Through the Looking Glass

The blades of the ceiling fan rotated lazily, doing little to lift the heat filling the room.  It was small, the room, with only a single light bulb hanging from the chipped ceiling, giving cheap, yellow light to the filing cabinets  along the bare walls and to the crowd of men in the center of the room.  They had him tied to the chair.  Two of the men stood behind the chair, casting their big shadows across him, while three others towered in front.  Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth and his left eye had been turned a meaty purple from its previous date with a fist.  First one's always the hardest.

"Know I don't know who you are," the boss said, crouching down in front of him, "but you ain't welcome here, stranger, this is our territory.  Now, you mind telling me who you are?  You keep staying quiet and I'll let Tommy take over, and he's not much of a talker himself."

The boss's face was hidden behind a mask of shadows with only the glowing butt of a cigarette casting the faintest orange light on his mouth.  Strands of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, gathering like a wreath around the light.  He, the man in the chair, spat blood on the floor.

"I'm a detective, my business is confidential." he spat.

A fist smashed into his jaw.

"I know that, Einstein!" the boss snapped, "And quite a detective you are: a magnifying glass, handgun, and a notebook full of gibberish.  Oh yes, and that pocket watch.  I suppose at least that will fetch some cash."

"I'm a special detective." the man in the chair said with a chuckle.

Another fist became acquainted with the skeletal structure of his face.

"Quit the garbage   Who are you and why ere you snooping though my property?  I won't ask again." the boss leaned forward, his voice like a razor in the man's ears.

"Alright, fine." the man in the chair spat out more blood, "They call me the Finder.  I'm a detective of a very special caliber; so special in fact, I'm the only one.  There's a certain item in your possession that is of interest to me.  That satisfy you?"

"The mirror?" the boss growled, "What do you want the mirror for?"

"It once belonged to one Abigail H. White.  She was murdered some time ago; the mirror is important in the case.  It's police property now, you have to hand it over."

The cigarette glowed orange, smoke streaming past the boss's face as he sat, peering silently at the Finder.

"That's a load of bull, and you know it." the boss spat in the Finder's face, "I told you I wouldn't ask again."

"And I think I've had enough of this." the Finder said with a smirk.

"What?" the boss exclaimed, rising to his feet in surprise.

The Finder shucked off the handcuffs keeping entrapped in the cair like one shakes water off one's hands.  He kicked the boss in between the legs and sent him sailing across the room, knocking the two goon behind him to the floor.  The Finder picked up the chair, swinging it around his head like a hammer, and smashed it into the two men behind him.

"I picked the cuffs while one of your boys was giving me a makeover.  I'll just be taking the mirror know." the Finder said, tossing the cuffs on top of the boss's heaving chest, wiping blood from his cheek with his other hand.

"Who– what are you?" the boss gasped.

"A traveler from another dimension."

The boss's face was made uglier by the expression of confusion.

"What?" he gaped.

The Finder slammed a leg of the chair into the boss's thick skull, knocking consciousness from it.  The Finder strode over to the desk, picking up his sparse effects: his coat, hat, magnifying glass, and book.  He pulled the coat on, wrapping himself in its worn familiarity; he tucked the book, watch, and magnifying glass away in their particular pockets, then stepped back over to the boss.  The mirror was tucked safely inside the boss's coat.  The Finder relieved the sleeping man from the possession; the mirror was too effeminante for him anyway.  The Funder slipped out of the building into the fog-bound streets; he watched his back carefully as he slid past one building after another, the life on the streets having taught him to keep an eye behind him.  The Finder checked his pocket watch, the silver gleaming in the dark fog like a pearl in the ocean, popping open the scratched lid.

It was nearly six o'clock.

The Finder hurried down the street, past the shadowy forms of people, towards the train station like a hulking behemoth in the distance.  The Finder stopped at a telephone booth; he stepped inside, checked the fog outside, then rang the special number.  The Watcher's voice came crackling into his ear.

"Finder?  That you?"

"Yeah, I got the Anomaly.  What time was the train?"

"Six fifteen."

"Damn!  I'll be late, I–"

A spotlight pierced through the shroud of black fog, landing on the telephone booth.  An alarm filled the thick air.

"Gotta go!" the Finder shouted, slamming the phone back home.

