First Contact

Chapter Sixteen

The ship was elegant, with sleek lines and sweeping curves. The engines thrummed pleasantly, the lights moved in patterns that brought satisfaction with their mathematical progressions, the hull colors were smooth and brought to mind comfort and calm.

The ones escorting it, though, surrounding it in a sphere of heavy metal, were obviously not built to calm anyone. They bristled with weapons that snarled silently, heavy with thick armor that felt heavy and crushing to the eye, the engines growled with barely restrained energy, and the lights seemed to search for weakness.

They appeared, silently, streaking in even though they arrived at a full stop, all at once. The formation was tight and precise, engineered to ensure ships could support one another while protecting the elegant one.

From the biggest of the ugly ships came the broadcast.

"WE ARE THE CONFEDERACY!" rang across every datascreen, across every display, roared from every speaker, and vibrated every loose piece of metal to howl the words in a hundred different languages across every world, station, and ship in the system. "WE ARE HERE TO PROVIDE ASSISTANCE!" roared across the system. "WE WERE INVITED IN!"

The words dripped with something that the Unified Civilized Races members that lived in the Prime Unified Capital didn't understand.

From the elegant ship came smooth code, using elegance gleaned from Unified Civilized Species lexicons. It was a quiet transmission, polite, and elegant.

"May I come in?"

Those words were transmitted to the Unified Civilized Council's First Secretary. Politely waiting in the buffer until the secretary uncurled from under her desk to answer her coms.

She thought for a moment, remembered the roared words, and transferred the call to her supervisor before hiding back under her desk.

Over the course of several hours the call wound its way through the labyrinth of the bureaucracy, passed from underling to supervisor to manager to executive.

Half of the problem is the various councils were completely panicking.

System scanners could find the elegant beautiful ship. It was the right size for a person of importance but not ostentatious, big enough for luxury and comfort but not arrogance. Its drive signature was pleasant to behold on every wavelength.

It wasn't the problem.

It was the escorts surrounding it in a multi-layered globe.

Most of the ships couldn't even be detected with anything beyond optical lenses or the naked optic. Either the ships simply didn't exist, were only balls of static three times their visual size, or flickered in and out of the scanners like a poorly tuned holograph. The ones that could be detected read on the scanners that they had no energy signatures, were solid blocks of inert alloy, and had no drive signatures. They might as well have been dead chunks of ore floating in space.

But lights could be seen from them, the faint sparkle of shields could be seen, and the drives leaked energy, all visible on optics or to the naked eye.

And there were hundreds of them.

From tiny needle-like craft that looked like someone built a high thrust engine, slapped some weapons on it, tossed a cockpit on top, then remembered to put armor on the fragile craft, to massive hulking ships, kilometers long and thick, built in a way that the ships proudly and defiantly let anyone who viewed them know that the ships had one purpose and one purpose only.

Breaking other people's shit.

The various councils were in a state of panic, meetings devolving into shouting matches and tantrums, conflicting viewpoints clashing on displays and through the air. The Unified Science Council insisted that the planetary and system scanners had to be in error, their software compromised by the problems plaguing the GalNet of the Unified Inner Systems. The Unified Commerce Council argued over the disruption to industry, trade markets, and the Unified Trade System and urged the Unified Military Fleet to drive the interlopers from Unified Space. The Unified Executor Council blamed the new fleet for the mutiny that had taken place several days before, a mutiny they had only learned about a few hours before the new fleet had arrived.

A mutiny that had cost the Unified Executor Council an entire fleet. A fleet that was nearly 20% of their entire force.

The planet went through three whole rotations before finally the Most Honored of the Unified Supreme Governmental Council answered the waiting transmission. It hadn't been retransmitted, hadn't been repeated, it just sat in the com buffer.

Waiting.

Menacingly.

The lowest ranking member of the council, who had lost the vote almost unanimously, closed four of its eight eyes and reached out with one trembling digit and pressed the blinking icon, cringing at the idea of what would bellow from his speakers.

Instead, in Unified Galactic Standard, a pleasant, calm, and reassuring voice asked: "May I come in?" and flashed an image of the elegant ship. The menacing ones appeared but were crossed out.

This led to a long argument, five turnings of the planet, over just what the message meant.

The Council members argued endlessly, devolving into what the meaning of 'in' really meant several times. Each recess the council members retired to their estates to dine on delicacies, surrounded by opulance and enjoying luxuries.

While their people died by the tens of thousands.

In the middle of such a recess a Vuknaraa snuck into the council chamber, using her stolen and then cloned maintenance ID card, and, looking around wildly with her three hearts pounding in her torso, pressed the "YES" vote icon on the panel of the Highmost.

As she ran away she sobbed, unable to believe what she had done, that she'd accomplished her first meatspace run for Mister Johnson.

But she had no choice. Had no options. Had no respite. Had taken the job because her life had become a horror.

Every cycle, every rotation, her inbox flooded with the same video, every time she logged into social media, she was flooded with the same video, over and over and over, no matter where on GalNet she went, with one exception, that video perused her.

