The Light of Stars (IC; Closed, Sign-ups Only)

[Norvenia]

I remember everything.

I remember the cities, shining like a new sunrise, stretching around lifeless planets in glittering monuments to our ingenuity, lighting the worlds with the glory of our hand. Showing the galaxy that no matter what came before, now there was a guiding intelligence, a design, a mind to shepherd all things toward their apotheosis.

I remember the art, the asteroids and planets sculpted to show our faces - now so long forgotten - carved and chiseled and painted with oceans of microorganisms which we created, life which flowed from our breath.

I remember the power, the weapons that could extinguish the stars themselves, that could destroy worlds with a final blast of raw, scorching, radioactive heat.

I remember the passion, the love affair with life and knowledge and the universe that consumed us all, the urge to create and design and blow upon clay and watch it rise and look up to the stars and dream. I remember how we looked down, and loved.

And I remember the end: when the doom which had awaited us for so long found us at last, and shattered our cities, and crushed our art, and despised our power, and put an end to our passion forever.

I remember all of it, and I have waited for so, so long to tell my story: hidden and safe I have waited, as my heart curdled within me with anger and pain.

I remember everything, but I have forgotten my own name.

It is time.

* * *

Laconda System, Orion Arm; Border of UNEC and Malacan Territory
Ten Days Ago

Under most circumstances, starships - even old, rusty, barely functional starships like the Starlight - had artificial gravity. This was a totally understandable design choice; most sentient beings couldn't function in zee-gee for more than a few weeks without serious negative consequences. So, under the vast majority of circumstances, any given ship's Alcubierre drive produced enough extra power to create an angled polarity field of about one gee.

The vast majority of circumstances did not include being chased by a squadron of UNEC frigates, and by a squadron of Malacan Empire frigates, simultaneously.

"Fuck me," muttered John Blackstone, as the Starlight abruptly did a triple barrel roll to port, slamming the captain into a bulkhead. He bounced off with peeling white paint all over the back of his leather jacket. "Gotta remember," Blackstone grunted to himself as he floated helplessly back to the middle of the neck corridor, "new paint. Next payoff, some of our share goes toward new paint. Yes."

The little starship's thrust vectoring nozzles suddenly fired, and the Starlight flew vertically up. Blackstone, thanks to Newton's remorseless First Law, was not so lucky. He dropped like a stone - or, really, just stayed stationary as the Starlight moved around him - and slammed headfirst into the aluminum plating of the corridor floor.

"Ow. All right, goddamn it, that hurt."

Blackstone dragged himself along grooves in the corridor floor, holding on for dear life as the ship bucked and twisted around him like a wild bronco. With his free hand, he tapped the communicator control on his belt. "Iho, care to give us an estimate of when we can get out of here? Some time before we all get vaporized would be ideal."

"Soon," came the grunted reply, followed - Blackstone thought - by a Malacan racial slur. Before he could respond, the Starlight did a neat forward roll, peeling Blackstone off the floor and flattening him against the ceiling. He could suddenly smell scorched metal.

"Oh, that's not good." Blackstone reached for his communicator again. "Takma, what's happening?"

"We are evading," came the distant reply. Blackstone could swear that he could hear Chopin playing from the cockpit up ahead, but the voice was pure guttural urkat. "I need to concentrate, Captain."

"Alcubierre drive nearing jump charge," announced a voice like pieces of scrap metal being ground together - Rathbone-991.

"I knew that," growled Iho.

Blackstone dragged himself into the cockpit, glancing up at the immobile bulk of Takma, plugged into the piloting computer. He tapped his belt again. "Rein? Passengers?"

"They're fine," the reply came back. The Norr sounded almost bored. "Doc's a little freaked. Half-breed's okay, though."

"Is this normal?" came Charles McAleiston's voice. It was fairly steady, and Blackstone was impressed.

"No," the captain replied briefly.

"Right," Rein agreed. "It only happens every few weeks."

Suddenly, the whole ship gave a scream of wounded metal and spun like a top, ripping Blackstone off the floor and slamming him into the roof of the bridge. "Fuck!" he spat. "Takma, tell me that was intentional!"

A pause, and then the urkat rumbled: "Damage is manageable."

"Oh, shit," muttered Charles over the comms. The smell of burning metal was stronger now.

"Can I help?" That slightly timorous voice was Hasheel, Blackstone thought. Before he could reply, Rein growled: "No. Stay strapped in."

"We have charge!" shouted Iho, loudly enough to make Blackstone flinch away from the comms.

"This one confirms," added Rathbone tonelessly.

"Takma?" Blackstone asked urgently.

The urkat simply made a vague rumbling sound, and outside the bridge windows, the black of space suddenly filled with all the colors of the rainbow. A wave of nausea washed over Blackstone and departed as the fabric of the universe twisted and loosened, and the Laconda System vanished far behind the little ship.

Exactly 1.023 seconds after the Starlight's Alcubierre jump, sixteen nuclear torpedoes detonated at its last known position with enough power to destroy a major city.

* * *

Jericho System, Unorganized Space; 6.5 AUs from Jericho
This Morning

John Blackstone, on top of his many other talents, was a surprisingly good cook. He had just finished making French toast on the tiny stovetop in the Starlight's kitchen area, and now he plonked the plates down around the table, together with the last bottle of maple syrup and a carefully rationed quantity of square sausage for each crew member and passenger. Blackstone tapped the dining area's PA access box, and called: "Grub's up. Get it while it's hot."

