forward to it as well," says Fletcher. At this point, following a rough plan laid out by his superiors, he decides to leg it and let the aliens get to their business. "I've had my subordinates demonstrate how all the technical system work. I managed to get you some limited access to the national data network, which should help you get a better grasp on anything you have questions on. For now, we'll leave you to settle in. I'm sure that there's a great deal that you have to do without my people and I in your way." He sends a signal over his implants to tell the workers to get ready to leave. Down in the loading dock, the Cetagandan loaders and their Worker companions had already finished unloading everything, and they were simply helping to shift some of the bulk items such as furniture around. They finish up whatever they happen to be doing and head back down to the vehicle to wait for the next assignment - a visit with the nice people over in Special Circumstances.

(OOC: Consider the network access to be basic internet stuff. Everything they can access is stuff that's publicly available outside the nation, including access to the internets of allied nations such as the public YutLink and those of a few other 'safe' nations that aren't considered biased against the Triumvirate. Its all being watched - and, if need, unobtrusively censored) by a couple of sentient EIs. Think CIA World Factbook stuff, various government things, Wikipedia, and commercial sites. There is NO data on any extra-Solar colonies, stations, and ships beyond the fact that they exist. Feel free to ask questions if you have any.)

Green-Stone bows her head in a respectful gesture. "Thank you. We will find it quite useful for sating our curiosity." Stepping out of the transport with her Warrior entourage, she politely excuses herself and enters her unfamiliar new home. The Warriors pitch in with the Workers at her direction, setting up the modular walls and systems as needed for the Technicians that will use them later. The time is also taken for a quiet bug sweep, but those few which actually are found are simply logged and left.

The Third-Daughter looks around with a quiet exhalation. The thought of always acting as if she is being watched does not bother her--it is, after all, second nature. When all is accomplished to her will, she settles back on the pile of cushions that serves as couch and begins searching through the databases the Cetagandans have allowed her access to. In particular, she looks at cultural information, much as any diplomat could be expected to. Customs, interpersonal relations, rules of courtesy and manners, and how different social strata relate to each other.

After doing this homework, she muses silently in her native language, then we will have to go out and see it in action.

"Cultural data. How boring," remarks a drab man in an office somewhere in the city. "They'll probably be going out and about at some point soon. We'll keep an eye on them just like we do the rest of the diplomatic staffs."

"We should probably have the CIED run a few public-awareness bulletins, make sure no one shoots them," says an equally unremarkable coworker.

"Most people won't even notice another addition to the menagerie."

"In any case, we'll also want to watch the expense account that was set up for them. The economic guys want to see what trade products might interest them.
---

In another part of the city, Fletcher is working with a group of interspecies diplomacy experts. "They seemed quite interested in meeting other species in addition to humans, and post-humans as well. I was thinking we might try some kind of ball or some such."

"Hmmm...no, not yet. We still don't have enough knowledge about the way they socialize," responds one of the experts. "Throwing them into the deep end and watching them sink or swim probably isn't the best way to go about it."

"They'll have get used to it eventually," points out the commander. "Maybe we could arrange a meeting with just a few people first?"

"Could work. Be easier to keep it a relatively controlled setting," concedes the expert.

"I mentioned the Territory to them by name. Would they work?"

While some in the room find the idea amusing or outright ridiculous, the senior diplomat gives it some thought. "They're a relatively known quantity, and Triumvirate members. We've always had good relations with them. It could work."

"As long as they don't try to rip out one of the Rayverr's heart - do they have hearts? - and eat it," snarks someone in the back.

"Whatever," says Fletcher, rolling his eyes. "Just tell me who to call."

===

{Secure YutLink Communications; m10 Security Protocols}
x Lt. Cmdr. Benjamin Gerald Fletcher (CO GCB Music With Rocks, Contact Division, Frontier Fleet, CSS, IUoCetaganda)
o Advisory Board (Territory Co-Prosperity Sphere)

As you may be aware, Cetaganda is currently playing host to a recently arrived extra-solar species called the Rayverr. During discussion with their ambassador, Green-Stone, it was reveled that they are the product of an extensive genetic engineering program. They also expressed interest in meeting similarly changed humans. While Cetagandan humans have some minor modifications, we are lacking any true post-human population. When the request was made, I immediately thought of your nations.

I would like to invite one or more representatives from the Co-Prosperity Sphere to meet with the Rayverr. I'm sure you can imagine, as we have, the possible profit that could come from friendship with a new alien race such as this, both in trade and new technology. While such things would, of course, be shared with the Triumvirate as a whole, I'm sure you can see the possible benefits of getting a head start on closer relations. Both of our peoples stand to benefit greatly if you agree.