Her creche-mates being skinned alive, roasted with plasma, and devoured by clashing metal jaws that just let the blood, juices, and flesh fall to the ground as the jaws clashed in an obscene parody of eating.

She had tried to pry out her GalNet link implant with a sharp piece of metal, but her apartment's VI had reported her. She'd been whisked to the medical center.

Where they replaced it.

And she'd been immediately flooded with the image again.

So she sobbed as she ran from the Council Center, filled with shame. She ran through darkened rainy streets until she hid in a friend's apartment, curled up in the corner with an EVR headset on. She slept, using the game's built in dream generator to sleep a sleep without nightmares, as two of her friends disabled her GalNet implant and dyed her fur to disguise her. New ID made to hide her. Her name, her brood, her slaughtered creche abandoned to keep the Executors from finding her.

Her name was forgotten by everyone but those she invited in and her chummers.

On the Wrath Forges of Mercury the final strut was infused with wrath and hatred, pounded into place with rage, and inscribed with her name with the fires of vengeance. The massive super-dreadnaught, the CSN Courage in Despair launched into space, it's first transmission her name backed by a scream of rage and hate, pain and loss, vengeance sworn and promised wrath in her name that was carved onto its bow in burning chrome.

Ten thousand Neko Marine cat-girls painted her name in neon pink on banners they then affixed to their armor after chasing one another and striking each other with the banners. A half million Orkz scrawled her name in liquid iron on the sides of their wartoyz, firing their weapons to call out praise to their one true god MOARDAKKA. Her name rang in the pounding of brimstone hammers slamming on the Anvils of Hate of War Fueled Mars, forging for a full turning of Mars chainsword blades inscribed with her name in liquid fury to arm the Chapters of Imperial Marines. Two hundred thousand clones stepped from the cloning tubes with her name before their numbers, giving voice to her name as one as they cocked their mass accelerator rifles. Two million neural smartgun links burned in cold fury with her name inscribed in chrome and fire as the warborgs came online. A quarter-million Treana'ad warrior eggs hatched with her name breathed upon them to dry their wet carapaces.

Across space her name was screamed in rage and hate and burning wrath, a promise of revenge and carnage in the name of one who could not protect herself or her people.

In the hives of the Mantid her name was whispered softly by the blind and deaf albino oracles as they rubbed their vestigial wings together deep in the ruins of the Chambers of the Dead Queens.

When the council reconvened they reacted with horror. Obviously somebeing had turned the sensitivity up too high on their datapads and a stray breeze or an odd piece of lint had touched the icon and now new lines had appeared under the "Yes" reply that none of them had meant to send.

"I await your transmission of landing coordinates with calm and anticipation on being in your presence and hearing your words. Please do not disappoint with delays for anticipation held too long becomes disappointment and grief."

Immediately the council began arguing until the third least ranking member lifted a clawed hand.

"Perhaps we should send landing coordinates before they grow impatient?" He asked.

The arguing turned to whether or not the member's point of order should be recognized when he was Savashan.

During the argument of whether or not to recess for a full rotation or a quarter, another message appeared.

"My companions grow agitated. I apologize, but they are over-stimulated by the thoughts of assisting you. Might I receive landing coordinates so they feel that progress is being made? As it stands I have been required to agree to a security details to assure my companions that my safety will be assured."

The Most High, who had been feeling the strangest emotion, one he could not name despite having mastered his emotions for three centuries, stared at the body before him.

They cannot decide upon what colors of leaves to chew, he realized. His hearts thudded with agitation and he curled his feeding tendrils around his mouth with anxiety. They will still be arguing when those terrible machines break into this very chamber, and then argue over who died the worse.

Without consulting the other members, using executive power so long unused it was viewed as a mere codified abnormality, he transmitted the coordinates of the nearest spaceport and included a message.

"We await your arrival."

The answer was immediate.

"I am coming with my guard."

The council chambered erupted in fury as the other council members protested what he had done.

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The only warning the spaceport got was the message "HE IS COMING!" that broke through data-streams and screamed from every display. It arrived moments before a half dozen spears of light raked down from the sky, raising up clouds of dust the obscured the vision. The scanners detected nothing but a flare of kinetic energy being dumped into jumpspace, as if a battleship had made the transition from realspace.

When the dust cleared giant bipedal figures were revealed, kneeling on the plascrete of the landing field. Colored dull patterns of gray and black, the mottled scheme made them hard to pick out against the background of the city, confused optics as to depth, as if they were 2D projected in front of the 3D of the city often rippling to appear as if they were made up what was beyond them.

As one they stood up and maintenance techs found themselves gaping as they rose to their full height, higher than the guidance station, higher than the beacon tower, they loomed over the starport on legs twenty meters thick.

"OMNITARGETING LINKAGE ENGAGED," they rumbled as one.