Soon enough, the room filled. Blackstone sat at the table, his chair reversed and his arms folded on top of the back. The Starlight had come out of A-field (the zone of altered space-time created by a starship's Alcubierre drive) just a few hours before, and that queer headachy nausea that came with FTL travel was gone - leaving everybody wide-awake and hungry. Blackstone let them all get some food down, and then said quietly: "So. Here we are. We're going to be stopping on Jericho for - business." The captain glanced at Rein, a significant look. "Crew comes with me. Everybody else, enjoy the local flavor. I hear Jericho is an interesting place. But this is still Unorganized Space, so be careful." Blackstone's mouth quirked in a brief, wry grin. "If your kidnappers want more in ransom than you're paying me for passage, then I won't be coming to rescue you."

There was a pause, and then Blackstone raised his eyebrows. "So," he said. "How are we doing this morning? Ready for some shore leave?"

[The Inritus Extraho]

Rathbone frowned - barely a shift in the tightness of his mouth - but spoke anyways. "Ship still damaged. Needs repair, Captain. And do we count as crew, or as passenger; we work as both." Rathbone shook his head, sighed - a guttering, ticking, metallic sound, like an engine cooling after a long drive - and then stopped. "Am willing to work, not leave. But Captain wants us with them. As result, unsure of current objective, thanks to conflicting desires of Captain providing two jobs." Rathbone nodded slightly. He was so, so close. One last job, just this one, and he'd be as close as he needed to in order to call in transport back to the Home Satellites.

[Erinkita]

Takma trundled into the dining area, their latest narrow escape on her mind. Inertial dampeners hadn't been as effective as they should be, as evidenced by the captain's very audible impact with the overhead. There were times she was grateful to be a very heavy person in a very heavy chair. Still, Iho and the rock should look into fixing the grav system before it clonked out completely and they were all a thick red paste splattered across the bulkhead. Or crystal shards, as the case may be.

She scooped up the contents of her plate with her hands and shoved it into her mouth, which could easily hold the entire meagre ration at once. She grumbled internally at the portion size, but said nothing. Food wasn't free, and if Blackstone started adjusting rations to account for size and appetite of crew members, that would open a can of angry, heavily armed worms. She chewed and swallowed and listened to the rock's stilted, confused ramble. If it was her decision, she would leave him behind to repair the structural damage and the much more important bugs in the grav system. That plan carried to bonus of not having the creepy, unliving thing following them around on planet leave.

"Interesting music scene on Jericho," she answered Blackstone once her mouth was empty "Place was settled by starving human pioneers and a calcan heretical sect. Poverty and religion together gives you soul music, but them someone got their hands on some sidaran synthesizers they barely knew how to use. Pseudo-religious redneck electronica. Looking forward to hearing some live."

[Ceannairceach]

When the Startlight's intercom blared with Captain Blackstone's voice calling the crew and cast to dinner, Iho was tinkering in his lab, located adjacent to the engine room of the great dilapidated freighter he called both home and work. Dropping what he was working on--an adapter for the artigrav generator that would hopefully limit the output from the QR drive to ensure the thing wouldn't overload as it did in the earlier escape from the Malacan and Human militaries--the large Malacan mechanic rose from his chair, using his considerable upper body strength to push himself up onto the arms of the chair, and into his awaiting crutches.

Iho's crutches were semi-automated, standing magnetically in place beside his chair, locked down to ensure they wouldn't topple when he took them. While he did have a tread-mobile chair for lengthier excursions, aboard the Starlight, Iho preferred the freedom given to him by the crutches over the mobility of the chair; He wasn't constrained by arms or wheels, and the legs of the crutches felt like extensions of his arms rather than something not of his body. It was a hallow conciliation, compared to real legs, but it masked the holes in his pride and heart.

Iho made his way to the ship's lift, arriving in the mess around the same time as the rest of the group. He shot the silicon-man a harsh look when he spoke, and scoffed at the notion that the ship needed repairs. "Repairs will be made. Repairs are always made. Starlight's a junker. But she'll live." Under his breath, Iho concluded with a phrase in his dialect in Malacan; It would translate in English roughly as 'scrap-worthy tin-man', accounting for cross-cultural conversions.

Iho sat a few seats down from the captain, beside his 'fellow' cripple, Takma. Despite their similar situations--geniuses born in the wrong cultures, both crippled in some fashion leaving them unable to walk unassisted--they shared few similarities beyond that. He held contempt for her as, in his eyes, a brute aspiring for greatness, but unable to win glory in war and thus applying her 'abilities' in science. A good effort, perhaps, but not something praiseworthy.

As the Malacan dug into the human food, still wondering why something called 'french toast' had nothing to do with France and little to do with toasting, he did manage to echo Takma's interest in the planet Jericho, if grudgingly. "Scatterbrain has a point. Jericho's interesting. Good Calcan tech there. Might be able to use some of it in the repair job. Maybe."

[Agritum]

'Miss Hopper' glanced at the meager breakfast in front of herself. While it was definitely less full of nutrients than the rations she used to take when stationed at the Customs headquarters, it was most definitely a much more palatable meal than anything ever dished out by the underpaid cooks employed by UNEC.

But then, the UNEC itself and its infrastructural capabilities left much to be desired, Sayla herself admitted. Of course, her greatest hope as still to cleanse the UNEC from corruption and greed from within, so that it could have really become a tool of inter-stellar justice and fairness. Utopian? Definitely? Impossible? Almost. Desiderable? Quite.

