None of them follow Angel as he walks away. A short man (and since this is the Imperium, that makes him only slightly shorter than Angel) covered in scented oils strolls past, pushing a cart containing an array of dishes on gold plates, heated from underneath and sealed under plastic domes. “Food, Sir? Beverage, Sir?”
Angel nods slightly, looking over the offerings. “What do you suggest?”
The man brings up a small holodisplay on the cart. “Based on your profile, might I suggest...the braised quint fin and spink belly, served in a rhipon fruit and acid juice?” He spritzes a mist in Angel’s face. “A sample, Sir.”
Angel’s eyes widen slightly as he’s somehow bombarded by a heavily spiced dish, thinking it over for a long moment. “Yes...that will do nicely, thank you.”
“Very well, Sir.” The serving man pulls a dish from the complex warming gantry, sliding a ceramic insulator underneath from a container inside, and twists the plastic lid, unsealing it with a slight pop. “Shall I page a beverage or stim cart? We have paired recommendations of each for this dish. A distilled drink made with pirina grass juices, and a cocktail of stims to deepen your savory perception and adjust your perception of time to fully appreciate the complex flavors of the meats.”
“Just the beverage, no stims for the moment.” Angel replies simply. “And a favor, if you’re so inclined?”
The man nods - but Angel detects a hint of fear from the man. “Of course, Sir.”

Angel keeps his voice steady and even, trying not to make the man’s concern any worse. “I’m looking for someone, but you know how nobles are, especially at parties like this. Is there any chance you’ve run across someone, or a group of someones, whose orders just scream ‘Industrium head’?”
The serving man gives Angel a confused look. “But...you are an industrium leader, Sir. As are many of the others here.”
Angel chuckles. “Besides me. More specifically, the Faxom-Io board.”
The man nods. “Of course, Sir, they are on the topmost level.”
Angel inclines his head. “See, that wasn’t so terrible a request was it?” Angel mentally transfers the better part of a day’s wages for the man into his account, and takes a bite from his meal. “Yes, just that and the beverage. Stims can wait.”
“Thank you, Sir,” the man says. “And...if I may say so, they can be much worse.” His eyes flicker off to the side to...someone, Angel can’t tell who, as he hands Angel his plate. He turns and flags down a beverage cart. “Your drink, Sir. Enjoy the party.”

Drink in hand, Angel starts working his way toward where the waiter suggested he would find the board, his progress slow, stopping to mingle now and again as mood, or need, suited him, not looking to make it obvious where he was headed.
A dark presence looms over Angel’s shoulder from nowhere. “I heard you had a discussion with the Rav-Odun and her brother,” Hasaeph says.
Angel’s reply is even, and a little cold. “They aren’t dead.”
“I am not here to scold you, Mr. Kesh,” Hasaeph replies. “In fact, it was entertaining. You wound the Rav-Odun up quite well.”
Angel chuckles slightly and takes another sip of his drink. “In truth, it was easier than I was expecting. I don’t think she sleeps well at night.”
“She ordered the death of dozens of her soldiers, I doubt you would, either,” Hasaeph replies.
“No, I wouldn’t.” Angel replies simply.
“The board will speak to you now,” Hasaeph says, “unless you want to go ruffle some more nobles.”
“Tempting as that is, I was just on my way up.” Angel nods to the corporate...enforcer. “Lead the way.”

Hasaeph does just that - metaphorically, of course, a man like Hasaeph habitually avoids the front of any line he’s currently in - and one more flight of floating impeller stairs later, Angel arrives at what looks like a private party within the private party. Seven nobles, dressed even more conservatively than Angel, sit around a round table - one with eight chairs. They’re well-catered for with food; not just carts, but an entire cook station with its own chef, paired with a barman-slash-drug mixer that - Oh shit, that’s...that’s...Eo, from Khalkiota. Angel can tell he recognizes him from his time as Tanakta, bodyguard and boyfriend to the very, very wanted Haralin Arakuna, and curiously, doesn’t seem to give a shit.

Angel nods, taking a drink, and once they’re out of earshot, sighs softly. “You need to hire bartenders with worse memories.”
“Would you rather we let him wander around the party?” Hasaeph whispers back. “The top of the service industry in Akis is a very small world, this way, we know he is here and not talking to anyone.”
The scout shrugs. “So long as you’ve got it handled, and I’m not going to get my name whispered to Imperial intelligence without the pleasure of actually, you know, doing something worthwhile to rate it…”
“Eo has been paid handsomely for his time and his silence,” Hasaeph replies. “He remembers the drink you liked. Have one, and have fun.” He gives Angel a slap on the back with a chuckle and takes a few steps back as the seven nobles sitting at the table turn towards Angel.

“Fun. Right…” Angel heads toward the table, spotting an empty spot and sitting down. “Gentlemen. Ladies.”
“Enjoying the party, Mr…” the man seated opposite Angel starts.
“Kesh. And it’s splendid - the set dressing was a nice touch, though the guest list could use some work.”
“I presume you mean the Rav-Odun and her Khiraba brother,” a woman, about Angel’s age, seated on his half of the table says. “I’d have thought that someone with your experience with the Khiraba would have known better than to try to wind one up, even in public.” Her brow furrows. “Especially in public.”
Angel smiles slightly, as if reviewing a particularly fond memory. “My...experience...with the Khiraba suggested a whole lot more than just winding him up, but Hasaeph already gave me the talk about playing nice. But I had to get some fun out of their presence here.”
Half of the table looks to the woman for her response. She narrows her brow at Angel, then gives a half smirk and a nod. “Fair enough.”
The man at the head of the table leans forward again. “So, Mr. Kesh, we are here today to discuss your continued work with Faxom-Io. You have already done exemplary work on the behalf of Faxom-Io on Narsai, very exemplary. But, as I’m sure you would understand, we had some concerns about your...status. And so, we allowed you to embark on a trial period. Your brother was advanced a limited amount of funds and material to see what you could do, and now we know - you are quite a capable businessman.”
Angel takes a sip of his drink, scanning the group a little bit before he speaks. “That’s appreciated, and I’m glad you approve - but I very much doubt you felt the need to all come here just to tell me what a magnificent job I’ve been doing spending your money.”
“On the contrary,” the equally august woman sitting next to the head of the table says. “Some of us don’t care either way who comes out on top with your little war, just as long as business keeps going well - and we don’t get strapped to the re-education grids.” The remaining silent woman and one of the silent men both nod.
“But that is not what we are here for,” the man continues, putting a hand on the matching appendage of the woman seated next to him. “We are here to discuss if Angel Rivera, now Angel Kesh, has a place in Faxom-Io.” He levels his gaze at Angel. “So, where do you see your place here? What do you want out of this arrangement? War materiel? Financial support? A smuggling pipeline?”
“War materiel and a smuggling pipeline never hurt anything.” Angel replies simply, his cadence suggesting he has more to say than that. “But neither one are really the answer. I love my planet - in a way I think none of you can really understand, keeping in mind that until recently, we only thought we had the one. And I think we can win our war - I think the Imperium’s technological superiority isn’t nearly the edge they think it is, and it has rendered them cocky and complacent. Hell, our own technical superiority rendered us cocky and complacent.”

He pauses for another moment, thinking. “But I’ve seen what becomes of backwater countries with more guts than sense, even if they win a war. The lose the peace. They end up as sites for cheap labor, making products they can’t afford, and taking on rich people’s problems, lats for sand. And that is not something I’m particularly interested in for my home. The fact that this dovetails rather nicely into tech to make the war a little easier is...a convenient side effect.”
The man thinks for a second. “Which means…”

“Which means rapidly catching Narsai up with the rest of the...civilized galaxy...for lack of a better term. And in the process, giving Faxom-Io access to a new market, a captive market...and a few billion minds turning toward making products the Imperium has never seen before, never thought of, because we don’t have any notion of ‘This is just how things are done’.”
That gets the attention of the whole table. “You are proposing...a slow release of products over time? Older generations first, and then year over year, ensuring repeat sales?”

“Not necessarily planned obsolescence like that, but yes. Narsai doesn’t necessarily need the Imperium’s newest. Can’t necessarily even use the Imperium’s newest. Some of the things you all consider low margin, mundane...are nigh miraculous. And then, in time, it blends with Narsai technology, Narsai design. And you have a source of innovation no other industrium can tap.”
There’s a scoff from one of the younger men at the table. “What innovation? We’ve read Gorlan’s report on Narsai’i technology. Hydrocarbon fuels? Combustion? Silicon computers? We already know how to bang two rocks together.”

“Do you?” Angel smiles, but the smile is thin, almost...dangerous. “Consider two men. One has a Khiraba issued stealth suit, and a beam rifle. The other a sharp bit of alloyed metal, and some muddy clothes made of cheap synthetic. The first has an insurmountable advantage, does he not?”
The younger man rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously not, because this is your example. I cannot wait for your illuminating answer.”
“Both the Khiraba and his partner died with that sharp bit of alloy lodged inside them. I’ve fought the Imperium’s best, using dyed cloth and weapons that use chemical reactants to fire solid projectiles. All those things you mention? Those are things. Things don’t matter - ideas matter. And your Khiraba die because I think differently than they do. I have different assumptions. A different perspective. I evaluate things you take for granted, because to me, they are brand new. And I take your ideas, your products, and use them in ways that it wouldn’t occur to you to, because that’s not what they’re for. Now multiply that by a few billion people, and apply it to things beyond my notable talent for killing.”
“So we hire a few consultants,” the younger man says. “Message us the details.” He turns to the two elders at the table. “We don’t need to front a few billion lats of equipment to this backwater hole to make a few billion more.”

Angel finishes off his drink, and nods. “If you don’t, someone else will. Good luck with the consultants, we know that always goes so well. Enjoy the party.” He inclines his head to the group, standing.
“Mr. Kesh, please, sit,” the lead man says. “Ti - I mean, he does not speak for all of us.” He gives him a hard look. “Some of us see the larger picture. A new industrium, for example.”

Angel acquiesces, sitting back down and resisting the urge to call ‘Ti’ or whatever his name is ‘Junior’, motioning for a refill on his beverage as he does.
“This is what you are proposing, yes?” the woman next to the head of the table, who seems increasingly like his wife. “The foundation of a new industrium on Narsai. We share designs and expertise with your people, and in return your planet becomes a Faxom-Io market and provides a whole new line of our products to be sold Imperium-wide.”

“That would be exactly what I was proposing.” the scout agreed.
“Can you provide any proof that this might be a worthwhile endeavour?” the head of the table asks.
“This outfit doesn’t exactly leave room for a design studio but…” Angel produces a new iPhone from whatever dubious storage his outfit has, passing it to the man at the head of the table. “This is...the closest we’ve come to a vox.”
He turns it over in his hands, pressing the buttons. Its crisp, austere design is a marked departure from, well, nearly everything about Imperial design. The fact that more than half of the table’s clothes are actively levitating in some way or another is proof enough. “No holodisplay? Only a flat surface?” he asks.

“We’re still working mostly with high-resolution panel displays. Most of our media is still formatted that way, and it was intended as a media consumption device.”
“Interesting. It’s...attractive, in its own way,” the head of the table says as he passes it around.
“It’s boring,” the stuck-up asshole chimes in. “Why not just market a plain cube?”
“It’s balanced,” the younger woman who spoke up about the Khiraba replies. “Balance is harder to achieve than you would think - or maybe not, given your stim proclivities.” The asshole glares at her across the table.
“At any rate, it’s different,” the elder woman says. “And different is always good for Faxom-Io.” She looks up at Angel. “How long do you estimate your lead time would be?”

“Staged. As mentioned, the older model tech from the Imperium can have customers on Narsai almost immediately, especially government and industry contracts. Hybrid technology for the native market should follow a year or two after that for the basics - it will of course take some time to catch up. Products for the Imperial market...will take longer, especially as they’ll need to stand up to greater scrutiny.”
“We can obscure the production sources,” the woman replies with a wave. “The Imperium does not care where the products come from as long as their tributes come in on time.”
“And you estimate that the sales drop off from saturating Narsai will be counteracted by the increased off-world sales of Narsai’i products?” the head asks.
“Off-world is a very big market. And saturating Narsai is replacing an entire world’s products with items that at the very least generate licensing fees. Even if it does taper, a few fortunes will have been made in the meantime.”

“Very good,” the head replies. “Well, I think Mr. Kesh has made his business case, are we agreed?” Even the jerk-off in the glittering green outfit nods at that. “Then it’s simply a matter of the personal case.” He looks back to Angel. “Mr. Kesh, if we agree to go through with this arrangement on a more permanent basis, we will be placing not only ourselves, but the millions of Faxom-Io employees under a considerable amount of danger. The Imperium discovering not only a Narsai’i but an 815 at the top of our pan-industrium would lead to the lives of everyone involved with Faxom-Io being turned upside-down and shaken until they came apart. That is why we are...concerned about whether or not you are equipped to live the life you are attempting to step into. Even if some of us are sympathetic to your cause, the board as a whole is very concerned with how you might conduct yourself - a soldier such as yourself has not exactly been raised for tact and subtlety. Even if you are face-to-face with someone such as Rav-Odun Lobsha down there, there is concern as to whether or not you will be able to act appropriately. We cannot have a Faxom-Io board member antagonizing high-ranking Imperial officials, after all.”