In the rough circle formed by the massive bipedal robots or spaceships or whatever they were was a square made up of four large ships, as large as cargo haulers. Inside that square was an elegantly formed shuttle lavishly decorated.

The cargo haulers dropped their sides open with a KLANG that resonated across the city. From inside poured rank after rank of massive figures clad in ornate heavy power armor, the plates abnormally thick. They marched, in perfect unison, until they were in front of their larger brothers. With a shout they went to kneeling in front of the giants, their heavy bulky weaponry held at ready. Vehicles, squat and deadly looking, bristling with weapons and twinkling with shields, moved on tracks, repulsor fields, anti-grav, and wheels out of the cargo-haulers and took up an inner circle between the giants and the cargo lifters.

The cargo lifters closed the panels and those watching realized with horror that what they were seeing wasn't cargo haulers and gunports opened up and weapons came online.

Most of the starport staff fled.

The commander of the security force stared at the Executor who was demanding, his tendrils shaking in rage and his mouth almost foaming, that the security forces attack the forces arranging themselves on the primary landing pad.

The head of the security force, a normally peace loving being, drew his pistol and shot the Executor through his open mouth.

The front of the smallest craft, the ornate shuttle, unfolded and a round saucer-like vehicle, a darkened and opaque bubble on the center of the top, slowly hummed out. It was surrounded by massive bipedal figures that lacked color, only a flat black coloring their surfaces. Massive rifles were in their hands, cannon-sized tubes extending straight up from their back on their right sides. Their footfalls cracked the plascrete of the spaceport as they followed the vehicle.

The vehicle made its way slowly, stately, to the Unified Galactic Council Chambers. When it arrived the dark bubble detached, revealing itself to be egg-shaped, and it hummed into the building.

One of the massive figured ripped the door off when it opened it, staring at the door with its visor covered face, as if it didn't understand how the door had come off in its warsteel hand.

The High Secretary, who's nerves were stretched to the limit, peeked over her desk as the front row of the massive figures stopped in front of her. Their surface was a matte light drinking black. Their arms and legs were thick machinery that hissed and whirred and purred. Their torsos were solid blocks with plates angled to provide the best deflections. They glimmered and shimmered slightly with some kind of shielding.

They crunched to a stop in front of her desk. After a moment they parted somehow, as if they were able to move aside without motion. The egg moved forward.

"Might I have directions to the High Council Chamber, honored one who serves for other's convenience?" The egg asked in Unified Galactic Standard with smooth tones and a calming accent.

The secretary nodded, gulping with both throats, and brought up a map with directions on it, using her wingtip to flip it toward the egg.

The metal figure on the left moved, it's arm extending and its fist closing with a crunch. On it's black blank face symbols appeared.

:-|

ACCESS DENIED flashed on her screen for a moment.

"She is harmless, honored warborg. Do not impeded her service and sworn task, dutiful one," the egg purred.

The 'warborg' opened its hand ACCESS GRANTED and lowered its arm.

After a moment the egg made another purring noise. "Excellent. You have attended to your duty most splendidly. You have not only my thanks, but the thanks of the Terran Confederacy."

The Secretary nodded and the egg hummed away, two of the massive figures escorting it.

She hid under her desk when she realized all of the massive figures but two of them would be staying with her.

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The knock on the door startled the Master of Ceremonies, who had nearly fallen asleep as the High Council Members had largely fallen to sulking. He jumped up, yanking open the doors, to reveal a dark gray opaque egg flanked on either side by two huge matte black bipedal robots.

"May I come in?" The egg purred.

"Um, yes?" The Master of Ceremonies answered, wondering which Council member was showing up in such a matter.

The egg moved in, silent, a stately pace.

The two mechanical bipeds moved next to him, the sound of gears whirring, the faint hiss of steam whispered, and the hum of electronics audible to the Master of Ceremonies' ears.

The egg moved to the center of the Council Chamber, coming to a halt. The two massive robotic figures stopped, one to either side, and the members of the High Council stared in confusion, wondering which council member was inside the egg.

The egg vanished with a 'pop', leaving behind five figures. Four were smaller versions of the first, their heads bristling with cybernetics, their carapaces different colors, one green, one black, one russet, one gold. All of them looked around, their antennae twitching.

The biggest one was bone white and clad in swathes of soft blue material. Is was sitting with its four lower legs folded, its two atrophied and vestigial blade-like arms held tight against its chest, its two gripping hands were clasped in front of it. Its multifaceted white eyes glittered in the lights of the Council Chamber as it slowly rubbed its vestigial wings together.

It was also a twelve foot tall preying mantis.

Silence descended on the Council Chamber as the shock of what they were seeing soaked in.

The being took in that moment of silence, relishing it, savoring it, before breaking it by concentrating on its Speaker.

"It appears you have a Precursor problem," The small russet one said.

The Council Chamber exploded in shouting.

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MANTID INTELLIGENCE MEMO

PSI-LINK COMMUNICATION

have made contact

am before their rulers

many have no inner voice

this is going to be bad

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