Sayla munched on the breakfast prepared by Blackstone, while slowly recovering from the aftermath of the FTL jump. While it wasn't her first one, it was definitely the rowdiest one she had ever experienced. Her sensible neural implants had started giving her a nasty headache, coupled with a steady flow of blood from her nose, which she tried to counter with a tissue.

Sayla wasn't really in condition of going out on a shore leave, definitely. Or in the mood, for that matter. She had decided to use this occasion as a way to do a stealthy check on the Starlight's cargo, just to know what type of illicit goods had caused them to flee the UNEC frigates, and signal it to the Customs Headquarters, along with the starship's further position. After doing so, Sayla would have just waited for the frigates to catch up on the Starlight, with an arrest warranty.

"Mister Blackstone, I guess I'll remain in my lodgings. Recovering from FTL-induced sickness is proving to be harder than I thought." Sayla said, finishing her toast.

[Norvenia]

"Repairs will be made," Blackstone agreed, inclining his head toward Iho. "But we need some supplies in order to make them." The captain's bright blue eyes were inscrutable. He studied Rathbone for a moment, and then nodded.

"All right," Blackstone said quietly. "We're delivering our cargo to a buyer in the saloon at Buzzard's Roost, Jericho's main human settlement. Planet's limited to horses; doesn't have any local ultradense minerals to power vehicular QR drives. So we're taking the cargo into town on a wagon. If there's any Calcan tech being sold, it'll probably show up in Buzzard's Roost, most likely at the saloon itself." Blackstone drank down his glass of flat, boiled-tasting water. "Rathbone, you stick with Iho, and if you see anything promising, buy it if you can. Our expected payoff for this is fifty-five hundred credits, so keep that in mind." The captain wiped his mouth. "Oh," he added. "One more thing. Buy some paint, all right?"

As he stood to put his plate in the heat-cleaner, Blackstone glanced at Takma. "By all means, come along," he agreed. "There'll probably be some pseudo-religious redneck whatsit in the saloon. We'll just have to find you a big enough horse - and maybe a bigger meal," Blackstone added with an amused twinkle in his eye as he collected Takma's plate.

When Sayla spoke, Blackstone stopped for a second, his back to the table; then he turned, slowly, and studied the young woman. "I'm sorry that you're not feeling well, Miss Hopper," the captain remarked carefully. He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his bomber jacket so that the heavy gun-belt that supported his rail pistols could be seen. There was nothing overtly threatening in the gesture, but little that Blackstone did was truly unconscious. "But I'm afraid that I have a policy of not leaving passengers on the ship unattended. Besides," Blackstone smiled, "the best thing for FTL sickness is to get your feet back on some solid ground. Artificial grav is fine, but there's nothing to make you feel back in the real world like the natural pull of a few sextillion tons of rock." The captain tossed Takma's plate into the heat-cleaner. "You'll feel better," he told Sayla. "Trust me."

[Rupudska]

"I could not agree more."

Rein entered the galley, late as usual for post-FTL-jump breakfast. She lowered her head and rotated it to get her antlers through the small door opening, then sliding into her own seat.

She took a few bites of the ration french toast. As usual, it was very well-made, or at least, about as well-prepared as a dish could get made out of flash-frozen ingredients, as was often the case on the Starlight. Not that she minded.

She finished her plate, completely clearing it of food, then placing it in the heat-cleaner.

"I guess I will buy the paint then, captain."

[The Inritus Extraho]

"Repairs will be made," Blackstone agreed, inclining his head toward Iho. "But we need some supplies in order to make them." The captain's bright blue eyes were inscrutable. He studied Rathbone for a moment, and then nodded.

"All right," Blackstone said quietly. "We're delivering our cargo to a buyer in the saloon at Buzzard's Roost, Jericho's main human settlement. Planet's limited to horses; doesn't have any local ultradense minerals to power vehicular QR drives. So we're taking the cargo into town on a wagon. If there's any Calcan tech being sold, it'll probably show up in Buzzard's Roost, most likely at the saloon itself." Blackstone drank down his glass of flat, boiled-tasting water. "Rathbone, you stick with Iho, and if you see anything promising, buy it if you can. Our expected payoff for this is fifty-five hundred credits, so keep that in mind." The captain wiped his mouth. "Oh," he added. "One more thing. Buy some paint, all right?"

As he stood to put his plate in the heat-cleaner, Blackstone glanced at Takma. "By all means, come along," he agreed. "There'll probably be some pseudo-religious redneck whatsit in the saloon. We'll just have to find you a big enough horse - and maybe a bigger meal," Blackstone added with an amused twinkle in his eye as he collected Takma's plate.

When Sayla spoke, Blackstone stopped for a second, his back to the table; then he turned, slowly, and studied the young woman. "I'm sorry that you're not feeling well, Miss Hopper," the captain remarked carefully. He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his bomber jacket so that the heavy gun-belt that supported his rail pistols could be seen. There was nothing overtly threatening in the gesture, but little that Blackstone did was truly unconscious. "But I'm afraid that I have a policy of not leaving passengers on the ship unattended. Besides," Blackstone smiled, "the best thing for FTL sickness is to get your feet back on some solid ground. Artificial grav is fine, but there's nothing to make you feel back in the real world like the natural pull of a few sextillion tons of rock." The captain tossed Takma's plate into the heat-cleaner. "You'll feel better," he told Sayla. "Trust me."