“I am well aware of the stakes.” Angel says simply, giving the asshole a thoughtful expression. “And I have no particular urge to see Faxom-Io placed in an untenable position. Which is why my role in this new...industrium…is concentrated on Narsai. My brother is capable of tremendous tact when he is of the mind to be, and my involvement on this end of the gate is primarily relegated to, well, his somewhat eccentric adopted brother who's probably spent too much time in the hinterlands. And if someone like that can’t tweak an Imperial official’s nose every now and again...good lord, I don’t know what they’re all fighting to save. Angel Kesh is an easily dismissed, middle-weight noble with too much time and not much political clout.”
“And that is something that must be changing,” the elder woman says. “Your brother’s work has decreased significantly in quality since taking on the bulk of the work for the Kesh Holdings experiment. We fear that he has shouldered too much of the load of your work, Mr. Kesh. You will need to take a more active role in Faxom-Io affairs if this is going to work.”

“The majority of the ‘Kesh Holdings’ experiment has been Imperium-driven for some time, and that will change. But I understand you meaning. In that case, Angel Kesh is an easily dismissed, middle-weight noble with too little time and his nose buried in an accounting report. Still not a threat to concern themselves with. And I will remind you that part of my job is to make sure your brand new market isn’t turned to ash.”
“Of course,” the head replies. “But there is nothing ‘middle-weight’ about a Faxom-Io board member, Mr. Kesh.”
“So don’t make me a board member.”
“With the added contribution from Kesh Holdings on top of Kesh Pharma and the Hedion’i division, you and your brother now single-handedly constitute seven percent of all Faxom-Io pan-industrium revenue,” the man says. “That alone qualifies you for a seat at this table, Mr. Kesh.”
Angel smiles slightly. “And it’s appreciated, but it makes things complicated. Hell, I’ve managed to hold up my end of an interplanetary war and get myself on the Imperium’s most wanted without even making Sergeant. If it makes it easier to leave that seat empty, if it exposes you and your employees to less risk…” Angel shrugs slightly. “I’ll live.”
“On the contrary, it makes you more impenetrable to scrutiny,” the elder woman says. “Angel Kesh, Faxom-Io board member, is a...’heavy-weight’, I suppose you would say. You speak with the authority of the Faxom-Io pan-industrium behind you, instead simply as an employee.”
“And it keeps the Turai from poking too closely into who you are,” the asshole chimes in. “Useful for when you pull stunts like you did tonight.” He gives Angel a shit-eating smirk.

“Well then, I suppose I have to accept.” Angel gives the jerk a grin back. “But tonight is as nice as I’m going to play with the psychopath murder-mercs. Believe me, it is a vast improvement over my usual approach.”
“Is this with all Turai, or just the Khiraba and those that have defeated your people?” the head asks.
“There’s an ex-Turai on 815. As soldiers, I have nothing but respect for them. The Khiraba on the other hand have...yet to earn that. I don’t even particularly have cause to dislike those who defeated my people - at least on anything more than a tactical level. It was the...manner in which they handled the defeat.”
“Go on,” the Turai-wise woman says.
“The executions. And the arena. They’re barbaric. The Imperium should aspire to better.” Angel says simply. “The Narsai’i are imperfect, but at least we try. I’ll have my brother send you a copy of something we call the ‘Geneva Convention’. It’s our document on the treatment of prisoners and the waging of war. You should find it...illuminating...in trying to understand my feelings.”
The younger woman nods.
“Then we shall have to keep you away from any functions where the Khiraba will be present,” the head of the table adds. “Fortunately, that should not be that hard. The rest of your duties as board member can be handled via vox.”
“Of course, as member of the board, there are certain benefits,” the elder woman says, and flicks her eyes to the side - she must have the more human-looking implants, because a moment later Angel’s vox chimes in his ear. “Full access to Faxom-Io facilities, including our research star system, all pan-industrium privileges and freedoms the Imperium provides, and a signing bonus.”
Research. Star. System? Angel raises an eyebrow slightly. “That’s very generous.”
“Be sure to let your brother know that he can reduce throttle,” the elder woman says. “That young man deserves a vacation.”
Angel smirks at that. “Believe me, I’ve been trying. If you’ll excuse me, my original plan for the night was to get him ever so slightly drunk and find some handsome young thing for him to go home with.”
“Only need to make things official,” the head of the table says. He waves for one of the attendants at the table to bring a physical pad over. “Hand on the pad, and enter your combination code.” Angel puts his hand down on the pad, and types in a personal code before handing it back. The board stands up and bows to Angel. “Welcome to the board, Mr. Kesh,” the head says.
“Glad to be here.”

Angel leaves the company of the board, giving the bartender a brief nod before he heads back down the long staircase, looking for Gorlan in the milling crowd. He sees him off towards the edge of the dome, three levels down - and chatting with an young man with caramel skin and angular features. Angel heads off in his direction, followed by a impeller-supported tray carrying his drink and meal. He deliberately chooses an angle where Gorlan will be able to see him approach, looking for the telltale signs of ‘Go away, I’m closing the deal’ as he does. Gorlan gives Angel a different look as he approaches - a big smile and a double-flash of raised eyebrows, the universal “check him out” look.

“And here is my brother, Angel!” Gorlan calls, waving Angel over.
Angel heads over, smiling at Gorlan and clapping him on the shoulder. “Brother...enjoying the party?”
“Very much so,” Gorlan replies. He turns to the man standing next to him - dressed in a violet and blue suit whose patterns and textures shimmer and shift as Angel looks. His shaved chest is on display as the suit climbs his sides and back into a truly impressive collar and sleeves. “Angel, this is Hekiaj, my...paramour.”

Angel nods, honestly more puzzled by Imperial fashion than the presence of the young man, who could probably make a good living for himself as an underwear model if this whole “Imperial Noble” thing didn’t work out. “Hekiaj, pleasure to meet you.”
Hekiaj bows to Angel. “It is good to meet you, Angel.” He puts an arm behind Gorlan’s back.
“Hekiaj is a Harumdor Tech industrium representative, and a very good one at that,” Gorlan adds. “How was your meeting with the board?” Hekiaj gives Gorlan a confused look, but Gorlan silences him with a peck on the cheek.

Angel smiles, genuinely happy to see Gorlan happy. “Good enough that we’re apparently on it. They think you’re shouldering too much, and a second Kesh might be able to help.”
“You hear that, Gorlan?” Hekiaj says with a big smile. “They’re making you hand off responsibility for a change.”
“No forcing is necessary,” Gorlan replies. “Angel is more than capable, I was just…” He gives Angel an apologetic look. “I was afraid of pushing too much onto him before he felt he was ready.”

Angel smiles. “No apologies necessary Gorlan. If nothing else, I’d like to see you able to relax a little bit.”
“Aww, how cute,” Hekiaj says. “Are you sure you’re not related by birth?”
“Quite.” Angel smiles. “Kindred spirits is all, as it turns out.” Gorlan just smiles.
“Well, Angel, if you don’t mind, my lover has promised me a night to make up for the many, many nights we have missed,” Hekiaj says, rubbing down Gorlan’s thigh. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
Gorlan blushes through his tan skin. “Uh…” he stammers, clearly flustered and...interested in Hekiaj’s extracurricular activities.
Angel gives his brother a slight smirk before nodding. “You kids have fun now.”
Hekiaj gives Gorlan a peck on the cheek. “Come, lover.” Gorlan blushes further as Hekiaj leads him off.
Angel watches them go, his coat fluttering in something that looks for all the world like contentment before he turns, surveying the rest of the party. He catches the glance of a few women - and men - who are eyeing him with something more than casual interest. “Let’s see about another drink…”

She was already gone by the time Angel woke up in the morning. N...something, something with slightly too many consonants, and hair color that definitely didn’t occur in nature. Which was probably useful for her job - sales executive for a boutique genemodding outfit, and apparently a very accomplished one at that.

And, if the truth was told, an altogether pleasant way to spend the rest of the night after Gorlan had left. But, apparently busy socialite that he was, Angel Kesh had other appointments - a desert firing range and a grizzled old Turai waited at the other end of a skimmer ride out past the city. The appointment has been updated with tracking coordinates, and Angel’s skimmer quickly blasts him the hundred-odd miles outside of the Akis dome. As he pulls over the site, Angel can clearly see a somewhat worn yellow-and-red skimmer parked between the dunes, and a chrome-clad figure standing next to it. He brings the skimmer down low and lands it neatly next to Yarim.

“Enjoy your night?” Yarim asks as Angel steps out of his chrome teardrop.

Angel chuckles slightly. “She was extremely...flexible. Yourself?”
“Playing designated tough for a bunch of prissy rich fools isn’t exactly my idea of a good night, but I made do,” Yarim replies. “Now, let’s do something a little more entertaining.” He waves his hand towards his skimmer, popping the back open and revealing a loading bed stacked with a dozen different weapons crates. “Where would you like to start?”

Angel nods. “My sympathies. I hope the pay was at least decent?” Looking over the crates, Angel ponders a bit. “What’s your favorite?”
“Do you remember the development towards shoulder-carried weapons firing hand-held Narsai’i ammunition I mentioned?” Yarim asks, and pulls a small - even for a PDW/SMG-type weapon - chrome and bronze weapon out of a crate. It’s got a fat, straight magazine - it looks like it’s triple-stacked - and a fat barrel that doubles as the foregrip. “Here’s the first example. Same electromagnetic firing mechanism as your sidearm, but with additional magnetic field stabilization and a helm-integrated optics setup.” He hands Angel the weapon, and when his hand wraps around the grip, the action snaps forward, ready to fire.

Angel keeps a grip on the weapon, getting a feel for it - the Imperial interpretation of a firearm is always a little...off - before experimentally aiming the weapon downrange, bracing himself and pulling the trigger. The experience is altogether disconcerting - he’d think it was a toy gun, what with the occasional snap-click as the only sound the thing makes, save for little puffs of dirt where the rounds eventually hit the ground.

“Impressive. They’re getting better at the accelerators.”
“Just narrowing in on the correct curve for the magnetic dampening,” Yarim replies. “Narsai’i weaponry is still new to them.” He nods to a collection of plastic containers full of water. “Got a few hundred underneath the weapons, so do what you want, Mr. Kesh, unless you want to try something else.”

Somewhat experimentally, Angel long-arms the SMG, firing it off with one hand and finding it remarkably comfortable. Nodding in satisfaction, he sets it down.

“I can’t see much use for it in my line of work - takes all the sport out of things. But I can imagine keeping a couple on hand for some interested clients. You know the type - trying to distract themselves from fat wives and expensive mistresses by firing off a bunch of rounds at...well, it doesn’t really matter what. They should enjoy these immensely.”
“Hmph,” Yarim says. “Perhaps.” He doesn’t sound especially convinced as he reaches into the skimmer.
“On the other hand, might keep one of those little shoulder things around as a sidearm too - for the ‘Oh god, kill it!’ fuckup you get every now and again.”
Yarim pulls out a more traditional Imperial weapon - a chamakana. This one is considerably bulkier than the ones Angel is used to, the sleek and streamlined Turai standard-issue. It’s much more boxy and thick, and that extends to the accelerator shroud - usually a slim ring around the rod, this one looks more like a Thermos from the business end. “There’s been attempts at heavy beamers for a couple thousand years, but everyone thought that the increased range and power wasn’t worth the ammunition trade-off, until the Narsai’i showed up. Here’s a pre-production version of what Stanti is working on - only has a hundred shots per rod, but each shot has ten times the punch.”

Angel nods, hefting up the heavy beamer. It’s a heavy, bulky device by Imperial standards, and he finds himself bracing rather more than he was expecting to. Aiming at a water bottle in the distance he fires, and is rewarded with a spectacular detonation as the surge of power from the weapon strips the molecules of water apart at an atomic level, igniting the suddenly very combustible hydrogen-oxygen mix. There is an unrepentant grin on his face as he puts the weapon down.

“I don’t even want to know where you got this, but I want one.”
“I owe my contact that particular one, but I’m sure something can be arranged,” Yarim replies, his hand out.
Handing the weapon back, Andel nods. “Just let me know what it costs.”
Yarim hangs the heavy beamer around his shoulder and then pulls the largest case in the skimmer towards him. “Keeping with that theme, here’s what Harumdor’s far-out-there weapons Keepers have been working on.” The case pops open at his touch, and reveals...the biggest fucking rifle Angel’s ever seen. It looks about ten percent again the size of the ridiculous gyro-stabilized precision weapon that…one of the Iyuzo tried to use to kill one of the other Iyuzo. The magazine lies in the open-cell foam next to it, and inside it are the bullets, each one looking like a three-quarter inch diameter plug of heavy metal alloy, jacketed by a soft lead sheath and shaped to an aerodynamic point. A circuit contact ring is halfway down the shiny chrome casing, hinting at further techno-wizardry within. The rifle itself looks nearly as long as Angel is tall, with a muzzle brake the size of both of his fists put together. The barrel assembly gyroscopes and floats about as Yarim hefts the weapon out of the case, and as he moves to shoulder it, a bipod automatically deploys to the ground below.
“Fully gyro-stabilized and motion-isolated barrel system, electromagnetic damping system that requires its own independent power source, full optical suite that has diameter-of-projectile precision out to 1.5 kilometers, and each projectile is fin-stabilized and can track a target up to a ten degrees in all directions,” Yarim says, giving Angel the sales pitch as he holds up the rifle. “My favorite part? The center of mass is directly on the bipod center, so it’s quick and accurate to move.” He stands back, holding the stock of the rifle with one hand to give Angel space to get in on it.