He ran from the booth, the spotlight searching for him through the fog all while the alarm filled the drab street suddenly devoid of people.  He found the steps leading into the station just as he heard the loud sounds of pursuit coming, rushing, down the street towards him like a river.  He flew inside, pushing past crowds of stunned individuals: the train was starting to leave the station.  The Finder ran down the platform, his pursuers coming down the stairs to the platform.  The Finder grabbed onto the caboose, pulling himself on with a grunt: he was on the train.  He slipped inside the caboose as it left the station behind it in the fog, the mirror in his hands.

"That was too close." he said.    
    

The Pariah

There is nothing in the endless void of blackness and stars; only the silent dance of suns and planets with only the intermissions of comets and asteroids.  Even after Man built the first spaceship the greatness that is space was affected little.  The ugly behemoths of carbosteel and pig tin scuttle from star to star, delivering goods, picking up deliveries, or deploying troops.  The stars and twisting planets take very little notice of this interstellar network, though, the achievements of Man have changed very little about the universe.  Or at least that's how it was before the war...

***  

Galen's eyes snapped open, the strange dreams of deep space retreating into the dark corners of his mind and the usual chill creeping from his limbs.  He sat up, rubbing his head, blinking artificial sleep from his eyes.  The blue light in his chamber was blinking accompanied by the honking alarm.  He grumbled, placing a scarred hand on the white plastic wall of his small, tubular chamber as he pulled on underpants in no particular hurry.  There was a small screen and keyboard next to the door of his chamber, he strode over and punched a button; the screen popped into life.  First there was static, then an image of Ophelia waved into life.

"Galen!" barked the speaker with a crackle, "Get the fek to your station!  We're four klicks out.  Over."

With a pop, the screen was black once more.  The alarm silenced and the light returned to a steady yellow glare.  With a sigh, Galen brushed ice crystals from his hair and pushed the button to the door.  It slid open with a shrill hiss and he stepped out into the hall.  The corridor was long but narrow, like almost everything on the ship, with a row of pneumatic white doors lining one side and lockers on the other.  It was the resting quarters for the crew of the Pariah.  There were only about ten or twelve hands on the ship, though.  The doors of the other engineers slid open as well; Clarke stumbled into the corridor farther down and Tet soon followed.  Kelly came out of her chamber one door down; when she saw Galen she gave him that shy smile she usually gave him and crossed over to her locker.  Galen walked across the cold metal grates of the floor to his own locker.  The melted ice droplets clung to his skin refusing to drip down onto the floor.  Gravity must be light Galen thought as he pulled on his under-suit composed of a thin rubbery unitard, then he covered himself in his uniform and boots.  He turned around to look at the the progress of his fellow engineers as he buckled on his utility belt.  Tet was ready and attentive, Kelly was finishing tying her hair up, and Clarke was still yanking on his uniform.  Galen started giving out his orders anyway.

"Engineers, we are four klicks fron rendezvous point.  Tet, Kelly, you come with me, we'll replace Damon and Marc in the Engines.  Clarke, once you're ready, head to the bridge.  Understood?"

"Yes sir!" they all said.

Galen led Tet and Kelly down the dim hallways down into the guts of the Pariah to the Engine Room.  Clarke headed for the bridge on the other end of the ship.  When Galen and his crew reached the Engines, an exhausted Marc greeted him.

'Chief, finally!  About trajing time!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Shift's over, Marc, go get some sleep." Galen said to him.

Damon, tossing his goggle to the side, came out of the Engine Room hatch.

"Shift done?  I've been awake too long, it's time for a nap." he said as he and Marc headed away towards the resting quarters.     

"Alright, people, let's get to work." Galen ordered as he pulled googles over his head and stepped into the Engine Room, "I want this girl to hold together when we dock.  Kelly, can you get that screen to show the Guider feed?"

"Sure thing, Chief." she said.

Kelly stepped up on a pipe, wrenching open a pannel on the wall and began splicing wires as Galen and Tet oversaw the smoking behemoth that was the engine.

"Got it!" Kelly called as she put that pannel back in place and jumped down from the pipe.

The screen hanging from the low ceiling beam blinked into life with the blue information screen of the Guider.  In the center was the grid showing the empty space surrounding the Pariah; in the bottom were the stream of jargon useful only to the Guider and the pilots; in the upper right corner was the number of klicks from their targeted destination.