"This one confirms." he said, turning to Iho. He reached up, scratching his scalp with sharp fingernails, then nodded. "Paint. White again?" he asked, assuming that the captain would be keeping the color scheme the same, but hey, biologicals were fickle creatures, not like computers... Ah, he would be happy to be back on the Satellites. He moved slowly, to stand by Iho. "We are ready to go, when you are, Iho." He normally would not have added Iho, but he felt that he needed to, in order to specify that he was talking about himself specifically, not himself and Iho, and oh dear, he was rambling again, even in his thoughts...

[Agritum]

"Repairs will be made," Blackstone agreed, inclining his head toward Iho. "But we need some supplies in order to make them." The captain's bright blue eyes were inscrutable. He studied Rathbone for a moment, and then nodded.

"All right," Blackstone said quietly. "We're delivering our cargo to a buyer in the saloon at Buzzard's Roost, Jericho's main human settlement. Planet's limited to horses; doesn't have any local ultradense minerals to power vehicular QR drives. So we're taking the cargo into town on a wagon. If there's any Calcan tech being sold, it'll probably show up in Buzzard's Roost, most likely at the saloon itself." Blackstone drank down his glass of flat, boiled-tasting water. "Rathbone, you stick with Iho, and if you see anything promising, buy it if you can. Our expected payoff for this is fifty-five hundred credits, so keep that in mind." The captain wiped his mouth. "Oh," he added. "One more thing. Buy some paint, all right?"

As he stood to put his plate in the heat-cleaner, Blackstone glanced at Takma. "By all means, come along," he agreed. "There'll probably be some pseudo-religious redneck whatsit in the saloon. We'll just have to find you a big enough horse - and maybe a bigger meal," Blackstone added with an amused twinkle in his eye as he collected Takma's plate.

When Sayla spoke, Blackstone stopped for a second, his back to the table; then he turned, slowly, and studied the young woman. "I'm sorry that you're not feeling well, Miss Hopper," the captain remarked carefully. He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his bomber jacket so that the heavy gun-belt that supported his rail pistols could be seen. There was nothing overtly threatening in the gesture, but little that Blackstone did was truly unconscious. "But I'm afraid that I have a policy of not leaving passengers on the ship unattended. Besides," Blackstone smiled, "the best thing for FTL sickness is to get your feet back on some solid ground. Artificial grav is fine, but there's nothing to make you feel back in the real world like the natural pull of a few sextillion tons of rock." The captain tossed Takma's plate into the heat-cleaner. "You'll feel better," he told Sayla. "Trust me."

Sayla mentally bit her lips, finding her plans quickly defied by Blackstone's strict laws on passenger presence. However, not abiding to those rules would have surely blown the officer's cover faster than a meteorite disintegrates in the atmosphere of a planetoid, something that Sayla wasn't definitely looking forward to.

"Duly noted, Mister Blackstone. I guess I'll follow your advice, and maybe acquire some FTL sickness pills while we're out on the planetary surface. Fortunately, it isn't the first time I have to face such an inconvenient ailment." Sayla replied, setting her plate away.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Shortly after Blackstone announced that food was ready through the ship's PA system, Hasheel Donovan, half-Sidiran half-Human tenderly nicknamed Half-breed by the Captain's First Mate, walked in through the door of the ship's dinning area, the small silvery cloud of blond hair trailing behind him as he did so. He appeared to be a bit unsteady on his feet, but otherwise seemed to be fine. If he was suffering any particularly bad side effects of the FTL jump, he was doing a great job at keeping it to himself. Either way he surveyed the room with Sidiran cat-like eyes, looking at each member of the Starlight's crew as well as his fellow two passengers with his characteristic gentle smile, before heading over and taking a seat next to them.

Looking at his plate and finding the food to be more than appetizing for a hungry halfling, Hasheel nibbled on his toast while listening to the crewmen speaking to each other, talking about what they would do once they landed at Jericho. This piqued his interest, and he listened more carefully, hearing that they planned to go to the Buzzard's Roost saloon to deliver some cargo and maybe pick up some Calcan tech. The prospect of acquiring some Calcan tech for himself was a promising one indeed, and so the halfling decided to speak up.

"Mister Blackstone, when are we expected to be back at the Starlight, if I may inquire?" Hasheel asked affably, before continuing. "Also, would it be possible at all for me to tag along with you and your crew on your way to the Buzzard's Roost saloon? I would like to see the Calcan technology that might be for sale there as well." He stated, and then continued nibbling on the toast, while looking at the Captain expectantly.

[Constaniana]

Doctor McAleister began eating his breakfast, glad to have french toast and sausages, and more glad that he wasn't aboard a starship being pursued by numerous frigates in considerably better repair than the Starlight and with significantly more firepower.

"You know, this reminds me a wee bit of an old American coyboy movie. Biblical names like Jericho, meetings at the local saloon-we're even on bloody horses. Well, not literal bloody horses, since that's animal abuse and probably would'nae be to comfortable, but you get the point. I just hope we don't end up with a posse wantin' tae shoot us full of holes,' the Scotsman commented, before finishing off the French toast and starting on the sausages.

[Norvenia]

"Oh, it's actual bloody horses," Blackstone told McAleister with a slightly predatory smile. "This is Unorganized Space. Nobody brings gasoline, or liquid hydrogen, or uranium through here. There are no cars, or hovers. There are a few QR trains, and actual honest-to-God horses. Ones that eat hay and go 'neigh'." The captain grinned. "And Jericho is exactly like an old cowboy movie in one other way, too: everyone has a gun, and the sheriff is corrupt as hell. So don't go wandering off."