Angel slides into place, getting comfortable with the remarkably well-balanced rifle. “And what’s this thing for? Shooting down Mantas?” He sights a boulder about a kilometer away, one not long for this world, while he chats. “Rate of fire and capacity of the power source?”
“As fast as the action will cycle, but I’d hold it to one every half-second,” Yarim replies as he hands Angel the magazine. “Magazine only holds five rounds, the power source is good for probably...twenty magazines or so.”

“Fair enough.” Angel depresses the trigger, and then a half-second or so later depresses it again. There’s a crack that can be heard from where they’re sitting, and a massive cloud of dirt as the second round hits. When the desert wind blows it clear a few seconds later, the man-sized boulder is in two pieces. Angel whistles softly.

“This one I really, really like. I can’t think of a use for it, but something like this is just...art. Assuming it can be purchased.”
“In a month,” Yarim says. Angel hears his footing shift behind him. “But they don’t have anything like that on Narsai?”

Angel doesn’t move - Yarim has more than enough hardware to end him then and there and not leave much for the funeral, so there’s really no point in it. Instead, he flicks the optical sighting mechanism closed, straightening slightly.

“We do. For the most part they’re obsolete - replaced by guided missiles, since we don’t have the accelerators down yet.”
“No cities of gold, either, then,” Yarim says. “Sidearm on the ground, please, Mr. Kesh, then let’s you and I talk.”

“Sadly no, though it hasn’t stopped men from looking.” Angel carefully sets his sidearm down before standing to face Yarim.
Yarim stands at ready, angled towards Angel, heavy beamer held low, but ready. His eyes are narrowed, either from facing down one of the 815 or the blinding afternoon Hedion’i sun. “I have some questions that I would very much like the answers to,” he says.

“Then ask.” Angel replies simply, hoping that his logic - that if Yarim intended to kill him he would have done so already - is correct.
“You and your 815 friends, you were responsible for the...culling of the Iyuzo, Kesh, and Quorona houses, yes?” Yarim asks. “And the removal of Steward Saloma to parts unknown?”

“That’s correct. Not what we came here to do, but it seemed a worthwhile side project.”
Yarim’s eyes narrow. “The blackout, then? That was your goal? Sow chaos, cause injury and death?”

Angel shakes his head. “No - that was partially to direct blame toward the noble houses, and partially to, well, provide cover for what we were actually here for. Which, since you’re the one holding the massive weapon, I should probably just tell you. You’re aware one of the members of 815 is ex-Turai?”
“I am,” Yarim says.
“Her parents live here - lived here. Given the whole ‘Traitor to the Imperium’ thing, she feared for their safety, and given what I know of the Imperium, I can’t say I blame her. So we came to get them out.”
“With the blackout as cover,” Yarim finishes. He falls silent for a second as he looks Angel over. “Then what is your intention? For us all? The ravilars and Emperor tell us that you Narsai’i are out to destroy the Imperium, scatter the planets and condemn us to the darkness again - but only a child believes everything the ravilars say. And your propaganda tells us that you want a bloodless revolution to save us from the evils of the Emperor, that you only strike in defense of others - but again, only a fool believes everything your ravilars say. So, since I have you here, Mr. Kesh, tell the truth - which is it?”

Angel nods. “They were being watched - the civil disorder was necessary to get them out. As for the Imperium...revolutions are never bloodless, though I can’t say I would have minded if this one was. As for our intentions...that makes it sound like this was all planned. Truth be told, it was an accident - some curious scientists poking at what turned out to be an inactive gate, and lo and behold, we’re not alone in the universe.”

The scout sighs softly, remembering those first few hours of panic. “In the near term, I’d rather like it if my home planet wasn’t glassed, I’ve become rather fond of it. In the long term? Peace, and an Imperium where her citizens can make their own way, for better or worse.”
Yarim’s brow furrows again - Angel gets the sensation that was the Rav-Turai’s go-to greenhorn intimidation move. “And your ‘position’ in Kesh Pharmaceuticals and relations with Faxom-Io? What part of your scheme does this farce play?”

“Honestly, that wasn’t much of a plan either.” Angel is apparently unphased by the furrowed brow and aggressive line of questioning. He’s been interrogated by worse. “Fell in love with Tora Kesh. Got her killed when she went to her brother with her vision of a better Imperium. Turned out she left her stake to me, and I tried to make the best of it. Mostly using my connections to see that Imperial tech ends up on Narsai so we have something resembling a snowball’s chance in hell of that whole ‘Don’t get glassed’ part of the plan.”
That gets an eyebrow from Yarim. “Love? An 815 falling for an Expansion dilanette?”

“Again, not the plan. She figured out who I was - apparently not something that’s terribly hard to do. She...was mostly in it for the adventure. To see new places - and in her own way, was trying to make the Imperium just a little better.” His voice is a little wistful as he speaks. “And I have a thing for pretty girls with a sense of adventure.”
Yarim chuckles. “Who doesn’t.” He eyes Angel for another few seconds. “What are your plans next, then, Narsai’i? Convince me why I shouldn’t give this thing a proper field test.”

“Well, before you decided to point that thing at me, my plan was to blow the everliving hell out of the desert for a bit, buy a bunch of guns off you, and split it up about 50/50 between my personal collection and samples for the geeks back home to dissect. But what about you? I get the sense that there’s more to this than just wanting to know how big a line the ravilars are feeding you.”
Yarim shifts uncomfortably for a moment. “I am...uncomfortable with the actions of the Turai and the Emperor since your kind returned. I accepted that there must have been some grave threat posed that justified ordering the glassing of Narsai. Your adventure on Aikoro certainly painted the picture of a desperate band of terrorists. But then...the uncensored things I hear out of Boranai, and the liberation of the Wherren, these are not consistent with what we have been told, and the fact that the response has been more pacifications and intrusions…under Thrax, this is quickly becoming something other than the Imperium I swore to defend with my dying breath. But neither is your cause, Mr. Kesh, and I wish to know your true intentions before I decide to either kill you or look the other way.”

“And I’ve told you the full, unvarnished truth. So you can either kill me, and I’m sure claim a substantial reward if there’s enough of me left to identify, or you can let me go, with or without a lucrative contract for you. And, since I’m a man of my word, and I appreciate the whole not killing me bit, this little chat won’t come back to bite you. At least not on my end. Though I would be curious as to how you figured this out.”
“A strangely pale-skinned soldier from the frontier arrives in company of a man who was under investigation for Narsai’i collusion,” Yarim replies. “The inference was not very hard to make. I did not believe before last night that you had truly been made a full-blooded Kesh, but your relationship with the late Tora clears that up.” He looks Angel over one more time. “And this Kesh adventure or play you are putting on, is there any goal beyond stealing voxes, skimmers and weapons?”

Angel chuckles slightly, shaking his head. “How long an answer do you want to that?”
Yarim smirks. “It is rather hot out here.”
“Could have held me up at a bar after we ordered drinks.” Angel smirks back. “For the moment, its mostly stealing things, trying to catch us up. But someday, hopefully, this war will be over. I’d like to see my planet participate in the economy, trade with the Imperium, not just be some backwater world that once fought a successful rebellion.”
“So, you plan on there being an Imperium after, then,” Yarim says.
Angel nods. “We do our level best not to be genocidal maniacs. And there are a lot of you. I’d like to see it changed...the Jade Republic of a Thousand Worlds maybe, but still there.”

That shuts Yarim up for a minute or so. The old Rav-Turai is clearly deep in thought about something. Whether that something is how to get away with helping Angel out, or how to dig a hole for his body in all this sand, is something that remains to be seen. Eventually though, he takes a deep breath, and then slings the heavy beamer back over his shoulder. “All right, Mr. Kesh. That’s enough for me to give you the benefit of the doubt for now.” He pulls the drink tube out of the collar of his armor and takes a drag. “There’s water in the back of the skimmer. Next weapon’s your pick, Mr. Kesh.”

Angel looks over the remaining crates, picking something slightly less powerful - and easier to bring to bear in case Yarim changes his mind. Angel is after all a man of his word, but he isn’t an idiot.
“Ah, good,” Yarim says as he stores the heavy beamer away. “That is a test of a new kind of projectile weapon - it fires little darts instead of bullets. Lighter weight with more penetration.” He turns back towards the targets. “Fire at will, Mr. Kesh.”

Later that night is another gala event - this one more like a traditional feast than the previous day’s mingling bacchanalia. A giant hall in the heart of Akis, rows and rows of long tables with enough seating for at least five-hundred people, is the venue for the feast. Holos and decorations cover the walls, celebrating the history of Akis and Hedion - this is the actual solstice celebration proper. The event is open to more than just the elite of the elite: as Angel and Gorlan filter in towards their honored seats near the front, they pass people and families dressed in what must be their best clothes - bright colors and shimmering patterns, but still essentially just fancier versions of the usual clothes that Angel sees every day. A few small kids run between Angel and Gorlan as they walk down the aisle in their glimmering clothes, the tails deftly avoiding the revelers around them.

Even though this event is more open than the previous one, things are still better for the super-rich: contrary to most of the revelers, who have to make do with holos showing the main stage and benches with a bit of cushioning, Gorlan and Angel have plushly upholstered individual seats right by the main stage. The new Steward, Benair Fahlan, sits up on the stage in his place of honor. Soon, the first course is rolled out, along with the music - a live band, sounding like a mix between classical music, prog rock and some version of electronic music or other. The music’s not entirely Angel’s speed, but it’s interesting enough, and provides a good backdrop for the first and second courses of the feast. Eventually, a band of dancers come out for the soup course - bready and spicy, while the dancers swing and twirl around on the stage in skinsuits covered in lights and displays.

Eventually, the main course comes out, and with it, the Steward’s speech. He stands and speaks about moving past the corruption and dissolution of his predecessor, about moving Akis into a new generation of growth and progress. Angel’s ears pick up on a few key words - freedom, rights, the people - the influence of the many agents that the Bashakra’i have in his government, dripping the message of the Bashakra’i and Narsai’i into his ears. The rest of the night passes without incident - a pleasant enough evening, and a nice bit of acculturation for the outsider into the history of Akis.

The next more-or-less obligatory event is something that most would think that Angel would have more of a problem with attending - the annual benefit for the retired Turai of Hedion. Gorlan begs off attending the occasion but sends his regards - and donation - with Angel. He expresses a reluctance to be around the same people that are ostensibly hunting for people like him to slap on the re-education grid and execute - something that Angel understands well enough.

For the first time since Angel left the Kesh estate that first night, Angel feels truly at home. Half the entrees at the buffet are things he doesn’t recognize, but the purpose is the same - as is the free-flowing open bar. A few socialites - not quite the debutante scene of the past few nights - sit among families, and old soldiers who have seen too much war.

The conversation flows in ways Angel is familiar with. The names and places are different, but the stories the same. That time Eddie Knowles adopted a goddamned dog in the middle of Kabul. A dozen patrols, close calls, and old memories. It is, for being a room for of people aiming to kill him and his, a remarkably comfortable place.

Part of that comfort is the warm smile from a Samal that seems to have more than a passing interest in Angel. Her hair is tied high and tight over her carapace, and after a half-hour of them both flirting with each other through eye contact alone, she eventually takes a seat next to him, a double of some wood-aged brandy in her hand.

Angel smiles softly as she sits down, nodding and raising his drink. “Samal. I was wondering if I was going to have to get up from my very comfortable seat.”
She raises her drink in return - her carapace holo showing her family name to be Viaj. “All part of my efforts to save the Imperium from discomfort,” she replies with a smirk.

“Truly a hero of the Imperium.” He offers his hand. “Angel Kesh.”
She takes his hand and gives it a firm shake - she has the thin yet sinewy hands of someone who thinks that five miles is a good warm-up run. “Samal Tenai Viaj.” Her grip on his hand goes from firm to sensual in a moment as she rubs her thumb along the back of his hand.

Angel smiles. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Tenai. So tell me, I know how I ended up here, but how did you get roped into this?”
“Oh, I’m just doing my part for those that have sworn their lives to the Scarlet Banner,” Samal Viaj replies. “It’s a cause I believe in - the Banner was there for my family after my father was killed in action, so here I am.”

He nodded softly. “Well, I for one am glad for the company. And rather glad the answer wasn’t ‘They make sure to stock these events with pretty women to flirt with rich, idle nobles.’ Would have been a terrible blow to my ego.”
“Flirting with rich, good-looking nobles is what we in the Turai call a ‘secondary objective’,” Samal Viaj reples. She reaches towards Angel’s open collar, running a finger along his chest, drink in hand. “Have you...given all you can to the Turai Benefits account?”

“Well then, here’s to secondary objectives.” A hand settled on her thigh and he smiled. “I’ve donated generously, but I’m sure there’s other ways I can show my gratitude to those who serve.”
Viaj smiles back. “Well, let’s see how much support you have to give.”

----

As it turns out, not nearly as much as Samal Viaj had to give Angel - the carapace didn’t even last until they arrived back at the estate, as Angel let the skimmer fly itself back with him and the Samal in the back for fear of crashing into a building or flying into oncoming traffic. Underneath the armor lied a woman in peak athletic condition, and even though Angel tried his best, trying to compete with someone who probably runs 50 milers as a fun weekend activity in something so...aerobically demanding is a fruitless endeavor, and after the third session (with proper breaks for hydration in between), he passes out.