"Three klicks, sir, should we give her a push?" Tet said.

"Sure, let's speed this up.  I'd say push it up to 2500." Galen said, eyes still on the screen.

Tet punched a code and some data into a keyboard, then cranked on a gear to charge up the engine more.  Steam hissed through some pipes overhead.

"Good, two and a half klicks now.  Almost time for the hailing call.  Kelly, audio work on this?" Galen called over to Kelly.  Kelly was a skilled electrician and computer engineer as well as a starship mechanic, one of the few onboard able to understand the streams of command-line programming of the shipboard computers.

"Should be working, Chef." she said to him.

Two klicks now; the speakers crackled as Halon's voice– the ensign– blared through them.

"Starcarrier Celestine, this is the C.S.G.E. Pariah, clearance o-seven-seven-niner, requesting to dock, please respond.  Over."

They waited for a response to come crackling back; nothing.

"I can see them, why aren't they responding?" Tet said, looking at the large dot on the screen.

Halon repeated his message, but still now response came.

"We're just a click away." Galen said, "The Guider should be able to see her by now.  Kelly, reboot the feed!"

Kelly dashed away and fiddled with more wires.  The screen wavered, flickered, then changed to a live view of the void in front of the Pariah.  The three engineers stood beneath the screen; eyes wide and staring.  Kelly gave out a gasp.  The might that was the Starcarrier Celestine, one of the largest and most powerful class of ships in the galaxy, was strewn out across the space before them in shredded pieces.  The bodies of the hundreds of inhabitants floated among the wreckage.

"What the fek could do this to a Starcarrier?  Who would do it?" shouted Galen.

A light burst into life and a klaxon blared through the corridors: the captain wanted them all on the bridge.

     ***

Spacers were created by the Colonial government to be able to survive the harsh conditions and long years of space travel.  They were altered to be able to withstand cryostasis and to only need the barest amount of nutrients to live.  Spacers, it is rumored among the Colonies, don't age, but this has yet to be proved.  Spacers are treated with suspicion and mistrust by the Colonials the rare times Spacers have interactions with Colonials.  The Governance uses Spacers as pilots of freighter ships, mining vessels, and naval battlecruisers.  The only ships not operated by the mysterious Spacers are the Starcarriers; the pride of the Colonies and the key to Man's future.           

Vampires sue Twilight author

Due to the recent series of novels and their success among modern youth, the sanguine Crown of Noctheim demands Twilight author Stephenie Meyer reimburse them for misportraying an existing and ancient species with a long and noble history.  They stated that they took great offense at the main plot point of the book series and film adaptations: the vampire-human relationship; a relationship of such has only ever happened once in the history of the Inquieta in the 16th century and has never happened since.  The circumstances of this historical relationship were very different from those in Mrs. Meyer's portrayal, and it definitely was not romantic, again like in the mistaken portrayal in the book series and films.  Humans and vampires, while the latter's population is drawn from the former, are different species and not compatible with each other reproductively and due to certain necessities.

To read the rest of the article, click here.

The Last: Breakfast

I woke up several hours after our nightmarish escape from the safe house.  The sun was peeking past the buildings of downtown Boston, hitting me right in the face with its obnoxious golden light.  I think Gorham had been sleeping too; Chula Vista still had her eyes closed and head leaned against her door..  I looked over at Victor; he had bags under his eyes and he was doing his anxiety chewing on a toothpick.  If he had cigars he'd have smoked 'em all by now.

"Charleston, what time is it?" I grumbled.

Victor's face involuntarily twitched.  Yeah, he needed a nap.

"0720... er, 7:20.  Lookin' fer a place to crash."

I stretched as much as I could crammed in the seat as I was, then yawned, "Wh- why don't we leave Boston?  If– hey, there's Piero's." I saw the warm red and brown sign through all the debris and wreckage.  When I was up in this part of the city, Piero's was my favorite cafe to stop at.

"Can't.  CDC's still blocking 90 n' 93.  And smaller roads too.  Bridges over the river have been blocked off by the National Guard.  This city's bolted up tighter than Satan's colon.  Only way out's on foot, which means bein' chewed up alive and shat out by one of the f–kers."

"Alright... alright.  Victor, ya gotta get some rest soon though.  And it looks like your about to explode, I mean I'm scared shitless but ya gotta relax a little."