I thank you for your time,

Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Gerald da'Jessek vor'Fletcher
Head of Rayverr Contact, CO GCB Music With Rocks
Frontier Fleet, Cetagandan Space Service, Imperial Union of Cetaganda

As time progresses, the embassy begins to operate on a rotation. Green-Stone stays inside, mostly, except when called out to official functions with Warrior entourage in tow; the rest of the 'staff' save the Workers slowly start to venture out in rotations, usually of one Warrior and two Technicians. They start by visiting nearby cultural attractions--theatres, music halls, and such things--and then work their way 'down' the cultural food chain: concerts, bars, even nightclubs. It doesn't seem to matter what the subject is, or whether it really even has anything to do with 'art.' The single unifying thread is that they are all social experiences.

While there, they are quite polite and uncannily good at talking themselves out of any difficulties which may arise with the locals. The Technicians probably get a reputation for being sly with a sharp wit; the Warriors are mostly quiet but very polite--even if any discussions turn violent because the other is a bit too intoxicated, it always ends with a carefully caught hand, squeezed just enough to make the other back down, not even breaking the skin with those sharp talons. Not to say that fights happen often; they probably happen a bit less often than the statistical average, but every time they do break out, the Rayverr always carry themselves expertly, almost as if they knew it was being recorded and they had to make a good impression.

Then again, that's the standard of life in the vesh.

The local population takes the newcomers in stride. Cetaganda had always had its fair share of oddities, especially in the capital. Really, it is generally reasoned, they aren't all that different than a Sakkran with a couple of extra limbs, and everyone knows how fun they can be. There are a few incidents in the rougher parts of town, but it's no more than usual and after a few weeks they die down. To say the City Guard are thrilled is an understatement - the Rayverr are less rowdy than most embassy staff, and no on in the Guard has forgotten the time a visiting Iraqstani dignitary served Lady Shovehl's prize giant poodle at a dinner (although rumor had it the lightly spiced critter had been quite tasty, and her husband had been secretly thrilled).

The people a friendly, although as time passes the lower class become noticably more so while the citizens remain much the same. That is not to say the citizens are unfriendly - far from it - but for some reason the majority of the population (a little less than three-quarters, as the capital has an especially high concentration of the citizenry compared to the fifth or so of the overall population they comprise) seem to grow to like the Rayverr more than most new arrivals at this stage. There are some marked differences in the kind of activities that the two groups tend to take their new friends along to or participate directly in. Group sporting events, mostly relatively simple physical activities) are popular among the serfs, particuarly soccer and an adapted form of the Sakkran sport Jugg (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Sakkra) (the main change being scalling the equipment to make it managable, for example the replacement of a Newt skull with a more manageable skull of a smallish dragon). Amature leagues are widespread, and plans for intergrating Rayverr into the already multi-species rules are quickly set in motion. The citizenry, on the other hand, tend to focus on more intellectual pursuits, often with a slightly martial bent. Competitive fencing and marksmanship clubs abound, and mock combat organizations range from historical groups along the lines of the SCA to mock aerial dogfighting using every form of aricraft imaginable. While these are often observed by the serfs, and are quite popular (and, if you can bet on the right people, profitable), they rarely participate themselves.

Relations between the castes are quite amiable. The serfs are well aware of the sacrifices made by the citizens to protect them; the citizens are taught from an early age who it is the feed them, work in their factories, and provide their services. Most serfs wouldn't be caught dead in a fighter or power suit, and would hide under the bed if you tried to shove them in an conference room to negotiate a trade agreement; citizens admit they'd be bored out of their skulls without the problems they deal with and would feel guilty if they weren't fulfilling their civic duties. Both groups seem completely comfortable with the system - not terribly surprising, given that it is possible to move between them, even if it rarely happens these days. A survey of population data might turn up this notable fact: citizens, despite their lower numbers, have a higher birth rate per family. This is offset by a much higher fatality rate from military action, other dangerous leadership positions such as international aid work, and a tendency to get themselves killed while helping others when disaster strikes.

In terms of education, both groups have a strong general background. Citizens simply tend to go much more in-depth after their primary education (a universal system for all children under seventeen) in a variety of subjects, not just ones related to their specialty. Health care is quite good (again with Compact-mandated universal coverage under seventeen), with most districts have comprehensive medical system. Citizens generally can afford better non-essential treatments, but critical care is free in almost all areas.

One interesting fact is that all but a tiny minority of the residents seem to have some sort of implant just behind their left ear. It seems to be some kind of wireless computer interface. Most serfs seem to use it mainly for entertainment and information-gathering purposes, or for controlling utilities, vehicles, and such. How they work is not readily apparent, as the serfs don't tend to know such things and the citizens get closed-mouthed when asked and change the subject, especially when the citizens' implants' full capabilities are in question. It seems all children recieve them at an early age, except a few who do not for religious reasons.

On a final note, there are a number of people who look human who seem a bit odd. Some have a distinctly animalish smell, and there's a few seen at night that smell very much as if they're dead. It would be interesting to note the correlation between the full moons in the sky or back of Terra and some strange activity in the local woodlands. A large flying lizard is spotted on one occasion at the palace, and if they venture into the parks at night, odd giggling or singing might be heard and motion spotted out of the corner of the eye, but never seen directly. Locals caution against visiting certain sites at night, only saying that it tends to lead to poor health. It's all a bit odd.