The next morning, the clinking of metal on fine ceramics greets Angel as the Hedion’i sun blazes through his windows, coming from Samal Viaj, seated at the large wooden table in his sleeping quarters, eating scrambled spink eggs and fried spink. She hears him stirring awake and looks in his direction, a smile on her face.
“Morning, handsome,” Viaj says.
Angel sits up, taking in the scene as he blinks the fog from his eyes. “Morning beautiful. Can’t say I’m sad to see you’re still here.”
“Your servant - I forget his name - came by to let you know that there’s some other event you’re scheduled for tonight, and offered me breakfast,” Viaj says. “Beats the shit out of the autochef back at the barracks, that’s for sure.” She pops a strip of spink in her mouth. “I’ll be gone as soon as I’m done.” She gives Angel a warm smile. “Thanks for last night, though.”

“Yes, they’re quite good at that.” He smiles softly. “And it was my pleasure. Well, hopefully some of yours as well.”
“You were all right, I guess,” Viaj teases. “A one-nighter to remember.”
The scout chuckles at that. “High praise.” His mind turning to practicality for a moment, he puts on a robe, sitting down beside her. “Should I also see to getting you a ride back to the barracks?”
“No need, I can call an auto skimmer,” Viaj says, and mops up the last of the plate with a bit of bread. “I’ll see you on the news, I guess,” she says, her eyes scanning his for any sort of response.

“Make sure to charge it to me. You were, after all, only doing your patriotic duty.” Angel gives her a small rectangle of transparent practice. “And that contact should get you past most of the pencil pushers if the Turai ever need another show of my...admiration.”
Viaj’s smile widens as she slides the vox code into a pouch on her skinsuit. “I might just do that.” She leans over and gives him one last kiss. “Thanks for the breakfast, Angel.”
He smiled, returning the kiss with a genuine smile. “My pleasure Tenai. Be safe out there.”
She just winks at him as she walks out, collecting the bag - one of the dozens of Kesh Pharmaceuticals promotional totes that the estate has stashed somewhere - with her carapace pieces in it by the door.
Rising, Angel waits just long enough to see that she makes it to the auto skimmer on the estate’s surveillance sconces before heading toward the shower.

The final event of the solstice starts well after the Hedion’i sun has set, back up at the park at the peak of the Akis arcology dome. The ravilar bonanza outside the entrance is gone, replaced with just the event receiving staff and security, all dressed in black, and as Angel and Gorlan are guided inside, it’s clear that even the waiters and servants inside are dressed in black as well, the better to blend in to the dim lighting of the park at night. Slow, sensual woodwind music drifts over the event, as the nobles mingle on the open first level, eating small desserts from yet another expansive buffet and drinking more expensive beverages. The stims on offer seem to be more oriented towards sensual alteration and enhancement instead of stimulation, as well - this is obviously the mellowing-out cool down event of the weekend. On the three levels above the bottom, dozens of small awnings have been erected, each draped with sumptuously smooth fabrics and given tables, chairs - and beds. Angel hears a few cries of ecstasy from above before servants move in to close the drapes, lest the noise disrupt the mood.

Gorlan, for his part, actually seems at home and relaxed for the first one of these events all weekend, and after saying his hellos to a few associates, leads Angel up to the top level of the park and towards a tent up against the side of the dome itself that’s been roped off with a sign that says “Reserved” in glyphs posted in front of it. Two servants remove the ropes and take drink and food orders as Gorlan graciously offers Angel the first choice of where to sit. Once both Kesh brothers are inside, Gorlan asks for the three sides not facing towards the dome to be closed, and it instantly seems like Angel and Gorlan are all by themselves at the very top of Akis. Off in the distance, the multi-colored lights of other arcologies glisten and twinkle in the black night on the moonless planet.

Gorlan sighs. “This is always my favorite event. Purely given over to relaxation, and the beauty of the Hedion’i night.” He looks over at Angel from his seat at the table. “What do you think of the view?”

Angel gratefully takes a seat - the one facing where most of the traffic seems to be flowing from - and his order is fairly simple. No doubt it will be made to perfection, but two sustained days of heavy food and drink meant looking forward to something a little simpler.

He states out at the scenery before turning back to his brother, smiling. “It’s beautiful.”
Gorlan smiles back at Angel. “I saw you had another friend over last night. You certainly have a type, dear brother.”
Angel raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Athletic, average height or taller, and a sense of the exotic and adventurous about them,” Gorlan says with a smirk. “It is no wonder that you fell for Tora.”
“Guilty, I suppose.” He smiled slightly, looking back out at the city scape. “You know that doesn’t...you know...mean anything about how I feel about Tora.”
“Venting some pressure, then?” Gorlan asks. “But still carrying the flame for her.”
Angel nods silently.
Gorlan nods. “I suppose I cannot blame you - Tora was…” He sighs. “She was unique.” He takes a drink - and wipes the corner of his eye. “She would have loved to see you happy like this.” He looks back to Angel. “Are you happy here, Angel?”
“Could spend a lifetime looking for another girl like her and fail.” He thinks for a moment before nodding. “I am. This mess in Washington, everything...it’s frustrating, but at the end of the day I’m happy. And glad to be your brother.”
“As am I, yours,” Gorlan says. There’s a pause in the conversation, and then he takes in a deep breath. “You know, with the new village project opening their Gateport in a week or so, and Faxom-Io preferred access to the Gateways here, you would be...twenty minutes, thereabouts, from the Kesh Holdings office in...Faay-ette-vile? And less to the new location in the village.”
“Which is a funny way of asking about me being around more, isn’t it?”
Gorlan smiles awkwardly. “There’s...I just…” He sighs, and smooths out his coat out of nervous energy. “Your office and quarters in the estate are now complete, we both have new responsibilities on Hedion...it’s just a very exciting time, and...I miss seeing you around, having you bothering me about taking time for myself and being the charming, debonair one of the Kesh brothers. Masters know that it’s certainly a role that doesn’t come easily to me.”

Angel chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Outside of the war effort and my responsibilities with 815, I think that’s a good idea. There are security hassles, but that doesn’t add much in the way of time. I promise, I’ll try to spend as much time here as I can.”
Gorlan breaks out into a big smile. “That’s great!” He jumps to his feet and, after an awkward pause, gives Angel a big hug, which Angel happily returns. A hearty slap on the back later, both brothers take their seats again. “Should I talk to our contractor about putting in a firing range in the basement?” he asks with a smirk.
“I wouldn’t mind.” The marksman grins. “That does bring up an issue I need to talk to you about - what with you having a considerable amount of experience with this whole ‘being rich’ thing.”
Gorlan raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip of his drink. “Yes?”

“Apparently joining the board involves a trillion lat bonus. How the hell am I supposed to spend that kind of money?”
Gorlan shrugs. “No one expects you to. Mostly, I let the lats I earn accrue interest, and I invest a good portion of it in various ventures and funds. I don’t spend much of it at all.”
Angel nods. “Any chance I can add that to your impressive list of shit to do? Imperial-side finance isn’t exactly my forte.”
Gorlan chuckles. “Already done. I’ve been the primary manager of the Kesh family revenues ever since you dispatched Reno.” He takes another drink, this one a considerably larger than the others. “I divested us of some of his more…” Gorlan sighs. “Fuck it. He was investing with some very shady characters, who I was very glad to hear have been picked up by the Kansatai and Turai for various offenses against the Imperium and public order.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.” Gorlan turns his attention back to Angel. “But you should learn, Angel. Honestly, investment isn’t all that difficult. Buy equity when the value is below what it’s worth, and sell when it’s higher than what it’s worth - and you already know enough about business that simply living around here, listening to the Cortex reports and going to lunch every day should be enough tips that you can make a tidy profit in no time.”

“Yeah, you say that, and yet…” Angel smiles softly. “There are some things my brother is just better at. I promise I’ll keep you out of the cloak and dagger stuff in exchange.”
“Fair enough,” Gorlan says. He leans back into his chair and sighs contentedly. “I shall have to make a list of the restaurants we should go to - ah! - and I should set an appointment with my body designer, Vigelon, for the both of us. He does amazing things with hair, Angel. You’ll love him. And...perhaps I can join you for your morning exercises?”
Angel grins, nodding. “If you’d like, as long as you promise to get plenty of sleep the night before. Can’t have you passing out from exhaustion.”
Gorlan laughs. “Another ploy to guarantee I sleep! Do you never give up?”
Angel shakes his head. “Not something I’m known for, no.”
Gorlan shakes his head too. “Guess that’s just something I’m going to have to get used to.” He smiles at Angel. “I can’t wait.”
Angel waits for a moment while the drinks arrive, before offering a toast. “To the future then, hopefully one...a little brighter.”
Gorlan raises his new glass high with Angel, as the twinkling stars blend with the twinkling lights of Hedion. “To the brighter future, together.” The glasses clink together, and both brothers finish their decadent drinks in one long drag.

Collecting his bag from the security checkpoint scanners, Garrett steps into command center on Atea and inhales a deep breath. An isolated six-deck cube situated in the middle of Onlosa Ward, the heart of the station’s segments, the command center doesn’t exactly smell of fresh air and flowers, but instead of a few hundred humans working in close quarters, aerosolized mild stims, and the smell of...coffee? Garrett looks around and sees some kind of metal-and-glass apparatus in the corner, slowly dripping the brown elixir into a storage container underneath - obviously a custom job rigged together from Bashakra’i tech, but still pumping out coffee. He walks closer to check it out. There’s some sort of big spherical glass flask that’s got grounds and water in it, attached to a vacuum pump and a heating pad of some sort. Despite the liquid inside bubbling away, the heating pad feels barely warm at all - Probably the vacuum’s job, Garrett figures. The flask is attached to a distillation setup of some kind, and from there into the tank, where it’s stored and dispensed. Instead of big mugs, there’s just a bunch of small plastic cups, no more than five or six ounces in size.

As Garrett picks up one of the cups, a voice calls out from behind him. “Might want to be careful with that, Mr. Davis,” Hota Vaniis, the XO on duty calls out from his elevated console in the center of the room. “We make it stronger than the Narsai’i do. Gets the bitter taste and acids out, too.”
Garrett nods. “Thanks, Hota.” He picks up a cup and only fills it halfway with the cold coffee concoction before downing it in one go. It tastes like coffee, only five times as much so, and with no bite. His eyes go wide. “How much ’caffeine’ is in this? The stim?”
“A good amount, Sir,” Hota replies. “Keeps you up for hours - and if you drink more than a cup at a go, some crazy hallucinations.” He smirks as he leans back in his chair. “That’s one thing I envy the Narsai’i for. They can just eat pretty much anything on their planet - after all, it’s where we evolved. All this shit evolved to interact with our systems in one way or another. Makes for some kick-ass drugs.”
Garrett smirks. “Yeah, that it does.” He drops his cup into the recycling chute as he walks over towards Hota. “Seen Bello?”
“He hustled off to some far end of the worldship on important business, like usual,” Hota says. “He just left, you might get a vox message -”
Garrett’s vox chimes from his ear. “Yep, that’s him.”
A flick of his eyes turns on the holo - “Apologies, Garrett. My spymaster on Airshaz has sent an alarm out that concurs with time-sensitive intelligence from the Botane Sheen server. I will return in 45 minutes to an hour.”

Garrett nods and flicks his eyes the other way to turn off the screen. He looks around the control room, at the two-dozen-odd consoles and the men and women manning them, at the large holodisplays strung around the room with ships coming and going and various updates from around the galaxy piped into Atea’s custom Cortex, and nods appreciatively. It takes the collective work of a lot of people to make the Bashakra’i worldship run, and here in the heart of it, Garrett could really feel the energy and pressure that running a giant metal can with over 500,000 people on board requires.

Then he just gets bored, and looks around one more time, idly tapping his fingers on top of Hota’s console.
Hota stares at Garrett’s fingers for a few cycles of tapping, then clears his throat. “Can I help you, Mr. Davis?”
Garrett looks back to Hota with a start. “Oh! Sorry, Hota. Umm…” He looks around, and smacks his lips once or twice. “Do you have anything that needs doing?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Hota says, and flips through his active panels on his holo. “I don’t suppose you know traffic direction procedures and codes?”
“Er, no,” Garrett says.
“Utilities balancing? There’s a repeating power sink in Iamnsa Ward that needs looking at,” Hota says.
“Not so much,” Garrett says, scratching the back of his head.
Hota flips through a few more items. “Background checks, those seem like they might be better suited for you.”
Garrett nods. “Sounds good to me. Anything interesting in there?”
“Err…” Hota brings that item up. “Ah, just your standard Kansatai and Turai checks, a few low-level maintenance tech stuff. About the only thing interesting is a Wherren that wants to apply for engineer work. She’s come in every day for the last week, going through the tests and so on, but hasn’t had her background check - we’re not up to speed on Whirr-sign translators yet.”
Garrett smiles. “Well, I’m fluent. Is she here?”
Hota nods. “Two decks up, in the testing center.”
Garrett raps his knuckle on Hota’s console. “Then there you go. Thanks, Hota. If Bello comes back, let him know where I am, all right?”
Hota nods. “Will do, Mr. Davis.”

A quick hustle up the stairs and down a hall leads Garrett to the testing center - a decently-sized room on the edge of the secure area, all the more easy to isolate and clear such an insecure area. The room is divided into small cubicles, each with a cheap holodisplay on the desk. The room is empty except for one person - a Wherren, at the back, barely able to fit into the cubicle she’s chosen off to the side against the wall, in loose-fitting synthetic overalls. She looks up at Garrett, and a rim of blue appears on her fur as the fur on her head lays flat.