"What d'ya think I'm doin'?  Driving around 'cause I feel like burnin' gas?  Now can it, Russia."

Yeah, he really needed a nap.  Ok, and I was really getting sick of that "Not-calling-each-other-by-our-names,-even-your-own-godson-thing".  This was gonna be a long zombie apocalypse.  I turned my head away from Victor, his eyes twitching as he glared at the crap-filled street, and I looked out my window.  Man, the city had really been going to hell.  Heaps of bags and trash; suitcases and boxes; broken appliances; shattered glass; busted, broken, and/or burning cars; and whole lot more general debris and chaos.  There were cop cars too, and a turned over SWAT van with its windshield busted in, at Huntington and Stuart.  Reminded me of those pictures you see like on Wikipedia of cities after World War II or something.  Except this had the scattered corpses of people, clumps of dead zombies, and the occasional living one.  

I heard a noise behind me, I looked back and saw it was Vista waking up at last.  She stretched, brushing some of her black hair out of her face.  I think she noticed me looking at her.  She gave me a little, nervous smile, I tied to return a confident, manly half-smile.  Not sure how it turned out.  Vista looked out of the hummer, leaning to the side to see the passing buildings out the windshield.

"Um, Sir, Charleston?  Do you have any food?  Are we going to stop to have breakfast?" she looked plaintively at Gorham and me.

I looked at Gorham, then at Victor.  Right, food.  Damn was I suddenly hungry.  I think the last thing I ate was in my dorm.  My stomach felt empty and it began voicing its desire for food.

"Yeah, Charleston, we should get some food from the trunk."

"No.  I'm saving that for when we need it." Victor's eyes snapped around as he scanned the wreckage-clogged street we were driving down.  He sped up and stopped by a little cafe at the bottom of a parking garage.  It was The Atre Cafe or something like that.  I think we were near Wang Theater.  I thought I knew most of the streets of Boston, guess not.

"Grab weapons from trunk.  Get in, grab n' get out.  Be careful." Victor kept the hummer running as Gorham, Vista, and I hopped out of the car, I was pretty darn stiff though, and hobbled to the trunk.  I took out a 9mm and Gorham took one of Victor's rifles complete with scope.  Vista I think took another handgun.  I also slipped the machete into my belt for good measure.  I led Gorham and Vista up the small flight of stone steps up to the cafe front.  It had a glass front and most of the panes were smashed, at least partially.

"Careful of the glass guys." I said back to Gorham and Vista.

I strode up bravely to the glass door, praying to God there wasn't another 500 pound zombie waiting for me on the inside.  Gotta act cool, you know.  Gorham looked through the smashed store front into the dim cafe inside.

"Looks clear, Russia, let's hurry and get this over with.  Looks like some people didn't make it out."

I pushed open the door, the other two close behind me, I quickly raised my handgun, searching the cluttered cafe for zombies.  The place was a mess; tables were knocked over and coffee and other liquids were spilled across the floor.

"Ok, careful, guys, one of those things could– is that a cinnamon roll?  And coffee?" I lowered my gun and leaped over to the counter.

I picked up the cup of coffee and was about to guzzle the whole thing down my throat when Vista interjected.

"Um, Russia, you don't know what could be in that.  It could be.. I don't know, infected?"

The coffee cup stopped inches from my mouth.

"Oh yeah, good point, Vista." I tossed the coffee cup on the floor.  Somebody'd clean it up.. er, wait...

I proceeded to scoop up the cinnamon roll.  It seemed clean and was still very slightly warm, sorta lukewarm.  I was just about to take a huge bite, my mouth watering, when a frickin' zombie burst up from behind a table.  Apparently the people who didn't make it out were now zombies.  Should've guessed that.  I whipped around, heart hammering against my ribs, 9mm raised.  But before i even had time to fire off one shot, the frickin' zombie's head exploded and the cafe was filled with the loud crack of rifle fire.  An empty cartridge clattered onto the floor.  Gorham stepped beside me rifle raised.  I shook my head to try and alleviate the ringing.

"Let's just grab some food and go, bud."

I blinked at him.  Right, I didn't want to linger.  I jumped over the counter and scooped as much pastries and sandwich material as I could into bags.   Vista searched for more food close by while Gorham stood by the fallen tables, looking this way and that with the rifle of his held ready.  This was obviously not the first time he'd held a gun; Vista though, she held like it was a dead rodent.