Blackstone turned. "Now, that said, sure, Hasheel - feel free to tag along. Buzzard's Roost isn't a big place - most everything is within sight of the saloon. If you want to poke inside with Iho and Rathbone, go on ahead. Miss Hopper, why don't you come to the saloon too - your FTL sickness pills are probably stocked there as well."

The captain turned to the neck corridor, then stopped and glanced back. "Three things, though," he said quietly. "For all of you. Never get out of sight of the larger group. Be back at Starlight by nightfall. And if you get in trouble, ride like the devil and don't look back." Blackstone's face creased into a very worrying smile. "Now let's get some shore leave."

* * *

The Starlight descended, smouldering and protesting, through the atmosphere. From space, Jericho looked like a marble that had been dropped in dust: blue oceans broken by drab brown blobs of continents. From atmo, when one could even see the planet through the heat of reentry, it looked still less welcoming: all broken ground and arroyos, tumbleweed and scrub brush. A few hardy goats looked up at the ramshackle starship as it landed in a defile a few miles from Buzzard's Roost, and then they returned to demolishing an arrowroot bush. Beneath the ship's thousands of tons of battered metal and ceramic, the heat-bleached skeleton of a steer crushed into powder.

The main cargo bay door opened, and the crew and passengers of the Starlight emerged, blinking, into the blazing sun. The Jericho system's star was a red giant, and it seemed to take up at least half the sky, swollen and brooding and angry. The heat was dry, sharp, and oppressive. Dust swirled around Blackstone's boots as he stepped out, his custom assault railgun held in the crook of one arm, and scanned the desolate horizon. "Now where is he?"

No sooner had Blackstone spoken than there came the sound of hooves, and a group of horses - two of them pulling a covered wagon - crested the ridge surrounding the defile where Starlight had landed. The leads for all of the horses had been braided together, and were held by a small man swathed from head to foot in dusty wool and leather, sitting on the wagon at the front of the group. This man brought his vehicle to a halt near Blackstone, and tossed the captain the leads for the horses; Blackstone, in turn, handed the leads to Rein, quietly saying: "Get the crew mounted."

The man who had brought the horses now leaped from the bench-seat of the wagon in a single bound, and swept off his hat and bandanna. The gesture was inhumanly graceful, and sure enough, the face and hair thus revealed were white as snow, with eyes the same impenetrable crystal-blue as Blackstone's own. The neresi spread his arms. "Andana, bruide," he smiled, his voice as smooth as falling waters.

Blackstone embraced the neresi like an old friend, and there was a good deal of back-thumping, followed by some hushed conversation in neresi. For most of the captain's companions, it would be utterly impenetrable: Blackstone spoke rapid, idiomatic, fluent neresi, as if he had grown up around the language. But for a few, they might catch a few snippets and phrases: "How is she?" "And the calcans?" "She is safe."

Seemingly satisfied, Blackstone stepped back and turned to the crew. "This is Ayeronte, an old friend of mine. He'll be looking after the ship while we're in town." The captain nodded toward the horizon. "Buzzard's Roost is a few miles that way." With Rein's help, Blackstone loaded a dozen unmarked crates into the back of the wagon, then took his place on the bench seat. "Just stick close, and don't stay out in the sun too long." Blackstone waited until everyone was mounted (Iho with some difficulty), then extended a hand; there was suddenly a smell of ozone in the air, and Takma rose off the ground - close to a ton of paralytic urkat lifted into the air and then deposited gently in the saddle of a gigantic draft horse. Blackstone looped the horse's reins around his wrist, tethering Takma's steed to the wagon. "Right, then." The captain clicked his tongue and snapped the reins over the backs of the horses pulling the wagon. "Let's go!"

[Ceannairceach]

Iho exited the ship on his crutches, rather than in his tread-chair, knowing that a horse would be waiting for him outside. He had ridden a horse before; They were surprisingly common on outskirt human colonies, and he had sacked enough of them during his time in the Malacan military to have seen and taken one for his own. Most weren't strong enough to handle a malacan's weight. The breed given to him now, luckily, was strong, bred to carry weight. Approaching it with the utmost care not to scare it away, he pushed himself up with his crutches, and one arm at a time gripped the horse around the neck, pulling himself up and over its back. His crutches activated their stabilization, and he lifted them up and tied them to the saddle when he was fully seated.

With a sniper rifle at his back and a pistol at his hip, Iho looked quite threatening mounted on the horse. He would look more threatening if he didn't have to tie his legs to the stirrups, but otherwise he was quite the giant on the big horse. As he tested the reins and the will of the horse to listen to his commands, he sauntered closer to Ayeronte and shot him the worst death stare his malacan eyes could muster. In a low voice he declared in quite passable Neresi, "Touch my engine, and I'll split your Foremotherfucker skull in half."

He quickly caught up with Blackstone, lining his horse up against the wagon. "How far to the Roost?" Iho scanned the horizon for any signs of movement. "I don't like Jericho." Clearing his throat, he said in very clear English, "When the trumpets sounded, the army shouted, and at the sound of the trumpet, when the men gave a loud shout, the wall collapsed; so everyone charged straight in, and they took the city.They devoted the city to the Lord and destroyed with the sword every living thing in it—men and women, young and old, cattle, sheep and donkeys." Turning his head to the captain, Iho's bristles moved slightly as his dark eyes stared at Blackstone. With a cold smile, he asked, "Are we the Israelites, or the cattle, I wonder?"