”Don’t worry,” Garrett says with his trademark “disarming” smile. ”I’m just here for your security interview.”
Her eyes go wider and fur goes a shade bluer.
Garrett raises his hands and keeps his smile going. ”I’m Garrett Davis, and you are…”
”Gh’het,” the female grunts. A bit of orange seeps into her fur as she averts her eyes. ”I apologize, but I am in the middle of this examination -”
Garrett nods. ”No problem,” he grunts. ”I’ll be down the hall in the break area, we can talk there, all right?”
Gh’het nods. ”Thank you, Mr. Davis.”

Garrett has just enough time to skim Gh’het’s application packet before she walks carefully into the break area and stands more or less at attention in front of him, and gives him a deep bow. ”Thank you for your time, Mr. Davis.”
Garrett stands and gives her a bow in return. ”It’s no problem. Please, take a seat.” Gh’het gingerly slides out the chair opposite and takes her seat. Garrett briefly reviews her application packet again. ”So, you were born on Akes?”
Gh’het nods. A fair bit of purple fringes her fur, but she gets it under control fairly quickly. ”I was, but I was…” her brow furrows, ”I was taken from where I was born and sold to a family on Grinacanne. They tasked me with maintaining the house, and my duties eventually shifted to cover more of the technology and engineering of the house, and maintaining the cogitators of the house.”
”And this was how long ago?” Garrett asks.
Gh’het’s fur ripples a brief wave of green. ”Twenty years ago. I was twelve Narsai’i years old, and was maintaining local networks at the home and office by fifteen.”
Garrett smirks and gives an impressed nod. ”That’s very impressive, you should be proud.”
Gh’het’s fur flattens as she forces a light blue into it. ”I was simply asked to perform the task,” she says, a few speckles of orange spotting through. ”It was nothing.”
Garrett pauses a moment at her denial, but keeps going. ”And you said you were released from slavery by your…”
”Owners,” Gh’het grunts demurely, red ringing her fur for a moment.
”Owners,” Garrett continues, noting that reaction.
”They said that it was ‘time for me to make my own way,’ like I was a cub,” Gh’het grunts, red and orange coming in again before she tamps those down too. ”I mean, they released me from bondage because they...they were motivated by your freeing my homeworld from Imperial control. That was why. They gave me a Gateway authorization for two jumps, and sent me on my way.” The female can’t quite keep the orange from sticking around this time.
”And you were...annoyed by this?”
Gh’het clenches her claws into her hands as she forces the orange away. ”No! I was grateful. They had released me voluntarily, which is more than can be said for most humans that own Wherren slaves.” A pale, flickering green comes in.

Garrett tilts his head at her. ”You know, the whole point of this interview isn’t to suck up to me. I’m supposed to be getting a sense of who you really are, but I can tell that you’re lying to me - not the least because no one is this grateful to the ones that held them in bondage, especially when you seem to think they were somewhat stupid.”
Yellow and blue rushes over Gh’het’s fur. ”I - I do not know what you mean, Mr. Davis -”
Garrett shakes his head. ”I’m pretty sure you do.” He crosses his arms and leans back. ”It’s up to you, Gh’het. I’m not your masters, I’m not even Imperial. The male that stood by me when I bonded with my mate was Wherren, and I fought against Narsai’i leaders for the mission to set your world free.”
Gh’het’s fur ruffles as colors wash over her in waves. She stares at Garrett, her bright brown eyes looking him over as she mulls over the many complicated variables of trust, eventually settling in on a mute brown accented with hints of blue and green. ”Very well. What do you want to know?”
”What did you think of your owners?” Garrett asks.
”My captors?” Orange flushes more fully into Gh’het’s fur. ”They were...well-meaning, in their oppressive way. They never liked owning a Wherren; I got the impression that they only bought me as a cub as a symbol of status. He is a high-level - well, as high level as Grinacanne can be - industrium production manager, in charge of a half-dozen factories and labor shops, and she is a freelance accounts advocate with a reasonably successful practice. Had to keep up with their friends, so they bought a slave.”
Garrett’s brow furrows along with the flash of red on Gh’het’s fur. ”That’s...fucked up.”
Gh’het nods. ”They were good at their jobs, but neither one was...very bright. They would give me tasks and I would complete them. They were not cruel or unreasonable - beyond holding me in bondage.”
”What are your qualifications for this position, really?” Garrett grunts.
”I am conversant on all three major coding specifications for cogitators and Cortex networking, I assembled and maintained an interconnected cogitator network for four automated factories before I was twenty years old, I have designed eight iterations of a nano-scale production forge by myself with no formal training, and I have already memorized the specifications of the Atea subsystems that would be under my purview,” Gh’het rumbles, her fur a neutral brown.
”So, you’re pretty bright, is what you’re saying,” Garrett replies.
”Not particularly,” Gh’het replies. Garrett looks closely for signs of deception, but her neutral brown isn’t tinted by any partially hidden emotions. ”I just work very hard to learn things - which I have seen isn’t very common.”
”And what do you think of the Bashakra’i? Or me?” Garrett asks.
”I think that you are more honest than the humans I met during my enslavement, which entitles you to a certain amount of respect,” Gh’het replies. ”Your reputation as a friend to my people is a positive, too. As for the Bashakra’i...they are better than I was expecting.”
“Heh,” Garrett chuckles. ”What were you expecting?”
”To be shuttled off into another slum - an improvement on being a slave, but not by much,” Gh’het replies. ”But instead, I have been given aid, a place to live with other Wherren, and an opportunity to earn my keep. Not bad, for humans.”
”We do what we can,” Garrett says. He swipes his holodisplay closed. ”And what do you plan to do here, Gh’het?”
”Make a life for myself, save some lats, eventually get out and see the galaxy,” Gh’het replies. Her fur ruffles a greenish hue. ”I’ve spent my whole life in a slum or locked up in a house. I’m tired of being stuck in one place. I’m grateful for the opportunity here, but I do not want to live on Atea forever.”
Garrett smirks. ”Well, good luck, then.” He stands up and gives Gh’het a bow. ”I’ll let them know you’re good by me.”
Gh’het jumps to her feet and gives Garrett a bow as well - some behaviors are harder to unlearn than others. ”Thank you, Mr. Davis.”
Garrett turns to leave, then stops and looks back. ”What are your plans regarding mates? Would you be open to someone...suitably dashing?”
Gh’het’s pattern shifts to a deeper green and slides in a bit of yellow. ”Perhaps,” she grunts, trying to conceal her interest.
Garrett smirks. ”I’ll keep in touch, then.”

Garrett turns and walks out of the break room and back down the stairs, a smirk on his face. Sorry, buddy, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.

Swims-the-Black looks curiously in Garrett’s direction as he steps into their office - sashays possibly being a more appropriate verb. There’s a big smile on the human’s face as Swims turns a light blue and raises the fur on his head. ”What has you so pleased today, Garrett?” Swims asks cautiously. ”Was Bello actually in his office? Perhaps he has something actionable from Ngawai’s feeds?”
”No, on both counts,” Garrett grunts. ”But, while I was waiting for Bello, I...met someone.”
Swims arches a brow. ”Should Ngawai be concerned? Or rather, should you be concerned when she finds out?”
”No!” Garrett barks with a smile. ”No, nothing like that. But…” Garrett’s smile turns to something Swims recognizes as blue-ish. ”I met someone...for you.”
Swims furrows his brow and his fur stands on end as it turns orange - and with a bit of green. ”I believe that I said that I was going to work this out on my own.”
”Yes, and I would never have done this intentionally,” Garrett quickly explains, ”but I offered to do a background check while I was waiting, and I met a Wherren female that I think you might be interested in.”

Swims-the-Black stares at Garrett for a few seconds, his fur still ruffling orange, but with green seeping in more and more. Finally, the orange and green reach equal proportions,and with one final ruffle, Swims’ fur goes back to brown. ”Continue.”
”Her name is Gh’het,” Garrett says. ”She was a house slave on Grinacanne, and was set free by the people that bought her as a cub before making her way to Atea. She’s an electronics genius, and is looking to work her way on Atea just long enough to get out and see the galaxy for herself - being a slave most of her life has made her want to get out there and have some adventure.” Garrett watches his friend’s fur turn more and more green, even through Swims’ attempts to hide it. His smile widens as he finishes his story. ”So? What do you think?”
Swims-the-Black stares at Garrett for a few more seconds before speaking up. ”First, I think that it’s...it is not a good thing for you to assume that just because this female and I share interests that we would be good mates. There are many more factors to consider than a few common interests.” Garrett nods, but Swims continues before he can speak. ”Secondly, you...how can you know that she is even looking for a mate? She sounds like an independent female. She might not need or want a male in her life in that way.” Another pause. ”And finally, it is impolite for you to simply look at her as a mate for me. She is her own person, Garrett, and she is going through a lot of changes and struggles in her life. She was a slave for almost her whole life, like you said, and that is enough of a burden, as is. She does not need the added struggles of having a mate at the moment.”
Garrett listens to his friend carefully, and nods. ”She gave me her vox address,” he carefully says. ”Do you want it?”
Swims’ fur flattens out and turns a particularly deep shade of blue - but still striped here and there with green. ”Yes, I would.” His fur leaps back up and turns bright red. ”But no more meddling, Garrett. I mean it.”
Garrett raises his hands. ”I see that, I see that,” he replies. A flick of his vox’s control space sends Swims the address. ”It’s all you, buddy.”
Swims grunts. ”Thank you, Garrett.” He turns back to his holodisplay. ”And thank you.”
Garrett puts a hand on Swims’ shoulder and gives him a rub. ”You’re welcome, buddy.”

In Swims-the-Black’s life of adventure, he had finished as Top Four in his Alef-ka instruction cohort and earned immediate appointment to the Emperor’s side, crept through the conduit tunnels of a Needleship with just a respirator and a blade to assassinate a rogue Rav-Odun, escorted the Steward of Todaki off-world through the heart of a siege by terrorist forces, survived four ten-on-one events in the Arena, mastered one of the best smuggling ships in the Imperium, and has survived two years with the 815. However, none of that left much time for even broaching the issue of romance, not that he was entirely comfortable with the proposition in the first place. He was barely old enough to understand that there was more to his feelings towards females than pure physicality when he was taken, and the intervening twenty years have not given him much in the way of experience with them - when circumstances were not actively dissuading him. The taunts and jeers of the Alef-ka instructors echoed in his ears as he had asked Gh’het to meet and share a meal, and he can hear them ever louder right now as he looks at the small bouquet of herbs he brought for Gh’het, the memories driving his fur an even deeper shade of nervous blue and shameful black as he waits in the small eatery in the Mannand Ward main shopping arcade, halfway across Atea from the Gateway.

In fact, Swims is so consumed by those memories that it’s not until Gh’het barks out his name that he notices her walking towards him. He quickly jumps to his feet - knocking his chair to the floor in the process - and nearly forgets his bouquet in his efforts to right his chair again. By the time the chair is upright, Swims’ fur is entirely on end and rolling panicked shades of blue as Gh’het stops in front of him, her own fur entirely flat and neutral brown. Swims forces his own as flat and neutral as he can, but he can’t keep the blue out of his tips.
”Hello,” Gh’het grunts simply, and puts on the barest wave of color. ”My name is Gh’het.”
Fortunately for Swims-the-Black, simple patterns is about all he can handle at this moment, and he returns the wave in kind. ”Yes, you said that when we spoke before on vox,” he replies. Blue floods back momentarily as he realizes what he just said, but he fends most of it off. ”Erm, my name is Swims-the-Black.”
Gh’het simply nods, the fur on her head lying absolutely flat. ”Yes, I recognized you by your jade tusk caps. I never saw something like that before.”
The pit in Swims’ stomach somehow gains another sublevel at the mention of his tusks. ”Erm, yes, they mean that I am - I was Alef-ka, the personal guard of the Emperor.” The cracking of the impact-resistant plastic shell protecting his bouquet in his hands provides a thankful distraction, and he quickly extends a hand to present the now-broken box. ”I brought you a bouquet. I hope you like how it smells.”
Gh’het takes the box and sniffs it. A brief flicker of green radiates out from her muzzle, but she immediately returns to her impenetrable brown and flat look. She studies the box for a second, as Swims slowly shades in a disappointed purple. When she looks up and sees his colors, her eyes widen just for a moment. “Is there something that I am expected to do with this?” she asks.
”No!” Swims barks in surprise. ”I mean, not if you don’t want to, or if you don’t like it,” he continues, smoothing the yellow out of his fur, ”but if you do, it’s traditional to...wear it in your fur on your head. If you want.”
Gh’het cracks the box open a little and gives it a deeper sniff before looking back to Swims. ”I do,” she replies, the briefest hints of green struggling to the surface past her most concerted effort to stay emotionless. She picks a couple sprigs out of the box and slides them in above her temples, then bows to Swims. ”Thank you very much for this gift.”
Swims explodes in yellow and blue. ”Ah! No, you...you don’t have to do that, Gh’het.”
She snaps back upright, some yellow and blue of her own fading in. ”I apologize, Swims-the-Black. It’s...nice.” She puts a smile on her face and turns a very basic shade of green.
Even this little show of positivity is enough for Swims to flourish in green and a relieved shade of yellow. ”Great!” he barks nervously. ”Please, take a seat, and we can order food.”