"So Charleston probably wouldn't approve of this, but why'd you say you wanted to head up to New Hampshire?  Where is Gorham anyway?" I asked as I jumped back over the counter with my spoils of war.

"My wife, Florence, is up there, visiting her brother, Danny.  I stayed behind 'cause the shop was busy.  I was going to join her this weekend.  Gorham's up in the north of New Hampshire, in the White Mountains."        

"Oh yeah, well I hope she's alright.  How 'bout you, Vista?  You said your parents are in California?"

She nodded, "Yeah... I hope what ever this is hasn't reached there yet."

"Hmm, I wonder where this infection has hit.  Is it just Boston, or the East Coast, or what?" I said scratching my chin.  My hand scratched against the stubble that was growing there. "Oh we should go now, otherwise Charleston's gonna burst in here with a machine gun thinking we're getting eaten."

We all turned to leave when we heard a noise and a small whimper coming fro the employees' only room behind the counter.  Our three gun barrels were pointed at the door in a second.  My heart began racing again as we heard more noises and something walking closer to the door.  Gorham peered down the sight of his rifle.  Then we all jumped as a voice called out from just behind the door.

"Don't shoot!  I'm not sick!  I'm not one of those things!  Please don't– !" the voice was a man's, filled with stress and fear though.

"It's ok, we won't shoot, just get out here!" Gorham called back to him.

The door was pushed open just enough to let the man slip out.  He looked like he was only a couple years older than me, in his mid 20s or so, and was in the dirty clothing of a cafe employee.  A hoop glinted on his eat and he held a butter knife in his hand.  Really?  Come on, man.

"What's your name, kid?" Gorham asked him, rifle lowering.  Vista and I followed suite with our own guns.

"Uh, Clay.  Your not gonna rob me are you?" he mumbled as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand.  I noticed he had a pretty nasty looking bruise on the right side of his forehead.

"What?" Gorham looked surprised, maybe even a little taken aback.  "Why would we rob you?"

"The last people in here did... they, uh, took some others into the parking garage..."

Gorham, Vista, and I all gave each other significant looks.

"Guys, we should– !" I started to say with some alarm.  A door far on the other side of the shop to our left was suddenly hit by what sounded like fists.  A lot of them, more than I cared to stay and find out about.

"Let's go!" I shouted, waving my arms toward the exit.

The door gave in with an explosion of wood splinters.  A pack of those things came tumbling in, mouths open, eyes searching and hungry.  I saw one still had a fresh bite wound on his shoulder.  There must've been nearly twenty zombies shambling down the hall.

"Let's go!  Let's go!" I yelled, pulling Vista out the door, Clay dashing up behind me.

Gorham ran into the doorway, then he turned around and fired off several shots into the pack.  I think I heard some corpses hit the floor.  We all four fled down the steps and flew into the hummer.  Before the doors were even closed Victor was off, zooming down the street; the hummer smashed a sedan out of the way as we fled and as the zombies came stumbling down the steps after us.

"Damn, I must've hit three of those things dead in the chest and they didn't even flinch!" Gorham said as he flicked the safety on his rifle and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  "And these are hunting rounds."

Victor's eyes flicked up to look at the rear view mirror.

"Took you guys long enough.  Stirred up the whole f–king city too.  And who the hell is this?"

"Uh, hi, I'm– ." Clay began, but of course was cut off by Victor.

"Don't tell me yer name.  I don't need to know, neither do I care.  I'll just call you Waiter if I need ya for some reason."

I dished out food to everyone, except Clay says he wasn't hungry.  Something made me think he'd seen more than he'd wanted to today; ugly, terrifying things.

"Bon appétit, everyone." Gorham said as he raised up his sandwich.  We all dug in ravenously, even Victor.

We were speeding past Chinatown, planning I guess to get to the river, or just find a place to hole up for the night.  We were passing Wilbur Theater when we saw them.  Whole packs of them clustered around the theater, battering at its boarded-up doors.  Scared whimpers and yelps could be heard faintly from inside every time one of the things hit the doors.

"Hey, hey, there are people in there!  We gotta help 'em!" Gorham exclaimed.

I felt bad too for the poor bastards locked up in the theater, must be pretty terrifying in there.  Looks like they did a pretty good job of boarding it up though.