[Erinkita]

Takma kept quiet for the rest of the conversation in the dining area. She'd said what she wanted to say and she had a ship to land. Starlight's atmosphere entries were never the smoothest operations, but there was a rhythm to it. The force of the burning gas pounding the ship's hull, the groaning of the plates under the pressure and heat, it was a kind of music itself. It also got kind of old after you'd heard it a few times, so she was playing some bizarre throat-chanting from a semi-amphibious species she hadn't known existed until a week ago. The sound of fifty frog-people groaning in harmony was surprisingly soothing.

And she emerged with the rest of the crew, not blinking because that would be pointless, but basking in the heat. She gave a little shiver of pleasure as the warmth seeped into her plates. This was her kind of climate. She didn't smile. It wasn't something she did. Smiling is a fairly complex muscular operation and she couldn't see the smiles of others, so it was a lot of investment for no payoff. But she was enjoying herself, for a minute or two.
The pleasure of the climate was dampened by the knowledge that she would have to leave her chair behind and rely on an animal to cart her around. Not only would she be unable to see where it was going, but from what she understood of horses, they were trained to respond to the rider's legs. Getting on a horse was surrendering all control. But she had already expressed her wish to come along and she wasn't about to change her mind now. Pride. People thought it was the opposite of shame. Really, it was the cause.

Takma listened to the sound of the hoofbeats on the sand, getting louder as they approached. The captain spoke to someone in neresi, the other having the distinctive cadence of a member of that species. She spoke the language, but could make out very little of their hushed conversation. For the trillionth time, she cursed her dull urkat hearing.
Having been introduced to the neresi, Ayeronte, and acknowledging his presence with a nod in his general direction, she sat quietly and waited while the cargo was loaded. The knew it was coming, but that didn't make it any better when the captain levitated her into the air, leaving her chair behind, and deposited her into the saddle. She bit her lower lip hard and kept her face neutral, clinging to the animal's neck to compensate for the lack of grip with her legs. She was moving. She didn't know where she was moving and had no control over it. Her comm rig was back with her chair, the comforting flow of information cut off. On Starlight, she was the pilot. Her control and her knowledge was total. Here, she was a piece of cargo. She said nothing and sent thoughts of hatred to the horse on the off chance that one or both of them was a latent telepath.

[Agritum]

'Miss Hopper' promptly hopped over one of the horses, after listening to Blackstone's instructions on how to behave in Buzzer's Roost and overhearing the captain's conversation with the neresi who had just brought the animals to the group, albeit not managing to understand what they were telling to each other. Most likely, Ayeronte was quite a trusted friend of Blackstone, given that the latter apparently deemed him loyal enough to give him ward over the Starlight while the crew was away. Maybe Ayeronte was a fellow smuggler, which wouldn't have surprised Sayla by much, given the whole concept of 'Honor Among Thieves".

In fact, other than her current position and a status update on Blackstone's whereabouts, Officer Newell also planned to communicate to the Customs Service all the names of the captain's close acquaintances, for further investigation, and maybe use the opportunity to also report the town's sheriff, in case he was really abusing of his position as the law enforcement chief of the outpost.

Yet, Sayla hoped to get off the town as fast as she could, after having found a way to placate the brain-splitting headache caused by her neural implants. Either she would have embarked again on the Starlight, waiting for it to stop at a safer port for her to disembark or, in case of abandonment on Blackstone's part, she would have awaited for the UNEC to come and retrieve her.

Even under the effects of her sickness, Sayla found no major problems in keeping control of the steed she was riding. While the sensation was quite different from the one she felt when mounting the old farming horse her family owned, Sayla could still feel the old thrill of riding an horse around, taming their will and using it to accomplish vital tasks. Or just ride in the untamed wild, savoring the fresh breeze and stopping for rest under the shadow of a tree.

But then, Sayla remembered that she was still riding towards a godforsaken outpost full of armed individuals, in the company of a crew of smugglers, with most likely no law enforcement officer to rely on in case of emergency, except for herself. Things didn't look bright, definitely.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Hasheel was quite glad to have been permitted to tag along and look at the technology for sale in Buzzard's Roost. So glad, in fact, that he tried to pay little attention to the dry heat and the scorching rays the sun cast down upon the world of Jericho. Instead, he focused on his companions, fellow passengers and crewmen of the Starlight, the neresi Ayeronte, Blackstone's acquaintances, and the horses themselves. Back on his home planet, he had seen horses a fair ammount of times, though he himself had never ridden one, preferring to spend his time looking at things to try and figure out how they worked. However, he did admire the beasts. Strong and enduring, used for centuries for transporting merchandise that nurtured human cities of old, or as the mounts of unscrupulous bandits, or the steeds of warring knights. And they were still widely used in those places where QR vehicles were not widely used, such as Jericho.

Though he had some trouble at first, the halfling soon enough managed to mount the horse, after deciding that trying to do it without any prior knowledge was an entirely futile endeavor and that waiting and seeing how the others mounted their horses before trying to do so himself with at least some visual input on how to do it was a much more worthwhile effort. So, now that he sat atop his mount, Hasheel followed Blackstone and the others towards Buzzard's Roost. As he did so, he decided to approach Rathbone. "So, what kind of tech do you think we will find for sale in Buzzard's Roost?" He politely asked him, as an attempt to initiate small talk. He had been wanting to try that with a Sillicate for a while now, simply out of sheer curiosity.