Gh’het slides herself down, her hands flicking open the table’s holodisplay and moving through it in a flash.
Swims sits in a nervous quiet while Gh’het flicks rapidly through the menu. ”You’re...very quick with that holodisplay,” he ventures.
”The haptics are simple enough,” Gh’het replies.
”I…” Swims pauses. ”I preferred the timing on my old ship. I had calibrated the cogitators just to my liking.”
Gh’het actually pauses mid-haptic at that. ”You had a ship?”
Swims ruffles his fur. ”I was a shipmaster, in fact. Nothing very large, but...I loved that ship. It meant a lot to me.”
Gh’het flicks the holodisplay closed with an off-handed gesture. ”How did you become the master of a ship?”
”Master Farsad gave it to me when he retired,” Swims replies. ”He said that I was the only one he trusted with it.”
”What kind of ship was it?” Gh’het asks.
”Khaomai Combine Hatupa-class,” Swims says, green slipping further into his fur as he thinks about the Akamu. ”Not much about it was stock, though. Fitted hotter sub-fusors, bored out the attitude jets, Needleship-grade cogitator, full-holo bridge…” Swims sighs.
Gh’het lets the first bits of emotion slip into her fur - some wistfully sad violet, and just a hint of green and yellow. ”You miss it, don’t you.”
Swims smirks as his face rims with violet. ”Of course I do,” he grunts. ”But...we were in a tough spot, and, well...there’ll be another ship, someday. Hopefully sooner than later, and it will never be like Akamu was, but it will have the chance to hold its own memories. It might even be better, who knows.”
Gh’het fidgets with the rest of the bouquet in the box. ”I had a cogitator,” she blurts out.
Swims raises his brows, the fur on his head raising up slightly and shifting a curious yellow. ”What do you mean?”

”In my quarters, in my owners’ house,” Gh’het continues. ”I built it myself with parts I scavenged from the factories my male owner had. It fit in the lower two drawers of a dresser - why humans have so many clothes I do not understand, but they gave me one of their pieces of furniture to store my clothes in, so I fit the cogitator in there. It was completely hidden, but it was powerful enough to run one of the male’s factories all by itself.” Gh’het is green with pride as she describes her creation. ”I did a lot of coding, a lot of designs, and watched many serials on that cogitator.” She sighs, and her green starts to shift to violet. ”But when my owners told me they were letting me go, I knew I could not take it with me, and I couldn’t just leave it behind - my owners wouldn’t know what to do with it, even if they ever found it. Between having them dismantle it, break it, or…” Gh’het’s fur fluffs out at the next thought, ”...leave it there, off, for years?” She shakes her head, and violet floods her fur.. ”I dismantled it.”
Swims-the-Black reaches out and puts his hand on Gh’het’s. ”That’s terrible.”
Gh’het turns a little greener on the hand that Swims is touching. ”I backed up all the data to a Cortex address, of course, and I watched a few last serials on it, some old favorites, but then…” She sighs again. ”I turned it off and took out the valuable bits - the quantum synchronizers, the entangled q-bit processor cores, the nano-crystalline spin memory - and gave them to the Bashakra’i that arranged for my transport off Grincanne.”
Swims-the-Black wraps his fingers fully around Gh’het’s hand, careful not to cut her with his sharpened claws. ”We both had to sacrifice our creations to move on with our lives. And, I think that here, we have a chance to build them anew, and maybe even better than they were before. Maybe even for good.”
Gh’het smiles fully now, her lips distorting around her tusks. ”Maybe. I like that. At least I won’t have to steal the parts this time. Not all of them, at least.”
Swims smiles back, the shade of his fur matching the jade capping his tusks. ”It wouldn’t be quite as much fun if it was all above-board, I don’t think.”

A week later, Angel and Hugh are standing in the shielded waiting area at Atea's gateport, waiting for Vortala to arrive. As it turned out, the Cyllan business...man knew of a genemodder who was looking at trying a new technique for trans-species genemodding, but was lacking a volunteer. Hugh fit the bill nicely, and with that got him a steep discount, enough that it slid very nicely into Kesh Pharma's R&D books with some obligatory poking and prodding for Hugh on both ends of the procedure, and took him straight to the front of the line. Vortala also mentioned that this particular genemodder is...eccentric by Vortala's standards, although Angel still has very little idea what that means, having never met any of Vortala's Cyllan associates beyond the crew he travels with. Still, it's the best and fastest chance to get Hugh where he wants to go, and so here they are.

Vortala is the first one through the Gateway from the shadowport, hovering in his silver-and-platinum encounter suit. He notices Hugh and Angel waiting, and hums his way over to the pair.
"Greetings, Angel Kesh," Vortala says with a bob.
Angel nods slightly. “Vortala. Everything still set?”
"Indeed it is," Vortala replies. "It has occurred to me that it might be more economical to request remuneration for each encounter with my people back home for this errand."
Angel smiles. “Sadly, the annoyingness of one’s species is very hard to bill for. And, as far as I can tell, universal. So I might just demand a discount for all the time my requests let you spend away from home.”
"Perhaps, perhaps," Vortala replies. "And this is the subject, Hugh Verrill?"
“It is. Hugh, this is Vortala, Vortala, this is Hugh. You’ll take care of him?” There is a note of genuine concern in Angel’s voice.
Vortala bobs. "Keemu is...odd, even by my people's standards, but he is one of the better genemod artists I know of. Others know of this arrangement; I stand on the line with it. There is no stronger guarantee."
“Good to hear.” Angel offers Hugh a handshake. “See you on the other side Chewie.” He winks, and heads back through the Shadowport, intent on a bite to eat and a drink to take his mind off what’s about to happen to his friend.
“Not if I see you first, Han,” Hugh gently snarks back, then turns to Vortala. Truth be told, Hugh’s prior encounters with Cyllans have been less than positive, but if anyone’s made some strides in overcoming racism, it’s got to be him. Accordingly, he gently nods to Vortala. “Thank you for your help in this. It means the world to me. Please, lead the way.”
"Perhaps I should have asked for that in payment, then?" Vortala asks.
“Some things are too big for anyone’s wallet,” Hugh replies. “I think we’re both getting something we want out of this, so let’s not waste time on maybes.”
"That was a joke," Vortala replies. "Our Gateway will open momentarily. I know that you will say yes, but I must ask - are you sure?"
“Yes,” Hugh replies. “I am sure.”
"Good," Vortala replies. The Gateway's golden flash illuminates the waiting area. "And this is our Gateway. Follow me, please."
Hugh nods and does as he is told, following Vortala through the Gateway.

On the other side of the Gateway, Vortala and Hugh are greeted by something rather unexpected: four more Cyllans in encounter suits, except these new Cyllans are armed rather heavily. Four fire-linked stingers track in unison, while an accelerator shroud sits on the "shoulder" of each encounter suit. The decorative banners hanging from their sides are considerably shorter than Vortala's, leaving their tentacles free to grab - and shock - if need be.

“Hello,” Hugh offers with a nod. Not a lot else he can do, even if those guys aren’t the genemodders he thought he was meeting.
None of the new Cyllans respond.
"They are border guards," Vortala explains. "As an independent planet, Cyllia must be careful about who is allowed access through the Gateways."
“An understandable precaution,” Hugh says. “Lead on.”

A few minutes later, the Gateway flashes open - and instead of the undersea vista Hugh was expecting, or at least something floating on top of the oceans of Cyllia, he sees the inside of another space station. The inside looks very much shaped in an organic fashion, vine - or vein - like textures covering the walls in a series of criss-crossing purple/blue/red shades, flowing seamlessly into the clear portholes looking out into space. Vortala calmly hovers through, while Hugh follows, eyes flicking side to side and occasionally turning his head for something of momentary interest, but never losing sight of Vortala.

“An orbital station?” Hugh asks.
"Humans are not allowed on the surface of Cyllia," Vortala explains. "All business with humans is conducted in orbit, including genetic modification." It shivers its tentacles. "Besides, this is as close as one might want to be to my people."
“I see,” Hugh says. “It doesn’t seem like you get many visitors here. I can understand the impulse to not having a Gateway lead directly to your homeworld, though.”
"Indeed," Vortala replies.

A second Cyllan in an encounter suit exits one of the adjoining hallways. In stark contrast to Vortala's chrome, bronze and gold suit with its flowing purple banners, this one is a bright shade of red.
"Hello!" the Cyllan cheerfully says.
Vortala stops. "Hello."
"It is a wonderful day, don't you think?" the Cyllan asks.
"Yes, it is," Vortala replies unenthusiastically.
"Are you here for a new shipment of pharmaceuticals due to the humans?" the Cyllan asks.
"No, this one is scheduled for modification," Vortala replies, still in a very flat and bored tone.
"Excellent!" the Cyllan effuses. "It's always good when we have an opportunity to share the gifts Cyllia has given us with others, don't you think?"
"Yes, I do," Vortala replies.
"Well, be on your way!" The Cyllan turns to Hugh. "And good luck!"
“Uh, thanks?” Hugh offers, not quite used to all that cheer after the rather dour trip.

The Cyllan turns around and hovers back down the hallway.
Vortala shakes himself again. "See what I mean? That was the head of security for this Gateport." He turns and resumes his path down the hall. "I do not understand how the other traders do it."
“Yeah,” Hugh says, agreeing without quite nodding.

After a few more minutes of walking, or hovering for Vortala, Hugh is brought down a side hallway. The strange texture on the walls and ceiling continue along, and it seems like even the floorplan follows that same organically branching design, with right-angle hallways replaced by something more like from a tree or blood vessels in a body. A few more turns down progressively narrower hallways brings the pair, at last, to a door. Colors and lights play across Vortala's suit, and the door slides open for them. Inside, it looks to Hugh like, well, like a small hospital ward. There's an array of beds molded into the wall, and at the back of the room, two massive tanks sitting inside two even larger tanks of their own, both drained at the moment. The sole other occupant of the room is a Cyllan in a bright green encounter suit otherwise devoid of decoration, which quickly hovers over to the pair.

"Hello!" the Cyllan effuses. "Oh, you look wonderful and perfect!" It runs its tentacles over Hugh, and he feels the slight stinging of the electrical impulses shooting from them wherever they touch his skin. "But how do you feel? Oh, it is so very important that you feel in tune with all of this, for without being in tune, how can we hope to find and isolate your song and shape it?"
"Hugh, this is Keemu," Vortala says.
“Hello, Keemu,” Hugh says. “I’m Hugh, and I feel...ready. Like I’m here to match the outside to what’s already inside. You know?”
"I do!" Keemu says. "I can read it in your neocortex, and it's written in every nerve impulse!"
"I will go retrieve the other two while you inform Hugh as to what is going to happen, Keemu," Vortala says, and quickly backs out of the room.
"Yes, good," Keemu replies. "Now, come, come!"

Keemu leads Hugh to one of the beds. "Take a seat, please!" Hugh nods and sits down on the indicated bed. "So! What do you know about genetic modification?"
“I got Turai boosts a while ago,” Hugh says. “Hurt pretty bad until I used the sedation. No problems afterwards, though. I imagine I’ll need to be unconscious for the whole procedure this time, yes?”
"Ah! The Turai-h'lapa is a simple edit! No new cellular growth required, no new neural pathways or structural changes! No no no, that is basic compared to true genetic modification!" Keemu's suit lights up in all sorts of colors as he effuses. "Here, I will guide your body through a whole array of changes, down to the very molecular level, and then guide your cells as they regrow into your new form! Most humans are only interested in simple things - skin color, a tail, bigger muscles or wings, but you! Oh, a whole species change offers so many opportunities. I cannot wait to begin. But first, you must be fully informed as to the details of the procedure! Mustn't forget your free will, after all. Are you ready to learn?"
“Sure,” Hugh says. “Just...try to keep it plain. My degree isn’t in molecular biology.”
"Oh, well, in the most simple terms, you will enter the tank over there -" Keemu gestures a tentacle towards one of the sealed tanks in the larger tanks, "- where you will be suspended in a bio-inactive medium and sedated. Then, after your brain is protected from the initial round of changes, your large-scale structure will be broken down to undifferentiated cells and the genetic-level modification is applied. Once that is complete, your new genetic makeup will dictate self-differentiation of cells into organs and organ systems while reproduction is accelerated towards your final size and shape, while a nervous system specific modification is done manually to pair your new body with your new brain - and then you're complete! It sounds very exciting, I know."
“...can we start this before I figure out enough of what you just said to be scared out of my mind?” Hugh asks with a smirk. “Because that sounds like you’re basically going to turn my body into amoeba soup and then cook a new body from that.”
Keemu bobs. "Yes! It is the newest and most efficient procedure for whole-body modification, taking merely days instead of weeks! Oh, I am so excited to begin. Do you consent?"
“Yeah,” Hugh says, then takes a deep breath. “All right! Let’s do this!”
"Excellent! There is just one last thing that Master Kesh insisted be included in the process," Keemu says. "Wait right here for it while I prepare the tank."