All this is dutifully reported back up the line through the Rayverr's silent communications methods, usually when there is no one in the immediate vicinity--most often when walking back, or visiting a park. Oddly enough, they tend to avoid doing so in the embassy, probably because that is the most likely place they will be observed from. As time progresses, the polite Rayverr seem to allow themselves (or are perhaps allowed) less formal contact with the natives; the Warriors and Engineers occasionally join into the rewritten forms of Jugg when they are invited, quickly engineering leather gloves or mitts with thick fingertips and leather brassards to prevent any accidents from the Warriors' built-in sharp edges. They are always excellent sportsmen if not sticklers for the rules.

After safety is almost completely ensured and the locals seem most comfortable with the Rayverr, the Third-Daughter starts going out to meet this new culture face to face. All the Rayverr have a sort of quiet magnetic charisma about them; one could call it a racial trait. The serfs and peasants would find it far more noticable than the citizens, but everyone would find it directly proportional to the penotype's mass and intelligence, duly magnified in a Queen like Green-Stone. It makes up for her admitted sense of self-superiority, which, while always quiet, is always there; the old sense of nobility taken to heart. If called on it, she apologizes, claiming it as a product of her culture.

The message's path is a fairly simple one; artificial intelligences begin to read between the lines, then plunder organic ones for specialist knowledge. So the message propagates to Copperbelt and Rhea, but not to Io just now. Several copies are made by other intelligences, one of those affiliated with the Absolute Light science/industry commune.

Copperbelt is wary, but consensus is that new is good. And there is no reason to assume anything but the best intentions out of Cetaganda.

Rhea is enthusiastically paranoid, gleefully assuming all sorts of nefarious Cetagandan plans. And so, the Sphere must oblige.

A model of Io is present. Its response can be abstracted as "More hearts for God!". A risk analysis indicates that it was best to exclude Io, for there is a risk the Burning Mountain folk might want to become involved.

The Commune, watching over the shoulder of a Science-inclined junior Advisor, disagrees, and keeps its own counsel. It does however suggest to her that the Commune has a legitimate interest in the matter.

{Secure Comms, Multiple-Path xor}
x Johanna Ntsondo (TAB Member, TCPS)
o Lt. Cmdr. Benjamin Gerald Fletcher (CO GCB Music With Rocks, Contact Division, Frontier Fleet, CSS, IUoCetaganda)

Lieutenant Commander,

After some deliberation, the Board agrees with your proposal. I am presently at Mercury, and am looking forward to represent the Territory; the Board argued that this was appropriate. I will be travelling on board the Commune Ship Suncore Express, which insists that the consensus of its intelligences should be present. We will be picking up Guards Commando Michel Liberté at Rhea, to represent the Black; the Black will provide a support presence whereever it is you wish the meeting to take place.

At this time, there will be no presence from Burning Mountain. This may be unfortunate as Burning Mountain does represent a further degree of biological specialization. However, the Board's consensus was that such contact before friendly relations between the Sphere and the Rayverr are established would carry unacceptable risk. No disrespect is intended.

I remain at your disposal,

Johanna Ntsondo

<Communications protocols attached>

The ship's brains flow out through a tube, literally, computronium breaking down to an easily transported state. Several organic brains leave. Some others arrive, cushioned in travel chassis, and several liters of information storage. In the hold is Johanna Ntsondo, cradled in diamond, communing with the ship in a manner that would worry some.

The ship withdraws from the mooring spikes that impale it, the loading hoses withdraw. Mirrorfield flickers, letting the milky ellipsoid hull underneath be seen. Fields shape its external reactor, space complies with technology, and the Suncore Express is off, trailing a vicious spray of gamma.

"WOOHOO!" Fletcher glances around his office selfconciously and sits back down in his chair and straightens his uniform a bit. He wasn't sure if he had jumped up and shouted because Ntsondo and her group were coming, or if it was because they were leaving certain relatives behind. In any case, he decides, he needs to get to the job of setting up a meeting with the Rayverr and making preparations for the new arrivals.


{Secure YutLink Communications; m10 Security Protocols}
x Lt. Cmdr. Benjamin Gerald Fletcher (CO GCB Music With Rocks, ect, ect)
o Johanna Ntsondo (TAB Member, TCPS)

Thank you for agreeing to my proposal. I've appended a summary of what we know so far about these Rayverr, so that you and your fellows can be prepared. Please feel free to contact my staff with any questions or special needs you have.

With thanks,

Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Gerald da'Jessek vor'Fletcher
Head of Rayverr Contact, CO GCB Music With Rocks
Frontier Fleet, Cetagandan Space Service, Imperial Union of Cetaganda

(Appended is a summary of known Rayverr culture and what they've been up to since arrival. There's also a brief analysis of what little is known of their technology.)