"No." grunted Victor, "We keep driving.  Not our problem."

"Charleston, please!  We should at least bust 'em out through the back or something.  Come on, listen to 'em!  They need he– gelp!" that last word came out as this weird strangling noise because Victor had suddenly braked and swerved the car the car around.

He kicked it into high gear, driving right into the main pack gathered at the front doors of the theater.  Zombies tumbled over the windshield leaving bloody streaks; zombies were smacked by the side mirrors, bones cracking and heads turning at unnatural angles; zombies were run over by the hummer with that sickening bump and crunch.  Blood spattered onto my window making me jump.  Victor stopped the car.  He wrenched the door open, marching to the back of the hummer and throwing the trunk open.

"Ya wanna help these people?" he said as he cocked his AK-47, "Then hurry up and grab a gun."                      

Extraneorum

Captain Germanicus' report to the Senate of Rome and Emperor Trajan:
I, Germanicus Manius Gaius Flavius Albus, veteran of Dacia and the Germanic frontier, was stationed by request in Britannia.  I desired to see the wild land Caesar so long ago had landed on and I thought I might make a life there.  I was put in charge of a garrison from Eboracum; we patrolled the city's borders, guarding against intrusions and raids of the Picts and Brittunculi.  We did stop a raid of several of the local tribes from reaching the city.  It happened on the fourteenth day of Iunius, a warm, gentle day; I was leading six of by best men in a scouting mission to the north of the city.  There was Marcus Bubulcus a broad man from Gaul; Quintus Galerius Licinius, the son of a colonist from Londinium; Aelius Scipio and Nerva Naevius, my two lightest scouts, both from Italia; Armendric called Alexander, a Burgundi tribute soldier stationed here; and Tiberius Brutus from Syria.  Aelius was ranging ahead when he rushed back, face slick with sweat.  He said he had found strange Pictish machine.  We were all curious to see this contraption, for as of yet Rome had seen no cleverness in the Britons.  We hurried to the fell where he had found it; the thing lay on the grassy side of one of the sloping hills, exposed to the sky, dark trees all around.  We circled around it, inspecting it and trying to discern its purpose.  The alien thing was made of a dark metal seemingly akin to steel; strange rivulets or strings of blue ran down the center of the monument.  It stood easily two men tall and bout three wide, prongs, four of them, reached up in the center of the thing, which was roughly tear drop shaped.  Finding no discernible purpose to it, we searched inscription or markings.  Though the thing was covered in octagonal designs of foreign origin, we could make nothing of it, but instead we found a hatch to inside the Pictish edifice.  I ordered Bubulcus to pry it open; he was just about to give the hatch a great heave when it opened easily before his hand with the hiss of hot water in a pipe.  Inside it was dark except for similar blue lighting, like the sun seen through ocean water; Aelius and Nerva were able to fit inside easily.  They found many strange Pictish ornaments and odd octagonal pieces of the dark metal.  I kept having a growing bad feeling about this whole thing; I began to question where this strange monolith was truly made.  Then Aelius and Nerva brought out the corpse.  It was shrunken and emaciated as with famine; its veins were of the same azure blue  as the rivulets on the monument; its skin was gray like a corpse, and had un-human hands more like claws; and its eyes were large, circular, and black.  The tribal creature had a split in its chest that oozed green ichor.  I knew this was no Pictish landmark or ritual monument, but something far more foreign and mysterious.  We loaded all the artifacts onto our horses, who acted with some suspicion around the pieces of metal.  We rode hard all the way down Britannia to Londinium to consult the governor.  On the way, as we were camping only several miles north of the city in the forest, Quintus and Aelius were inspecting the ornaments when one of them clamped onto Quintus' arm.  In the struggle to get it off, another ornament a little longer than Quintus' clasped onto Aelius' arm.  The cuffs caused no pain and were the same coloring as the monument; as we consulted with each other, Quintus' let off a pulse of azure fire that extinguished our fire but also charged his sword with the glow of lightning.  One of the octagonal pieces of metal flew into the air, unfolding to cover Quintus in armor that marched the steel armor he had worn.  The ornaments then came alive with activity: one flew up and strapped itself around Bubulcus' shoulders and chest, with the armor following soon after; a second cuff wrapped around Quintus' free wrist; an ornament clasped onto Nerva's upper arm; an ornament that turned into a gauntlet folded around Alexander's forearm; Tiberius received one cuff around his wrist; and I too had one of the ornaments wrap around my shoulders.  After all was done, we all had new, dark sets of armor to replace our old.  And that is what happened the night of the thirtieth day of Iunius; that is how we, the Extraneorum, were made.     