Keemu hovers off towards the tank in the back of the room, leaving Hugh alone. Well, that’s not ominous at all, Hugh thinks. Angel’s not the most predictable guy, so there’s the question: what’s the prank going to be on this one?
A few minutes of atonal humming from Keemu later, the door slides open to reveal the surprise: Rhea and Torega, escorted by Vortala. Torega shifts from a light blue to bright green and yellow the instant she sees Hugh, and barks "Father!" wildly as she runs across the floor and jumps into his arms.
“Torega!” Hugh laughs, drawing her into a close hug and grooming her head. He then looks up to Rhea, beaming all over his face. “When did you get here?”
"Just a few minutes ago," Rhea replies as Torega rubs her head against Hugh's shoulder and purrs. "We wanted to...well, not say goodbye, I guess. But see you go." She can't seem to move from nearby the door, and her fur is a riot of blue, green, and yellow.
”Thank you,” Hugh says. He rises from his seat, shifting Torega upward with a grunt of effort, and walks over to Rhea to embrace her with his free arm. ”The...doctor...said this would take a few days, however. Are they letting you stay here?”
"I will have a berth, but Torega cannot miss her studies, right?" Rhea says with a smile.
Torega whines.
”That’s right,” Hugh says, nuzzling Torega as he squeezes her a little bit tighter before setting her back down. ”Now, Sijet and Piugash will have to work harder to run the school without us. I want you to be good, to do what they say and to help them where you can, Torega. Okay?”
Torega nods as she looks up at Hugh. "Okay. Rhea says you'll be like me after this." She sucks on her hand. "Will it hurt?"
Hugh smiles. ”No, it won’t hurt,” he says. ”I’ll just go to sleep for a few days, and when I wake up, I’ll be like you and Rhea.”
Torega nods. "Okay." She hugs Hugh. "I love you."
”And I love you, too,” Hugh says, hugging her back. ”And be sure to write down what happens while I’m here. I want to hear all about it when I come home, okay?”
"Okay," Torega says.

"Ready!" Keemu sings from behind Hugh, startling him. "I just have one last question."
Hugh gives Torega a quick peck on the top of her head. ”Go on, go with your mother,” he says, sending her over to Rhea before turning to Keemu. “Yeah, what is it?”
"Do you have any special requests for your final form?" Keemu asks. "Any particular attributes you want or don't want? I can't guarantee anything unless you have a specific genetic sample, but I can suggest some things."
“Honestly, it’ll be enough of a miracle for me if it works at all,” Hugh says. “I’m not looking for anything in particular, just do what you can.” Hugh smirks. “But try to make it look good.”
"Can do!" Keemu says. "Now, say your goodbyes, remove your clothes and climb into the tank."
Hugh nods and turns back to his family. Torega has climbed up into Rhea’s arms, so Hugh gives both of them a hug and a quick groom. ”I love you both,” he says. ”I’ll see you in a few days. Goodbye...for now.”
"Bye," Torega says.
Rhea's fur retains its blue hints, but Hugh's green and yellow dominates. "Goodbye, Hugh," Rhea says. Her colors hint that she knows this goodbye carries more weight than most.

Hugh waves the two goodbye as they turn and leave. After a few final seconds of “What the fuck am I doing?”, he nods to Keemu and starts stripping naked. Keemu stands patiently by, and once Hugh is nude, hovers over to the tank. "Climb in, please."
Hugh nods again, takes a deep breath and climbs inside. The inside is strangely warm, but Hugh settles in as best as he can.
"Last chance to change your mind, Mister Verrill," Keemu says, the grating cheer almost entirely gone from his voice.
Hugh nods to Keemu. “Let’s roll the dice.”

Keemu bobs once, and then a tentacle activates a holodisplay above the tank that was invisible before. A few gestures later, and the top of the tank slides into place. As it locks in, the whole tank turns transparent in a flash, and after a slight gurgling sound from somewhere, the tank begins to fill with a clear fluid. "Just breathe in the fluid," Keemu says through a speaker somewhere inside the tank. "It contains oxygen."
Be cool, Hugh thinks. Be cool like Ed Harris.

The fluid seems to briefly slow down in its rise when it reaches Hugh’s mouth - either this part of the tank is the widest, or this is the part where stupid hairless monkeys like him can try out the fluid-breathing part without panicking quite so badly. Hugh exhales from his mouth, bubbling up, then takes some of the fluid in his mouth and swishes it around, almost swallowing it before he remembers he’s supposed to breath it. A really really really last chance to chicken out passes and Hugh sucks in more fluid, coughing up a bit again but finally getting his lungs full after the third breath. Strangely, his lungs don’t protest too much, though it is noticeably harder to breathe in and out like this. The fluid covering his eyes is actually more irritating, but that passes, too. It’s when the fluid passes Hugh’s brain that the philosophical part begins.

What am I going to be when I wake up? he thinks. Wherren, but...how? Who will I be? His mind starts to wonder as the sedation goes from soothing his airway to permeating his body. I don’t think I’ll miss this body...maybe a few of the scars...should have asked them to keep them...should have… One final thought climbs to the topmost part of his brain, desperately outracing the rising ride of the unconscious.

Goodbye, Hugh Verrill. It’s been fun.

It would be dramatically appropriate to tell of Hugh having epic dreams, his life flashing before his mind’s eye as he relives the decisions that brought him here, but truthfully, Hugh’s dreams are scattered and incoherent, fleeting images and snippets of memories forgotten as soon as they flutter by, like oncoming traffic whizzing past on the other side of a highway. Towards the end, there are more images of Whiirr and Rhea and Torega, though whether it’s just his memories catching up to the present or the first unconscious images from newly built eyes is hard to say. All Hugh can figure out is that at some point, he can hear something and he knows he’s not dreaming anymore, so he opens his eyes.

It was a nice little nap in Keemu’s lab, which looks much like it did when Hugh went into the pod. He yawns, which is a fairly unique experience when liquid-breathing, to say the least, and flicks his tongue over his tusks. Every little move of his, even the slow draw and push of his deep breaths, creates currents inside the tank that brush all over his skin and through his fur. It’s hard to stretch his sore arms, though - Hugh bumps up against the pod’s transparent shell on all sides. It wasn’t that small when Hugh saw it before. He remembers looking at it, watching his skin go a curious mix of blue, yellow and green in the reflection on the pod’s polished surface. His continued bumping and flailing does seem to set off some sensors, and the oxygenated fluid starts to slowly drain from the pod. Getting it out of his lungs is actually harder than breathing it in, because he’s fighting gravity and the fluid is no longer full of sedatives; Hugh ends up hacking and barking for a good half minute, and even then it feels like there’s puddles of this stuff way down at the bottom of his lungs that are just going to have to evaporate over time.

"Good, you are awake," Keemu's voice rings from outside the tank. "Do not try to speak, I must test you first. Nod your head if you understand me." A silvery blur hovers in the tank outside.
Hugh nods his head. The strands of fur hanging from his head glide over his broad shoulders as he moves his thick neck.
"Excellent!" Keemu replies. "Let me rinse you off." The silvery blur gestures a tentacle at the side of the tank, and blasts of water jet from all sides.
Hugh bursts into an explosion of yellow-shock with some red-anger as the jets come at him from every direction. He’d flail around to try to ward them off, but the pod’s too small for that, so he just yelps. The water shuts off just as abruptly - he's cold now, but at least he doesn't feel sticky.
"And there we go!" Keemu floats down underneath the tank. "Let me let you out while I get into the encounter suit." The tank he's in pings, and the top slides up and away as it turns opaque again.

Hugh staggers out, not quite sure on his feet after the long sedation yet, and shuffles towards a nearby bed. There’s a napkin pretending to be a towel on it; Hugh snatches it up and starts to pat himself dry, bumping it against his new muzzle a few times as he tries to dry off his face. A few moments later, Keemu hovers out of an alcove in his bright green suit.
"Good! Now, hold still and open your mouth," he says as he extends a tentacle with a lit probe on the end.
The yellow-shock has faded from Hugh, but the red-anger is crowded out by blue-apprehension; reluctantly, he turns to face the probe and opens his mouth. Fortunately, it only just goes past his teeth and scans the back of his throat, rather than being shoved all the way down it.
"Excellent! Now, arms up in the air, please."

The next half-hour feels like the build-up to some freaky abduction tentacle porn thing that never seems to quite pay off with a money shot. Hugh is asked to move this way and stand like that and would you please do this for me, never mind the probes, this is all valuable data!

Blood sample, Chekov! Marrow sample, Chekov! Skin sample, Chekov! Hugh thinks, as his mind wanders to the now rather quaint vision of future past that was burned into his brain from his dad’s VHS tapes. Come to think of it, didn’t they just wave a tricorder at you for five seconds back then? Seems like hassle-free diagnostic medicine will remain science fiction for the time being.

Finally, Hugh’s had it with the prodding and probing. When Keemu tries to stick another probe up his ear, Hugh grabs it and pushes it away.
"Well then!" Keemu replies. "I just wanted to triple-check everything, but the first two times came up all clear, so I suppose we can move on to higher functions." Keemu hovers back a bit. "Say the first thing that comes to mind."
”Finally!” Hugh barks. After a moment, Hugh tries to say “Test, test” in English, but it’s a lot like trying to hit the chorus of The Show Must Go On back in glee club - there’s air pushing through his throat, and there’s some sounds coming out, but it ain’t no Freddie Mercury - and no English, either. Hugh coughs to clear the momentary discomfort (God, he needs something to drink!), then turns to Keemu again. ”You couldn’t change that?” he asks.
"Change what?" Keemu replies. "Wherren vocal chords, throat, nasal passages and mouth are all very different from human. It's only through much practice and concentration that Wherren can even form the same sounds."
Hugh harrumphs at that. ”Give me a mirror, please,” he says.
Keemu's suit lights up for a moment, then gestures to the side. "To your right."

Hugh turns to look, and hey, check out that handsome devil flashing himself some green-joy. Now Hugh’s not one to brag, but with shiny smooth fur over a well-proportioned frame and the light bouncing off the exquisite marbling on his tusks, there’s one damn fine-looking Wherren looking back at him, alongside numbers hovering in the mirror surface that (after some mental mathematics) come to 6’7’’, 382 pounds. He’s taller than he used to be, and a lot broader, too, though still not quite as bulked out as the venerable Swims-the-Black, which is partly less raw muscle than Swims, but also a striking absence of flab. Looking past the fur, difficult as that is, it’s like Hugh can count every fiber of muscle on his body, packed tightly under a taut black skin, plus a badonkadonk that just screams to be immortalized in a statue. It takes a few moments to sink in that yes, that really is him doing all the silly “test the mirror” moves, but once it does, Hugh can’t help barking and fist-pumping. This is...this is nothing short of fucking magic. He wears a broad grin as he flexes and stretches a little for his own benefit, which only comes to a stop when the movement reveals the oscillation of his (ahem) third leg, which has Hugh reach for the towel again in a sudden burst of yellow-shock with a fear fringe.

"One more for vocal testing, since your ability to speak Whirr-sign seems unaffected," Keemu says, completely oblivious to Hugh's embarrassment. "Tell me your name."
”I am Huh...Huck,” he barks, flailing and failing to make the right sounds. ”Hug’sh,” he finally says. ”I’m Hug’sh.”
"Hmm, that does not match - but is not entirely unexpected, either," Keemu muses. "Would you prefer I call you by that name?"
”I prefer having a name I can pronounce, so yes,” Hug’sh says.
"Perfectly acceptable, Hug'sh," Keemu says. "And now, memory testing. Tell me about your arrival here."
”I met Vortala on Atea, we went through the Gateway to this station, he handed me off to you,” Hug’sh recalls. ”Anything in particular you want to know?”
"No, that's perfectly fine," Keemu replies. "Next, your bonding ceremony with your mate."
”I was wearing a ridiculously tiny loincloth and painted in white,” Hug’sh says. ”They brought me out onto a stage to meet Rhea and the village’s shaman. We were then bound together, and although it hurt a lot, we managed to snap the bond. We made our speech to the village, and then...then there was a big feast. Speaking of which, I’m hungry.”
"Soon," Keemu says. "Anything you remember in particular about relations between you and your mate? Nothing you are uncomfortable with is needed to be said."
Her arms cradling him. Her warmth. The way she moves so carefully. The way she smiles at him like they’ve given each other permission to finally be happy. Her tongue all over him, her… ”Her smell,” Hug’sh finally says. ”When all is darkness, I will never forget how my Rhea smells.”
"Good, good," Keemu says, bobbing slightly. "And now, the first female you attracted. How did you do that?"
”Stacy,” Hug’sh says with a grin. ”All the males were after her. Some just bared their tusks and tried to be as yellow-green as they could. Others had rolling patterns, dancing around her while keeping their green on the side facing her. But Stacy wanted more than cubs and good hunts. She wanted someone who paid attention to her. I watched her between classes, when she was alone for a moment, and saw her patterns. When we met next, I mirrored them. That’s how I got her attention, and then we talked and went to the movies and had dinner on my dad’s credit card, and, well, one thing led to another.”
"Good!" Keemu seems very pleased with that response. "The memory integration seems to be working well."
”Are we done, then?” Hug’sh asks.
Keemu stops bobbing at that. "Apparently not. I must first explain what exactly the memory integration is. First, please reflect upon what you just said."
Hug’sh stays silent for a while. ”I know logically that I was a human when I came here,” he finally says. ”But when I think back to the past, I see myself as a Wherren. As...me.”
"Only sometimes," Keemu adds cheerfully. "Only memories directly required for acculturation and the ability to function as a Wherren have been adjusted. After a period of time, though, your mind will see yourself in all memories from the Wherren perspective."
”Okay,” Hug’sh says. ”Anything else I should know?”
"No, I believe that is all," Keemu says. "How do you feel?"
”Good,” Hug’sh says, once again stretching his limbs out a bit. ”Sore. Hungry. Mostly hungry.”
"Would you like to see your mate before you eat, or afterwards?" Keemu asks.
”Oh, Rhea!” Hug'sh barks. ”Bring her in, please.”
"Well then! I will show her in and take my leave." Keemu hovers backwards towards the door, which slides open to let him out. It stays open as Rhea carefully steps into the doorway.