{Cetagandan Internal Comms Network; Standard Diplomatic Security}
x Lt. Cmdr. Benjamin Gerald Fletcher (CO GCB Music With Rocks, ect, ect)
o Green-Stone

Lady Green-Stone,

I have recently managed to make arrangements to follow up on my offer to help you meet altered post-humans. Several representatives from the Territory Co-Prosperity Sphere, one of Cetaganda's allies, will be arriving in $NUMBER days. I would appreciate it if you would inform my staff and I when it would be possible to schedule this meeting, assuming you still wish to have one.

Humbly,

Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Gerald da'Jessek vor'Fletcher
Head of Rayverr Contact, CO GCB Music With Rocks
Frontier Fleet, Cetagandan Space Service, Imperial Union of Cetaganda

Green-Stone rolls her shoulders to herself as she looks over the message sent her by the good Lieutenant Commander. All is working out quite well with these new neighbors, quite well indeed. Taking up a scribe-board with one hand, she begins to write in scratching, slash-like masfie with one hard, yellowed, smallish claw.

{Cetagandan Internal Comms Network; Standard Diplomatic Security}
x Third-Daughter Green-Stone (ambassador, vesh pij verr)
o Lt. Cmdr. Benjamin Gerald Fletcher (CO GCB Music With Rocks, ect, ect)

Lieutenant Commander Fletcher,

I still look enthusiastically forward to this meeting you have arranged. I have no set plans for that day--or, indeed, that week--as there appears to be no conflicts with other events, such as the cultural expositions your diplomatic corps set up from time to time. I gladly anticipate having this meeting at the earliest convenience of both you and your friends from the Co-Prosperity Sphere.

Thidgahv-Soksot Lok'e'terr-Lixvox
Third-Daughter Green-Stone

Third planet

The Rayverr landing party quickly snap into action, quickly grabbing fistfuls of soil, ground cover, samples from any nearby plants of every different kind and stuffing them into plastic bags. Samples of bark and leaves from trees; heads of flowers; seed-cones of conifers; whatever is avaiable is picked up, tossed into a bag, and quickly relayed back into the lighter. Any animals, no matter how insignificant, are treated the same way; insects are snatched up by the handful and small mammals chased back to their burrows, the burly blue-armored Warriors sticking their plated arms in after them, extracting them gently with their claws. These larger animals are put into clear plastic cages, seemingly self-contained, and are then passed on into the lighter.

Mark Silverclaw was taking his youngest son hunting when the Rayverr arrived. Hearing the commotion, the two cautiously approached through the treetops, doing their best to stay hidden. The first glimpse of the intruders was a great surprise to them both, but Mark did not pause to wonder what was happening.

"Quick! Tell the others what we saw. I'll try to find out who they are and what they want, but we must make sure the government is alerted. This could be important. Be careful!"

The youngster, little more than a kitten, raced off silently through the branches. A moment later, Mark shimmered and changed. A gray clad figure, basically humanoid but with pointed ears, slit-pupiled eyes, a furry tail, and a few other feline characteristics, sat on the thick branch where the gray cat had been standing. A loaded hunting crossbow was in his hands, but he did not point it at Rayverr.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you seek here?"

OOC: I'm assuming that the two cats, who are small, and high in a tree at the fringe of Rayverr activity, wouldn't have been noticed immediately. Their reaction takes only a moment after they first see the intruders. Of course, they don't know that the Rayverr are from another world; strange beings are far from unheard of in Magi Maru.

I'm using the dark green to represent Magir, the native language of the Maruvians. I'd consider actually designing the language, but I have no idea how I might type a feline tongue...

Quite some time ago...

The Warriors instantly snap to, shifting for their various weapons, blackened rifles with muzzles distinctively shaped like a closed flower bulb with four egg-shaped blisters around an apeture. Some get their weapons raised, then lower them when they see the creature is not an immediate threat. They stand there, simply watching the felinid watch them.

This, of course, belies the real interaction going on silently between them. (Private-Enlisted #1) Warriors! Contact!

(Private-Enlisted #2) Motion! Motion! This one tracks a blur he catches through his Jacobsen's organ, a blur of heat leaping through the trees that he loses as soon as he catches it. Lost it.

(Sergeant-Enlisted) Calm... As he says it, he thinks it and he does it, his squadron quickly following suit. Ventilating tool-users goes against his orders. Contact, in that tree. Tool user?

A quick affirmation from elsewhere in the squad; the sergeant rolls his shoulders as he straightens up from his low, solid combat stance, holding his rifle easily down just over his central leg, muzzle to the ground. (Sergeant-Enlisted) Chief-Enlisted, contact made. Advise.

The voice replying inside his head comes from hundreds of kilometers away--mostly straight up. (Chief-Enlisted) Follow directives. Attempt to indicate; do not threaten.