Seneca Blasted Zone

Cal turned the nob on his gas mask, pressurizing his suit with a sharp pneumatic hiss.  He picked up his rifle, slinging the fraying strap over his armored shoulder.  He ran through the usual preps through his head.  He had done this thing a thousand times before; satisfied that all routine precautions were met, Cal sealed the the door behind him and then opened the vault door in front of him.  A hiss filled the little airlock he stood waiting in.  The blaring sunlight of a noon sun filled the dark hall; Cal's eyes were protected by the tinted goggles of his gas mask.  The usual open vista of brown hilly wasteland and patches of bare tree trunks opened up before him.  It looked to be a usual sunny day in the Seneca Blasted Zone.  Cal clunked across the open yard to the old barn he used as a shed to store some of his least important gear, like his bow and arrow and extra horseshoes.  His horse, Braxton Bragg, he kept in his dwelling.  Cal's hired farmhands– there were about six or seven of them– lived in the old rest station across the yard from the barn.   

Cal had learned, in his exploring he did in his free time, that he lived in what was once called New York– why it was called new, he did not know– before the War of Wars, but now was called the Seneca Blasted Zone, which stretched from the Eastern Lake down to the ruins of the Great City on the coast and the irradiated forests in the south, and up to the Wreckage Lakes in the north and west.  Cal himself lived in a small bunker near an old farm, only the barn remained, and a rest station.  The town of Echo-Point One, a thriving community on the banks of Dead River, was a couple miles down the remnants of the old world highway.

Edmund, Clancy, Michael, and the brothers Percy and Olson Gauge were already suited up and mounting their horses.  Kelly was lagging behind as usual.  Cal and his farmhands were cowboys: a select few brave or foolhardy men who rode across the Blasted Zones delivering cattle and other livestock to towns or wealthy warlords.  Sometimes they were hired just for their guns to act as escorts or extra muscle to drive away bandits or raiders, or merely to deliver precious postage.

Cal, after seeing the cattle were safe and sound in the barn, walked back across the yard, dust puffing up in clouds behind him and the grass crunching under his boots.  He unlocked and lifted up the blast door to Braxton's pen in the bunker itself.  The horse whinnied at the familiar look and stench of his master.  Braxton had black-to-brown hair and intelligent golden eyes; he was of course one of the genetically-altered animals, unaltered livestock couldn't survive in the Zones, so that they could survive all the radiation still floating around after the end of days.  The cattle were the same.  Unaltered animals only existed in stories and supposedly in the unopened Vaults.

Once Kelly finally got out and mounted, the seven men opened up the barn and began to corale the cows.  Cal was supposed to deliver the cattle to a powerful warlord in Smoke Town along the coast of East Wreckage Lake.  While being a cowboy was incredibly dangerous it was very rewarding and lucrative if you could do it right and survive.  They rounded up the cattle, Cal used a lasso to control a particularly troublesome cow while the farmhands used prods to herd on the other cattle.

"Keep your weapons cocked and eyes open!" Cal called to his men, "Now let's ride!"

All the farmhands had rifles like Cal, except for Clancy who only had a bow and arrow and low caliber pistol.

With a thunder and clouds of brown dust, the cowboys encouraged the cattle on as they began to thunder off across the valleys and hills on their ninety mile long road to Smoke Town.           

The Progenitors: Vor and Athaneans

Vorian Republic:

Capital: Vorpiter 

Government: Socialist republic

Language: Ril

The Vor of Vorpiter were a race with a strong collective consciousness simply called the Noosphere.  The Vor were a mammalian species with blue or flesh-toned skin that grow hair of dark shades.  They have bone protrusions on their foreheads that are arranged in various patterns and designs.  An individual Vor's brain didn't contain the components for memory and holding learned skills, but these things were instead automatically put into the Noosphere for all Vor to draw from.  Unlike the Prothen, who had a similar collective consciousness in the T'ra, the Vor didn't have any concept of the individual.  The Vor were ruled by the Great Mind, a Vor who had ascended fleshly form and became the Noosphere itself; the Great Mind could, at any time it desired, possess a Vor or Vor, this was the basis for the destruction of the "person" in Vorian society.  The Republic was in effect ruled by the Great Mind, or indeed, the Republic was the Great Mind, since all Vor were one in the Noosphere.  Vorpiter was a lush, resource-rich world; this easy environment allowed the Vor to construct a relaxed republic.  Also due to their strong racial connection in the early Noosphere made the Vor very peaceful amongst themselves which made global government easily achieved.  It is unknown what Vorian society was like before the Great Mind, it seems all records of that time have disappeared.  The Noosphere made the Vor a generally peaceful race: they put an end to the First War, the cataclysmic war between the powerful Kronn Bureaucratic Empire and the rising Teloph Combine; they aslo ended the imperial wars between the Kronn and the newly discovered Prothen Empire.  When the Galactic Tetrarchy was formed, the Vor were always the mediators in the Council, especially between the Kronn and Telophs.  The Great Mind seemed to have foreseen the Dark Epoch because only a minority of galactic fringe-dwelling Vor got the implants of microscopic organisms.  When the Dark Epoch began with the infection sweeping through the galactic fringe colonies of the Tetrarchy powers, Vor losses were minimal and the Republic quickly fortified against the infection.  Through the long centuries of the Dark Epoch, the Vor fought alongside the Prothen Empire against the growing infection, even as the Telophs were wiped out by the Kronn-made artificially intelligent Cyth and as the Kronn themselves were drawing closer to extinction.  For uncertain reasons though, either due to loss of population or some decree of the Great Mind, the majority of Vor suddenly fled Republic space, warping to some remote corner of the galaxy, never to be seen again.          

Athanean Federation:
Capital: Byzaren
Government: Stratocracy
Language: High Athanese
Athaneans, one of the surviving children species, formed their Federation during the long centuries of the Dark Epoch, carving out a large enough portion of the galaxy to be considered an equal to the Tetrarchal species.  Early Athaneans were enslaved by the Kronn along with thousands of other "barbarous" races deemed to "uncivilized for civilization" to build many of the wonders of the Kronns' empire.  When the infection began to tear apart the galaxy, the Athaneans along with thousands of other children species rebelled against the Kronn and declared independence.  Many of these small, newly created nations bereft of Kronn protection usually were swept away by the infection, but the war-like Athaneans held together.  They assimilated what Kronn technology remained in their little domain and reformed their society around the the military; a powerful stratocracy was formed with polemarchs, commander-rulers, leading the new polity.  The Athaneans flew out in small, well armed, highly trained armies using long-range weapons tactics to reclaim lost worlds.  On the Federation's path to reclaiming the galaxy, they came across many children species barely holding on to existence; a key Federation ideology was formed then: that of Stewardship.  The Athaneans took it upon themselves to save every sentient species they came upon by pulling them into the Federation.  Three of the main races brought into the Federation were the Barari, Narubs, and Phaldar who all became key members of the Federation.  The Athanean Federation reclaimed a huge portion of the galaxy– even claiming lost Prothen worlds– with the goal of eventually taking Krodia Prime from the infection.  But even the powerful Federation, cleanser of a thousand worlds, fell around 86,540 -AI due to enormity of borders, civil unrest within the Federation, and hundreds of infected systems within the Federation itself.  The Federation, though, should be remembered for its long and successful fight against the infection; being the only species to have retaken so much space from the infection and able to hold of cases of internal spread of the infection.  The Barari come from the frost-bound caves of Barar I, they are a very unique species of alien; they are mammalian, covered in white fur, with a lupine face, but their bodies are long like a snake's and they have multiple sets of arms.  They have powerful innate telekinetic psionics.  The Narubs of Narubia, a gas giant wracked by extreme solar winds, are a race of humanoid insects who live in great, floating hives, the thick walls of their lairs and their own chitinous carapaces protecting them from the jet streams of solar radiation.  Unlike the Barari, the Narubs had to be militarily conquered by the Athaneans, who took it upon themselves to "preserve" any surviving children species by folding them into the Federation.  The humanoid Phaldar of unstable Phaldarax, a world of crystal mountains and jungles of fungus long ago devastated by a great psychic disaster, are slight, have green or gray skin, and possess innate psionics.