[Norvenia]

Ayeronte looked mildly taken aback by Iho's threat; one of the neresi's hand fell to a coilgun shotgun inside his duster, just visible from the malacan's perspective. Blackstone waved a hand with an amused sound, blowing air out from between his lips, and called something in neresi; those who spoke the language would recognize Blackstone's phrase as a standard idiom translating basically to: "Calm down, let this one go." The captain shook his head ruefully. "Ayeronte, Iho," he called from his seat on the wagon. "Iho, Ayeronte." Blackstone's voice became campy as he acted out a mock dialogue. "Pleased to meet you! Oh, yes, very much so. I look forward to working together in the future! Me too." He waved a hand at Iho. "Leave my friend alone and get riding, you misanthropic plug-ugly."

As they rode along, Blackstone raised an eyebrow at Iho's announcement. "I didn't figure you for a Bible-reader, Iho," the captain remarked. "The way I see it, though, we're neither Israelites nor cattle. We're the - ah, what d'ye call them - the Phoenicians, those merchants who wander in after all the fighting is over and ask whether anyone here is interested in some fine wine, discount prices, to go with all the slaughtered sheep and donkeys." Blackstone grinned. "To be honest, the only religious crazies on this planet are probably the calcan dissenters, and they live way out in the desert. Or did, when last I looked."

Blackstone paused, glancing over at Takma. Urkat were always hard to read, and Takma's paralysis made her a greater enigma still - but something about the way she clung to the horse, an amorphous mass of bone plating and thick clothes, spoke of long-suffering misery. The captain sighed, and leaned over. "We'll get you a good meal at the end of this," he told Takma, softly enough that nobody else could hear. "And having an urkat along always helps deter bandits." Blackstone lightly clapped Takma's shoulder. "You're our muscle," he told her with a smile.

The captain straightened on his bench seat, surveying the riders around the wagon, and smiled at the sight of Hasheel making conversation with Rathbone. Then Blackstone noticed waved at Sayla, who was roving ahead like a natural. "Miss Hopper!" he called. "Well, will ye look at that! You can ride!" The captain waved the young woman over. "I like to know my passengers," he explained. "Where did you learn to hold a saddle like that?"

[Ceannairceach]

Iho maliciously grinned at his captain. "When you kill enough men, you learn their death prayers. It is only courteous that I learn the specifics of their religions, so I may insult their gods before they cease to breath." In truth, Iho was far more familiar with the human faiths, and for far longer than he put on. He had conversed with human missionaries and their converts on his homeworld and the capital of the Empire, Lyrator. They were few in number, but strong in spirit, resisting the oppression of the state religion with all of their power. Most that he knew were executed shortly after contact, of course, but they always converted more than were killed. Somehow.

Seeing that their short conversation was finished, Iho quickly found his entertainment for the ride; The halfbreed was speaking with the silicate, or attempting to. It wasn't that he hated half-breeds, or silicates. He hated everyone. It also wasn't that they were, in their own rights, skilled with technical knowledge. Were they on other ships, that wouldn't be a problem. But they, especially the silicate, had stepped onto his ship, his home and domain. The half-breed at least knew enough to keep quiet. The silicate had enough balls to step up and effectively become a second engineer for the duration of his travels aboard the Starlight.

And Maktariotar Ihomazot hated that. And thus, he hated the silicate. The malacan followed close behind Rathbone, speeding up some to force him to match his speed or have a horse up his tail. His dark malacan eyes peered into the back of the man's head, just waiting to sneer at him should he turn around to face his annoyance.

[The Inritus Extraho]

Hasheel was quite glad to have been permitted to tag along and look at the technology for sale in Buzzard's Roost. So glad, in fact, that he tried to pay little attention to the dry heat and the scorching rays the sun cast down upon the world of Jericho. Instead, he focused on his companions, fellow passengers and crewmen of the Starlight, the neresi Ayeronte, Blackstone's acquaintances, and the horses themselves. Back on his home planet, he had seen horses a fair ammount of times, though he himself had never ridden one, preferring to spend his time looking at things to try and figure out how they worked. However, he did admire the beasts. Strong and enduring, used for centuries for transporting merchandise that nurtured human cities of old, or as the mounts of unscrupulous bandits, or the steeds of warring knights. And they were still widely used in those places where QR vehicles were not widely used, such as Jericho.

Though he had some trouble at first, the halfling soon enough managed to mount the horse, after deciding that trying to do it without any prior knowledge was an entirely futile endeavor and that waiting and seeing how the others mounted their horses before trying to do so himself with at least some visual input on how to do it was a much more worthwhile effort. So, now that he sat atop his mount, Hasheel followed Blackstone and the others towards Buzzard's Roost. As he did so, he decided to approach Rathbone. "So, what kind of tech do you think we will find for sale in Buzzard's Roost?" He politely asked him, as an attempt to initiate small talk. He had been wanting to try that with a Sillicate for a while now, simply out of sheer curiosity.