The sergeant looks over his squad with their weapons at varying positions of almost-ready with an unreadable expression on his inhuman face, lower eyelids a little high. (Sarge) Understood.

Looking back up at the creature, he thinks for a moment, then speaks carefully in the sibilant tongue of his people, first words to actually be spoken aloud by any of the Rayverr throughout all of this. "Ch'gaskol... rrr... Gastivil?" He looks around again momentarily. "Vasti changjonlo pij vesh pij verr, kol... kol..." Another pause while the soldier collects his thoughts--by the clear firmness of his voice, he's probably not scared; this is simply not his area of expertise. "rafie, miff'fie pij... kai pij gerr."

At first, Mark had been alarmed by the Rayverr group, though he had been careful to remain calm. Now, as it became clear that the intruders were not going to attack him immediately, curiosity began to take hold of him.

Clearly they do not know English... he though. I've never heard anything like that before. Perhaps it's some Eastern European language, or Oriental? Perhaps they aren't even from Earth! It's certainly not likely they'll understand Spanish, but I might as well try. If that doesn't work, it's down to drawing pictures...

Slowly removing the bolt from the crossbow and hanging the weapon across his back, Mark asked "?Habla usted español?"

OOC: Most Maruvians are tri-lingual, speaking English, Magir, and a third language of their choice.

This being slightly before Music With Rocks' successful contact with the Rayverr, the tripedal pseudoreptiles still lack a grasp on English. They do understand the obvious gesture of making a weapon unable to operate and stowing it. Without even a look from their sergeant, the squad complies; they re-engage safeties on their weapons and sling them over their shoulders, muzzles down towards the ground.

The one clearly in charge of the group steps forward, looking up at Mark, while the others slowly return to their duties, mostly closing whatever bags are open and only keeping one eye on the situation. The sergeant makes a soft ululating hissing noise, then continues in his own language, starting on the basics. "Chasti Chiki'cakjon." He puts his broad, bluish fist on the metal plate covering his chest, taloned finger pointing at him. "Cherr. Chiki'cakjon." Lowering his hand, he continues. "Gastivil?" He points the same yellowed talon at Mark. "Gerr..." He tilts his hand slightly, opening his fingers as if to accept something handed to him.

This seems like an introduction. Mark thought. It's telling me its name, and asking mine.

"I am called Mark Silverclaw." he said, placing his hand against his chest. "Chasti Mark Silverclaw?" He spoke somewhat hesitantly, but pronounced the unfamiliar word as well as could be expected from one in his position.
Pointing at the sergeant, he continued, "You are called Chiki'cakjon?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, Mark's son arrived at the family's home. He shifted into humanoid form and burst through the front door, shouting.
"Mother! We found some giant lizard-people in the forest!"

Lura, Mark's wife, strode over. "Giant lizard-people? What happened?

Her concern grew as the youngster related what he had seen, and she rushed to the family radio as soon as he was finished. Setting the transmitter to the official "emergency report" frequency, she said, "This is Lura Owleye reporting a force of intruders. The exact identity of the group is unknown; it seems to be composed of lizard-like beings, with three arms and three legs. The intentions of this force are also unknown..."

OOC: If the Rayverr are monitoring transmissions in the area, they might notice that; there isn't a great deal of radio communication in the region, especially on the emergency report frequency.

The sergeant rolls his shoulders slowly; this is progress of a sort. "Urld, chasti Chiki'cakjon. Rrr..." Looking around, he thinks carefully. Abstract concepts such as the vesh pij verr and its mission here are difficult to convey in basic hand gestures, as are complex questions such as "where do you live?" and "how did you sneak up on us?" After pondering this for a moment, he decides that the former seems more feasible. Still... (Sarge) Calling up to the Chief-Enlisted. We have at least exchanged names; this one calls himself "marrk silverklaa." Should I try to find out where he lives and contact a larger group of natives?

The response comes down from upon high. (Chief) Stand by... yes. The more people you meet, the more we can direct to our Gift. Also, it will give your troopers the ability to finish their work without distraction. Do it.

Rolling his shoulders again, the Warrior looks up at the felinid. "Chaswiffvil i'dek tik? Rrrr..." He points to himself. "Cherr." He points to the other warriors. "E'terrlo listasti e'chas cherr. Listasti tik," he emphasizes the last word, pointing at the ground. Crouching down, he quickly draws a vaguely humanoid stick figure in the dirt with one claw, then points to it before pointing back at Mark. "Gerr." Soon, a large number of other stick figures separate from the first appear in the ground, thanks to the sergeant's deft claws. "E'terr listasti e'chass gerr. Listasti'iv tik." He taps the ground again, this time nearer his feet and the first stick figure. "Listasti i'tik." He taps the ground in the middle of the group, then stands up slowly, pointing in no particular direction as he indicates almost the entire forest with an expansive gesture of all three arms. "Listasti i'tik... tikvil?"