"Hug'sh?" Rhea asks. She'd always pronounced it that way, but it's still like he's hearing it for the first time. "Are you..." She looks at Hug'sh, and freezes, her fur standing on end and turning a vivid mix of green and yellow. "Oh gods. You look...very attractive." She yelps and covers her muzzle. "I cannot believe I just said that."
”I’m glad you said it first,” Hug’sh says, green-happy all over his face. Finally...finally he’ll be able to give Rhea what she wanted from a mate. Finally they will be the family they were meant to be. He walks over to embrace her, but there’s a quite deliberate “check this out” strut to it. He strategically loses his grip on the towel just before he closes in.
Rhea's fur is a rolling boil of greens and yellows - happiness, love, embarrassment, arousal. As Hug'sh closes in, he can smell her - and while it's familiar, it's with a depth he's never been able to notice before. Rhea smells of the dark parts of the forest, soil and leaf and fruit, tempered with a hint of blood. Hug’sh grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her into an embrace, finally finding out what the top of her head looks like. Soon, they’re both alternating grooming and purring.
”Do you think there are cameras in here?” Hug’sh whispers with a devious grin as his fur ruffles.
Rhea ruffles her fur right back. "I don't really care."
”Then dinner can wait,” Hug’sh says.

Hug’sh and Rhea leave Cyllia rather certain that the security footage of the lab might kickstart a lucrative line of business in erotica for the reclusive floating jellyfish, but there are bigger things to consider now. Obviously, the two of them are very happy with the results, but it also has to pass muster with 815, the GRHDI and the Wherren training unit at Mesas Negras - and most importantly, one very special member of the family. Passing through Atea, Hug’sh gains a better appreciation for why Rhea doesn’t care for the place, but it’s only when they’re back in the village that things get really weird. Hug’sh knows everyone they run into, but they of course don’t recognize him. Hug’sh has to explain, with Rhea’s help, and invariably there are congratulations and well-wishes and hearty embraces with lots of green and yellow fur. The pair makes it through half a dozen of these mini-reconnections before the school - long audible by the shouts of playing cubs - comes into view.

The cubs continue chasing each other around with the ball until Rhea and Hug’sh make their way to the edge of the field. ”Rhea!” Dush barks. He turns around and drops the ball to sign. ”Hey everyone! Rhea’s back!”
The cubs charge ahead and crowd around Rhea’s feet.
”Where did you go?” Temator asks.
”Who’s the new male?” Kunang adds.
A wave of conflicting apprehension and green fills Rhea’s fur. ”Everyone...this is Hug’sh,” she says, putting a hand on Hug’sh hump. ”He’s still the same Hug’sh that you remember, he’s just…” the tips of Rhea’s fur turn a deeper blue, ”...he’s just Wherren now. Like us.”
The eyes of all the cubs go wide as they turn to look at Hug’sh. ”Woooow…” all the cubs purr as they look up at him, a mess of greens, yellows and blues.
”Hello everyone,” Hug’sh says. He’s still not quite used to the new bass and rumble, but he thinks he still sounds like, well, him. ”It is like Rhea said. I am still Hug’sh, but I am…”
Torega steps up towards Hugh, very slowly, very carefully while he speaks. ”I am Wherren now. And...I still love you.” He takes a knee and puts his hands on Torega’s shoulders, looking at her with a soft smile. His eyes begin to water, and rather than say anything else, he just yelps with relief and pulls her into a hug, exploding into a tangled mess of green and yellow. He feels Torega bury her muzzle into his fur and just breathe for a moment, before she gives him a lick and rubs her muzzle against his and purrs. Hug’sh licks the top of her head, then rises up, picking her up with him. He carries her with one arm, cradling her against his chest. ”I love you, daughter,” he whispers.
”I love you, father,” Torega whispers back, her arms spread wide against his broad chest as she clings to his fur.
”Hug’sh!” Kunang barks, and pulls at his Narsai’i sweatpants. ”Hug’sh, pick me up!”
”Me too!” Temator barks. And with that, all the cubs, even Othrod, push forward and surround him.
Hug’sh laughs - and what a laugh it is! - gives Torega another lick, then takes a knee again. ”One moment, daughter”, he says, gently putting her on top of his hump. Then, with a mad grin, he starts grabbing the waiting cubs and loading them onto his shoulders and into his arms, rising up laughing with a half dozen all over him. ”Who wants a ride?” he calls out, spinning in place and taking a few steps as the squealing cubs cling on to him. It’s good to hear their laughter, and his own laughter, and to see the look on Rhea’s face and the other cubs all clamoring for him, and…

This is it, Hug’sh thinks. This is heaven.

The Mesas Negras gateport is a busy little place - well, it’s not that little, but it is that busy. Hug’sh wasn’t the first across the threshold when the gate opened, and now he walks down the ramp steadily but slowly, taking in the familiar with unfamiliar senses. The AC in the open air Gateway had made inroads on the desert heat, but has taken the air under the concrete cover to irritatingly dry levels, especially around the gums of his tusks that are still a little sensitive about these things. His nostrils and eyes don’t like it much better, sending a small wave of orange and yellow through the tips of his fur. He increases his pace, working his way out of the crowd around him, and tries to get a good look around through squinting eyes, running his tongue over his tusks and lips to keep them wet. Nobody seems to be looking specifically at him, and that’s got him feeling a little weird, but Hug’sh keeps going, figuring his feelings are going to settle a little more once he sees some familiar faces. And so he strides forward - making a mental note to ask Swims about how he can stand to wear these pants, which seem to be rubbing all over Hug’sh’s leg fur. It’s not until he’s crossed the port proper and is on his way up the ramp to the joys of full, unmitigated desert heat that he spots Angel at the end of the ramp, taking the well-concealed elevated perch as usual. Hug’sh raises his arm - careful, don’t want to smack that soldier beside him - and waves to the sniper.

Angel frowns for a moment at the unfamiliar Wherren, taking a moment to connect an elaborate series of dots, not the least of which is a certain stiffness to the big alien’s gait that just screams ‘United States Army’.

“That you Captain?” Despite Hugh having resigned, Angel still refers to him as ‘Captain’ somewhat habitually - the same habit that would mean him referring to Garret as ‘Davis’ if he didn’t have a pants wettingly terrifying wife Angel had made a promise to.

”Hello, Angel!” Hug’sh barks, closing the distance and offering his paw to shake. ”And it’s Hug’sh now.”
“Hug’sh…” Angel seems to roll it around in his mouth a bit, trying to decide if it sounds somewhat savage and noble, or as if he’s about to sneeze. Eventually deciding to split it down the middle, he grins, shaking Hug’sh’s paw. “Everything go alright? All the pieces where they’re supposed to be?”
”Oh, definitely no complaints there,” Hug’sh replies with a big, toothy grin. ”Though I get the impression they threw in a little Chris Hemsworth while they were at it. I don’t remember being quite this handsome. I guess their usual customers have certain preferences about their body mods?”
Angel chuckles. “I get that impression. But hey, if you’re going to have your body turned into a slushie and reformed, it might as well come out sexy on the other end.”
”My thoughts - and Rhea’s - exactly,” Hug’sh says, swiping his massive arm across his brow and mewling a little. ”God, it’s hot out here. Let’s go shock the others.”
Angel nods. “Sounds like a plan. Also, protip - the server room has it’s own AC setup, and the techs...owe me one. Tell them I sent you, try not to put your tusks through anything with ‘IBM’ on the front of it, and you should be golden.”
”I promise not to touch anything I can’t pronounce,” Hug’sh says. Then he clears his throat. “Eye...bree…” The rest is hacking. ”I think the servers are safe,” he adds, a little defeated.
“It’ll come in time big fella. Hell, I still can’t change color.” Angel grins, heading deeper into the base with Hug’sh.

---

Twenty steps away from the door to the GRHDI conference room, Hug’sh’s thoughts overtake his steps. The climate-controlled building is a whole different sensation, a kind of cold that he can only feel where he’s moving and pushing the insulating layer of trapped air out of his fur. So, that’s interesting. What’s really making him nervous are the doors. The ceilings are fine, closer to his head than he’s used to but with enough clearance still. The doors, though - well, he has to duck under them just a little, and thinking about even larger Wherren like Swims or Rodirr, Hug’sh can’t really figure out how they comfortably walk through those at all.

So, he’s a little cold, a little tall, and a lot nervous. Nervous about seeing his teammates, his - oh, let’s stop pretending, his friends. He didn’t tell them about the biggest decision of his life beforehand - well, he had to tell Angel, and he told Swims he was considering it, so maybe Garrett found out, but he’d keep the secret, and...Hug’sh thoughts keep spinning. The secret’s the least of it, really. Walking in as a different species, now there’s the elephant in the room. (Another pang of self-consciousness about his height.) Are they going to see him like he wants them to see him? New Hug’sh, tall and kind and still one of them? Or old Hugh Verrill in an oversize permanent costume? Or, maybe worse, someone they don’t know at all? Will they still work with him - well, yeah, how is that going to work, he hasn’t picked out any new gear yet, and Wherren on covert ops, oh hell, that’ll be fun.

Long story short, Angel opens the door for him, and Hug’sh walks in, and then he’s suddenly in there with the rest of 815, standing in the middle of the room getting all the looks. He straightens up a little, getting his seven feet in order. Just a glance is enough to tell him from most Wherren: a tall, toned frame with a rather broad humpback, big but not massive, with bright brown eyes, a pleasingly symmetric muzzle and long, gently curving tusks that shine with subtle marbling even under the glare of the conference room’s fluorescent lights. His fur is mostly deep brown - Hug’sh has learned that much control, at least - with some bright canary yellow shining at the tips. A prime specimen, all in all, well complemented by his loose color-shifting pants and sandals, though he’s foregone a matching vest in favor of keeping his torso free, with just the (recently lengthened) leather strap of his self-made bag slung over his shoulder.

”Um, hello,” he begins. ”I’m sure you’re wondering about the meaning of this, so I’ll...I’ll be brief. I used to be Captain Verrill.” He lets that sink in for a moment. ”Thanks to Angel’s help, I was able to secure the services of the Cyllans in receiving this genemod - a new, Wherren body. Yes, it’s real, yes, it’s permanent. And since I can no longer say my old name quite right, I’ve settled on calling myself Hug’sh.” He looks around. ”So, I’m pretty sure you guys have some questions for me now.”

Luis had looked up questioningly when Angel accompanied the unknown Wherren into the room where the team had been assembled--was this a briefing? Something up on Whirr? The Wheren's announcement that it was ...Hug'sh's announcement that he was the Wherren was not even close to what he was expecting. Some questions? Dozens. However, sorting them out from his shock would take too long, so he starts with the obvious. "Why?" he asks, eyes wide with surprise. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

There's a sharp bark of a laugh from the back of the room. "I remember telling you to try new things every once in a while," Zaef says with a grin, "but I wasn't expecting you to take it so seriously!"

"How about describing the procedure? I've heard...well, I've never known anyone who's gotten it. Requires connections, and lots of cash. And all I know about it amounts to Imperial health warnings and tall tales about...oh, what do you call it? Uh, 'Male enhancement,' that's it." Zaef's grin is lopsided now, his voice sober. He shifts from his weight in his seat, sits up a little straighter. "...Guess I'd feel better if I knew about it."

Zaef's grin is a bit of a ghost by this point, but he leans back comfortably in the chair and his shoulders drop a couple inches, arms folded loosely against his chest. "How do you feel now that you've gone big, Ver - aah, uh, Hug'sh. You taking to it, or is it going to take some time to get comfortable?"

Hug'sh turns to address Luis first.

"Because it's what I wanted, and what is best for my family," he says somberly. "I wanted to be a good mate for Rhea and a good father for Torega. Who I was...wasn't enough. It still took me some time to think about it, but if I'm honest, I knew what my choice would be the moment I heard this was possible." He turns to Zaef. "I can't tell you much about the procedure as I wasn't conscious for most of it. From what I hear...they essentially dissolve the old and force-grow the new. They also did some subtle memory adjustments with me to help me integrate better as a Wherren, but I reckon you can deal with the cognitive dissonance of a larger schlong." Hug'sh pauses for a moment. "...wow, I didn't even know these were words in Whiirrsign. Damn good memory implants. So, yes, they do good work. Feels good, too - not quite a 100% yet, but getting there."

Arketta looks surprised, and Hug'sh can see her eyes flicker over him, studying every inch, and every inch raising more questions. Still, she remains uncharacteristically quiet, and simply crosses her arms and leans back. Hug'sh might not have Swims-the-Black's training in reading human emotions, but he was one of them less than two days ago, and he can read Arketta's anger over something crowding out her instinct to engage.

Ngawai and Garrett don't seem so surprised - moreso than Hug'sh might have expected if Swims had spilled the beans entirely, but not so much that Hug'sh can't gather that they might have guessed. Garrett, balancing Naloni on his lap, simply nods and hangs back to listen to everyone else's statements, while Ngawai leans forward. "What did Rhea and Torega think?" she asks, the query about family first somewhat uncharacteristic of her. "And who else did you tell before us? Who else knows about this?" Ah, there's the Ngawai Hug'sh knows.

Swims-the-Black is a riot of emotions in the corner - yellow/blue-fear, green-welcome, and yellow-caution - none of which he is making any effort to conceal. Still, when he speaks up, it is calmly and with great restraint. "How do you feel, Hug'sh?"