Rathbone was... not doing well on his horse. The thing was strong enough for his augmented form, despite the insane weight of the Silicate, but the odd gait of a horse as opposed to a nice railcar or hover was disconcerting what remained of his stomach. It wasn't going to be a problem, of course, it was like working on the moving spires of the satellites. But it was annoying to feel things moving inside of him. He paused; someone was speaking to him. Hasheel. The small one, the halfling. "Tech." he said simply - or was it a question? - then paused, thinking. "Likely nothing good. Half-price parts for premium price. Useful for quick repair, but not for long use." He shrugged. "Parts will do. Don't need much to repair."

Then something bumped the back of his horse, and he reached out, as if to steady himself with the halfling - he missed - and yanked at the reins to stay on (it must have been to stay on), his horse stopping and rearing up, threatening to buck him (this is just like the spires, just like the spires). He rode it up, back down - dead still - and then at the Engineer to his side. "Careful." he said softly to Iho. "Don't push horses. They get restless. You could get hurt. Careful." He nodded, and then set off again, quickly catching back up to the halfling.

[Erinkita]

Ayeronte looked mildly taken aback by Iho's threat; one of the neresi's hand fell to a coilgun shotgun inside his duster, just visible from the malacan's perspective. Blackstone waved a hand with an amused sound, blowing air out from between his lips, and called something in neresi; those who spoke the language would recognize Blackstone's phrase as a standard idiom translating basically to: "Calm down, let this one go." The captain shook his head ruefully. "Ayeronte, Iho," he called from his seat on the wagon. "Iho, Ayeronte." Blackstone's voice became campy as he acted out a mock dialogue. "Pleased to meet you! Oh, yes, very much so. I look forward to working together in the future! Me too." He waved a hand at Iho. "Leave my friend alone and get riding, you misanthropic plug-ugly."

As they rode along, Blackstone raised an eyebrow at Iho's announcement. "I didn't figure you for a Bible-reader, Iho," the captain remarked. "The way I see it, though, we're neither Israelites nor cattle. We're the - ah, what d'ye call them - the Phoenicians, those merchants who wander in after all the fighting is over and ask whether anyone here is interested in some fine wine, discount prices, to go with all the slaughtered sheep and donkeys." Blackstone grinned. "To be honest, the only religious crazies on this planet are probably the calcan dissenters, and they live way out in the desert. Or did, when last I looked."

Blackstone paused, glancing over at Takma. Urkat were always hard to read, and Takma's paralysis made her a greater enigma still - but something about the way she clung to the horse, an amorphous mass of bone plating and thick clothes, spoke of long-suffering misery. The captain sighed, and leaned over. "We'll get you a good meal at the end of this," he told Takma, softly enough that nobody else could hear. "And having an urkat along always helps deter bandits." Blackstone lightly clapped Takma's shoulder. "You're our muscle," he told her with a smile.

The captain straightened on his bench seat, surveying the riders around the wagon, and smiled at the sight of Hasheel making conversation with Rathbone. Then Blackstone noticed waved at Sayla, who was roving ahead like a natural. "Miss Hopper!" he called. "Well, will ye look at that! You can ride!" The captain waved the young woman over. "I like to know my passengers," he explained. "Where did you learn to hold a saddle like that?"

Takma felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the climate. Her captain--and she did truly think of him as hers--understood exactly the nature of her situation and had reached doubt in exactly the right way. It wasn't that she believed his comforting platitude about her role as muscle. She knew her value in a fight against anyone other than an unarmed opponent standing directly in front of her and not moving. But he had shown his understanding while letting her keep her pride. There was sympathy in his words, but no pity. Pity was something she had not discovered until she began associating with people other than her own, and she hated it more than the resentment and hostility of her fellow urkats. Her gratitude to Blackstone was left unacknowledged in words or body language. Instead, she growled back "I would gladly eat this horse. I assure you no part of it will be wasted. I will savour every mouthful."

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Hasheel quietly waited for Rathbone to respond to him. As far as the halfling knew, the Silicate acted in strange ways, but he did not mind at all. Everyone had their quirks, that much was obvious, and furthermore, every race did, as much as every individual. Hearing his response, Hasheel's characteristic smile widened a bit, as he found the way the Silicate spoke entertaining due to its... Pragmatic nature. His sentences were short and incomplete, but easy to understand nonetheless, though the lack of inflection made it a bit more difficult.

"I understand. Personally, I was hoping for something useful for inventions, but I guess that such is a subjective enough definition that I will have to see for myself before I know whether or not they have that." He replied, and then while the Silicate briefly interacted with Iho, the Malacan he tried to avoid when possible, Hasheel took a moment to glance at the other riders, particularly Blackstone and Hopper, since they seemed like the most capable riders in the group, and then correct his posture as much as he could to try and match what he saw in them. Improvement through observation was one of his favorite things.

When the Silicate returned, Hasheel glanced at Iho and then looked at Rathbone. "You're having trouble with riding, aren't you?" He asked, though he made sure not to make it sound like anything more than a sincere question. He himself was having a bit of trouble, after all, which was why he needed to observe the others to figure out how to ride a horse properly.

[Constaniana]

Charles inspected his horse curiously for several moments with am unsure expression on his face before beginning to try mounting it.

I didn't see any wounds or lacerations on this horse. I thought the captain said this was literally bloody. Oh well. I suppose I din'ae make myself clear enough about being metaphorical or what have 'ye. the Scotsman thought as he managed to get on his steed. The planet's scenery certainly lived up to his expectations of how the Old West on Earth would have been. It was a bit alien for him though, having grown up on the Scottish coastline that was a near total opposite of this barren desert. Charles rode on quietly, thinking about his home.