------===------

The radio transmission doesn't go unnoticed, but it is left unharmed. Jamming it would generate far more noise and would not do anything to keep the situation quiet. All that can be done is to watch discreetly from far above.

Plans are made, quarters in the embassyquarter are appropriated, and the usual hustle and bustle associated with preparing for a diplomatic visit occurs. An escort waits at the local spaceport (in a sector reserved for Triumvirate diplomatic and military vessels) to bring the Territorials to meet with their hosts for introductions on that side, along with a last-minute question and answer session.

Meanwhile, in the rest of the city, some of the inhabitants were noticing strange things occuring. Psions, and telepaths in particular, were reporting odd feeling It was as if they were hearing occaisional whispers of mas'fie from the crowds around them, even when there were no Rayverr in sight; a few people with foresight or similar gifts were seeing what they called, 'dark signs.' Lycanthropes reported subtle changes in smells around the city, the faeries were twitchy, and the dragons had passed some decidedly cryptic comments through their rider intermediaries. More troubling, a few similar reports had come in from other cities, some entire Sectors away. There was, as yet no indication of any malice, or even if it was deliberate - but lack of information simply meant that (in private) those responsible for being professionally paranoid were being even more paranoid than usual.

As the sergeant spoke again, Mark smiled, relieved. He thought, So ‘urld’ means yes, then…
That was the simple part; the other’s speech swiftly grew more complicated. He listened carefully to the alien words, matching them as best he could to the gestures and images.
Picture time, now. I’d better get down there. Hopefully they won’t be alarmed when I approach.

“I climb down.” As he spoke, Mark pointed at himself, moved his hands in a brief series of vertical motions that were the best representation he could think of for climbing, and finally pointed to the ground. Then he buried his claws in the tree bark and lowered himself down, carefully avoiding sudden movements. Once at ground level, he paused for a moment to puzzle over what he had heard.

‘Cherr’ seems to mean ‘me’ and ‘gerr’, ‘you’. ‘E'terrlo listasti e'chas cherr’ seems to refer to ‘my people’ or ‘my companions’, but ‘listasti’ is separate… something associated with ‘tik’. Perhaps the phrases are ‘e’chas’ cherr’ and ‘e’chass gerr’ are ‘my people’ and ‘your people’… but what does ‘listasti’ mean? ‘Tik’… ‘Ground’? ‘Picture’? ‘Here’? That could make sense, and ‘listasi’ refers to the location of an item. ‘E'terrlo listasti e'chas cherr. Listasti tik.’ – ‘Where are my people? They are here.’ So that means… it’s asking me where my people are?

“Gerr, e’chas gerr, cherr, e’chas cherr?” Mark pointed to the sergeant, then to his soldiers, then to himself, then to the figures. He sought two things with his question: confirmation of his translation... and a bit more time to consider his next move.

Earlier, on Earth

The sergeant clucks his tongue and rolls his shoulder, looking up at Mark. Now we are getting somewhere! "Urld. Cherr," he points to himself, "e'chas cherr," to his soldiers, "gerr," to Mark, "e'chas gerr," to the quick scribbles on the ground.

Even if speech and body language differ, hesitation is universal. The leader of the Rayverr party thinks for a moment, then unslings his rifle and hands it off to another Warrior who steps up without any visible order or signal. The Rayverr is still armed, of course--by benefit of his claws and teeth if nothing else, but he also has a mean jagged dagger at his side--but far less offensively so. "Listerr," he says, indicating the other armored Warriors, "listasi'soov tik." He taps the ground again, every gesticulation melding into the next like a dance instead of ad lib communication. "Chassoov laz gerr."

Good, I got that part right. Now... he's offering to come alone? Quite a show of good faith! Besides... if these people are dangerous, refusing to reveal our locations won't slow them down much.
It's too far to town; I'll have to take him home.

"E'chas cherr... listasti i'tik." he said, pointing into the woods. Then, "Come." He swept his arm in a beckoning gesture and walked several steps in that direction, then glanced back to see if the sergeant was following.

The sergeant watches Mark's motions, then rolls his shoulders, following along at a respectful distance and pace. Without word or gesture the rest of the squad remains behind, returning to a more quiet pacing of its previous sample-collecting tasks.

(Private-Enlisted) Orders, Warrior?

(Sarge) Maintain a watch perimeter, six Warriors. Five more Warriors are to continue with primary mission. If we are not being observed, two fire teams of two wait, then follow my trail to left flank and right flank. Avoid all contact and do not look like you are following, just exploring.

The fifteen-strong squad naturally breaks up as directed, again with no seeming signal or obvious communication--still, they move as a coordinated unit. Six Rayverr form a defensive perimeter around the lighter in a hexagon with sides ten meters long, crouching down as their normally blue tones begin shifting to blend better with the foliage around them... nowhere near chameleon quality, still being far too blue, but also no longer being intensely obvious. Four more Warriors break up into teams of two, both advancing one behind the other with similar natural camouflage as they wait beside the lighter, adding to the perimeter for now. The rest retain the naturally blue color of their cobalt-rich dense carapaces, collecting plant and soil samples.

"Ah... E’chas’ cherr chasti Maruvians. Gastivil e’chass gerr?"

My grammar is probably horrible, but hopefully he'll understand what I'm trying to say.

OOC: How likely would Mark be to hear the soldiers following them? He has pretty good hearing, of course.

The sergeant listens to Mark's attempt to speak his language, eyes widening a bit as his teeth tap together as he follows... then slitting his eyes, face tightening in a way that would be considered angry if the Warrior were a human instead of a hulking blue-tinted reptilian thing. "Gasti mah-ruh-vee-ahyn-sss, vasti rayverr." When saying 'Maruvians,' the Warrior's wide palate makes itself known by automatically elongating and softening somewhat the vowels, and it seems like he is consciously speaking more slowly than he's used to, enunciating. The natural pattern of his language is probably something closer to the rapid staccato found in southeast Asia, or perhaps in certain Romance languages where speaking quickly is the norm.

Behind them, just before their heat signatures begin to fade away into the brush, the four Warriors previously ordered to shadow finally begin to, stalking away to the sides before following along. They do have to make a bit of noise, keeping up, but they pace themselves to step at less-regular intervals, crouching low on their three legs to lower their visual signature further.

OOC:

Given that they are tripodal, they would probably make a distinctive noise that a) he would notice instantly or b) not recognize and so subconsciously discount as jungle noise. Still, they will not be following too closely because they are tracking by IR (Jacobsen's organs) but anyone relatively close should be able to hear them, at least. I trust your best judgment.

Also, sorry for posting sporadically--my schedule (as you can see) is pretty odd. I will make a better attempt to keep up.

"Vasti Maruvians, gasti rayverr. Thank you."

Behind them, Mark heard occaisonal sounds that did not fit in with the standard background noise of the area. They were faint, but sounded much like the unusual footsteps of Chiki'cakjon.

So, perhaps it is standard procedure for one of them to follow in a situation like this. I certainly can't blame him if that's the case; for all he knows, I'm leading him into an ambush.

The meeting had taken place fairly close to Mark's home, and it would not be much longer before they arrived.

OOC: Sorry about the delay; I couldn't log on over spring break.

Knowing that he is being followed by support if he needs it, Chiki'chakjon takes the time to observe the forest, more carefully examine Mark and the other strange flora and fauna with one eye while the other scans, looking for motion or anything unexpected. Other than healthy paranoia, he is actually quite happy with how well the mission has gone so far. He was not supposed to make contact, but he managed to do so peacefully and was lucky enough to find someone bright enough to communicate with even if their languages were far removed from each other.

Behind, not knowing that they have been detected, the other Warriors continue to advance, taking more care to watch the jungle for people who could see them, to map the place out in their minds.

Finally they arrived at Mark's home, a large three-story house of simple construction. The most noteworthy detail was the variety of small balconies and rough-cut columns that covered the walls, contrasting with the plain style of the rest of the building. By far the most technological-looking object in sight was the four-wheeled vehicle parked near a dirt road that led to the house.

As they stepped into the clearing that surrounded the structure, Mark called out in Magir to his family.
"We have a visitor! I want at least half a dozen out here, including children so he knows we are trying to keep the situation peaceful. Everyone needs to be half-shifted; I don't want to give away anything we don't have to untill we know more about the intentions of these people. Lura, you'd best stay near the readio in case there's trouble. Uncle Ivon, I think they might be able to Mind-Speak; it's certainly worth trying. Also, someone bring me a pad of paper and a pencil."

Immediately Maruvians began emerging from the building. The first was a child carrying paper and pencil; Mark took the supplies and began sketching out a rough map. Meanwhile, one of the older Maruvians, who's black hair had a scattering of white, began concentrating on Chiki'chakjon. He projected a message, not in words, but simply a feeling of questioning:
-Can you hear me?-

OOC: Sorry about the delay there. I've been busy with a number of little things, mostly school related.
Somewhere between 1/5 and 1/7 of the Maruvians are Mind-speakers. They can communicate mentally with other Mind-speakers, and some other varieties of telepath, but not with anyone who does not possess similar abilities. The choice is yours, of course, as to if the communication of the Rayverr is close enough. This can't substitute completely for learning the language, but it can make it a bit easier to communicate.

Chiki'chakjon looks around, receiving quiet assurance from the trailing Private-Enlisteds of his squad that they are in position and quietly observing. Reminding them to only observe, he examines the unusual structures and people surrounding him... before hearing a voice in his head similar to the Gift yet speaking in foreign (but not alien) concepts. Recovering from the instant spasm of surprise this elicits, he remembers his briefing--previous contact indicated others capable of mind-speech as well.

Thinking for a moment, he follows the questioning lead.

() Chasti Chiki'chakjon. As he projects this, he adds a mental image of himself with the universal symbol of the Denoting Claw towards himself. Chaskol laz Mahrk. Mental image of Mark and an imaginary view of him walking with the blue-plated Warrior.

Otherwise, he watches as Mark organizes the others and gets what he needs, simply trying to look non-threatening... or as non-threatening as he possibly can.

(OOC: Well, seeing as how this part has stalled a bit, I'm just going to shove along to the next stage in my grand plan. The stuff with the Territory can still happen through fluid time.

Mysterious Raiders Go To A Party (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=422827))

-Chasti Ivon-
This was accompanied by an image of the older Maruvian.

"Why did you come here?" was, of course, Ivon's foremost concern - but it is also a dificult concept to formulate. While he thought about how to put it into pictures and feelings, he made an attempt at the simpler "Where did you come from?"

The image started with a picture of the house, with Mark and Chiki'chakjon standing to one side. It moved a short distance in the direction from which they had clearly arrived, and then the field of view expanded, showing an overhead view of the area. Again, the sense of questioning.

By this time, Mark had almost finished his rough map. The others watched their unusual visitor with much curiosity and some nervousness, but no evidence of fear.

OOC: I'll try to get the map posted...

Under express directives not to give away too much, Sergeant thinks momentarily to himself on how to respond. He idly taps his sharp teeth together, while his taloned fingers perform a similar quietly percussive dance. After a few moments, he pulls out a memory and projects an image of one of the tropical rainforests on Sh'kai which essentially makes up the natural primary habitat of the Rayverr. Equivalent circumstances leads to vaguely equivalent evolution, so the trees: long, with broad leaves and hard knobbly coconut-like fruit along the high-slung branches. The ground cover looks like some sort of moss or lichen, a hardy plant-fungus hybrid that feeds off the moisture from the undersides of the plants above and the minerals pushed out by the roots below; some of the smaller bushes look like crosses between brambles and weeping willows with broader palm-like leaves. Beyond the treeline, the vaguely dome-shaped structures of a city wiggle slightly in the haze.

The image offers no sense of position relative to where he and Mark currently stand. It is true, he is from there; it is also true that in being a lowly sergeant Chiki'chakjon really doesn't have any idea where he is relative to here. Looking at Mark, his yellow eyes widen slightly.

Finishing the map (s3.invisionfree.com/The_Rodent_Alliance/index.php?act=Attach&type=post&id=8213855), Mark handed it to his visitor.

Of course, Chiki'chakjon's careful omission did not go unnoticed, and it was somewhat worrisome, but Ivon did not comment on it. He had thought of a possible visualization of "Why did you come here?"

After giving Chiki'chakjon a moment to look over the map, he projected it.
An image of a Maruvian driving the car off down the nearby road, then returning with a box of groceries, followed by an image of the groceries alone. An image of Mark heading out into the woods with his crossbow and returning with a couple of rabbits, followed by an image of the roasted meat. An image of Ivon heading down the road with a handfull of letters and returning without them, followed by an image of him placing them in a mailbox. Finally, an image of the Sergeant walking through thte forest near the house, followed by the familiar sense of questioning.

Hopefully, this would be clear enough to get the intended meaning across. Ivon wasn't used to having to communicate purely by image and feeling; in this out of the way location, he rarely encountered anyone from outside of Magi Maru.

Now on this one, he can be completely honest.

Chiki'chakjon conjures up an image of him and his squad of blue-plated, metal-wearing, helmeted Warriors capturing little animals and taking plant samples in the woods, followed by diagrams of these animals and plants, dutifully labeled. He also presents images of creatures sharing his basic configuration--three arms, three legs, head--but skinny and yellow looking over these things inside glass boxes and taking notes. One of the yellow Technicians opens a box and pokes the squirrel inside with a long thin plastic stick; the squirrel hops around and the other Technicians make exaggerated writing motions on their tablets.

The sergeant really doesn't know much about biology research, but he hopes that gets the basic point across. Continuing, he imagines his squad again, walking down an idealized forest path--practically a dirt road inbetween lines of trees--into the local village. He pauses momentarily to widen his eyes slightly, his muscular body showing the vaguest signs of an attempt to mimic a shrug. Once the Warriors reach the village, they talk to the locals--Chiki'chakjon simply imagines the current scene from an objective perspective--and after a while the locals start showing exaggerated expressions of happiness, drawn from the context and subtleties of the psychic communication between him and Ivon. Then the Warriors start clucking their tongues, and finally everyone looks blissfully, cartoonishly happy.

All of the subtext to this telepathic communication suggests fervent belief. In the sergeant's quiet, polite zeal to get the message across, the imagery in the latter portion approaches parodical extremes of everyone being happy, or at least it would be approaching parody if he had a conceivable motive for it.