“Who is this Child of Night?”
(Darker Than You Think, Jack Williamson, Gateway Essentials, Google Books.)
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
August seventeenth, 666 GE
In the upscale second sector of New Xanadu, two men dressed in sleek black suits stepped out of the elevator onto the fortieth floor of a high-end, level-one apartment complex.
They had made their way there completely undisturbed. Not a single passerby’s gaze lingered on them for more than a fraction of a second, nor had any automated security droids challenged them or requested a scan of their retinal prints.
They came to a halt outside the armored door of a private residence. The shorter of the two men pressed the buzzer, holding it down firmly, though the insistence was entirely unnecessary. It was barely three in the morning; if the man residing inside was truly who they hoped he was, he wouldn’t dream of going to sleep before the first light of dawn.
Several minutes ticked by before the heavy door finally swung open. Loren Falke appeared on the threshold, wrapped in a silk dressing gown—looking disheveled, confused, his hands still heavily matted with coarse, blackish hair and his glinting eyes featuring narrow, vertical pupils.
“Ah, it’s you two…” he began to say.
The two visitors completely bypassed any formal pleasantries. They roughly shoved him aside and forced their way deep into the apartment.
“I wasn’t expecting you so early…” Falke added, quietly closing the door behind them.
The interior was cast in elegant, low-key lighting, while the brilliant, swirling spiral of the Galaxy blazed spectacular colors beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. A sharp sliver of bright light spilled out from a half-open door down the hall, accompanied by the muffled sound of heated, animated voices intermingled with occasional laughter. A slick musical interlude suddenly cut in.
Falke hurried to flip on the main lights, revealing an interior design that straddled the fine line between newly rich ostentation and high fashion. Levitating sofas bloated with far too many throw cushions, plush moshaawk fur rugs, shelves overflowing with rare holograms, avant-garde canvases by Uwe Garindan, and an imposing black beryllium statue of Wildabout III.
“Why? Did we happen to interrupt something?” the taller of the two visitors inquired smoothly.
“Oh, no, Lord Chang! Of course not…”
Falke glanced anxiously toward the half-open door for a fleeting second.
“…But I just got back from Starmont. Between the film festival, promoting the new movie, pre-existing press commitments, and everything else, I hadn’t managed to shift forms in five days.”
Councilor Condla rubbed his hands together in anticipation. It was a nervous habit he had frequently indulged in ever since he had denounced his own wife, Renny, to the Apostles. Now, brilliant and utterly unexpected career advancements were opening up before him—especially since Minister Bai, his eternal bureaucratic rival, had foolishly managed to fall from grace.
“Mr. Falke,” Condla began, deploying the full spectrum of his diplomatic charisma, “we certainly understand your unique physiological needs, but the specific assignment we have entrusted to you is of an extremely delicate nature. It brooks no delay. So, how did it go? Did you succeed in meeting the princess?”
By now, Falke had fully reassumed his flawless human appearance.
“Naturally. In fact, she was the one who explicitly requested an introduction.”
He looked back toward the adjacent room. The music had ceased, and a synthesized voice was now dryly discussing the latest stock market trends in the second galactic sector.
“Well? Is that all?” Bran Condla pressed, his tone tightening. “What did the two of you talk about? Did you manage to successfully win her confidence? Will you be seeing each other again?”
Loren Falke let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. He shook his head and ran his tongue over his lips, deliberately avoiding the Chancellor’s piercing gaze.
“Hey, what the hell do you want from me?” he snapped, his voice instantly flaring with arrogance. “There had to be at least… five hundred people at that party! We were never left alone for a single second! That beanpole of a bodyguard was constantly hovering… and that six-legged bitch of an entourage wouldn’t get out of the damn way!”
“Are you attempting to tell us… that you failed?” the Councilor asked, his eyes narrowing in irritation.
The mathematically perfect facial features of Loren Falke twisted into a bitter sneer.
“What? Who the hell do you take me for? No woman in this galaxy is capable of resisting me, do you understand? Not a single one. The Princess Imperial gave me her private, unlisted com-link number. I’m scheduled to call her next week, as soon as she returns from a diplomatic trip to the Pollux system. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me…”
For the umpteenth time, his eyes darted back to the half-open door.
Until this moment, Volker Chang had contentedly let Condla do all the talking, though his gaze had never once wavered from Falke. He had been quietly evaluating the actor, actively looking for a defect, a hidden weakness—anything that might potentially disrupt the grand progress of the Work.
“What is the grand rush, Mr. Falke?” Chang suddenly interjected, his voice dripping with authority. “We have barely just arrived, and already you are so eager to throw us out…” He deliberately sat down on the nearest floating sofa and gestured imperiously for Condla to do the same. “Why don’t you offer us a drink instead? The Councilor and I have developed quite a thirst.”
Flustered, Loren Falke glanced around the room, subtly wiping his palms against his dressing gown.
“Uh… right. Sure, why not?”
He stepped over to one of the Garindan paintings and slid the canvas aside. Hidden directly behind it were the sleek control interfaces of a late-model Food-o-Matic unit.
“What are you having? I have the matrix code for original, Earth-authentic vodka.”
“No, thank you,” Chang replied flatly. “I will take a glass of Meshèm wine.”
“And I’ll have rum and Janxx-Cola,” Condla requested.
“White rum?”
“No, dark.”
Falke poured himself a generous, double portion of Tataya Rossija vodka—of which he always maintained a healthy private stockpile—and dropped a pair of Xetor tablets into the glass. He walked back over to the floating seating area, balancing the three glasses.
“You must forgive our rather blunt manners, Mr. Falke,” the Councilor resumed, taking his glass, “but the Work is currently navigating a crucial, highly volatile turning point. The Princess must know little to nothing of our designs; otherwise, that incredibly vague media interview she gave makes no logical sense. However, given that the physical replacement protocol has been temporarily delayed, we must have an alternative contingency strategy ready to deploy.”
He paused to take a slow sip of his drink, using the momentary silence to exchange a calculating, knowing glance with Chang.
“You see, Mr. Falke,” Chang intervened, picking up the thread, “should the heir to the throne become entirely too dangerous to our operations, rather than permanently removing her from the board, we could… shall we say… distract her. And with your specific skillset, implementing such a distraction should prove to be quite elementary.”
Falke threw his head back and swallowed the remainder of his spiked drink in one massive gulp. He set the empty glass down on a side table and spent a long moment vigorously rubbing his eyes.
“Consider it as good as done. Like I told you, we made a real connection last night. Soon enough, Her Highness won’t have a single secret left hidden from me. And interstellar politics will be the absolute last thing occupying her pretty little head.”
Once again, his eyes drifted toward the door.
“Incredibly nice place you have here!” the Chancellor commented jovially, looking around the expansive room. “It appears your films are treating you exceptionally well.”
“Well, I can’t complain.”
“Do you mind terribly if I take a quick look around? I am actually planning to remodel my own estate on Starmont, and—”
“Uh… actually, you can’t go back there… I…”
“What exactly are you trying to hide from us, Mr. Falke?” Chang cut in, his tone turning cold and utterly merciless. “Perhaps something you are currently keeping… in that room?”
Beneath his deep, studio-engineered tan, Loren Falke visibly paled, turning a ghostly color as he rushed forward to physically block the doorway.
“Fine! Alright! I have company over. A woman. What, is that suddenly a crime now?”
The explanation was entirely plausible on its surface, but Chang wasn’t buying it for a single second.
“Is that so? And since when do you undergo your physical shifts directly in front of your little girlfriends? Councilor Condla, go see what lies beyond that door.”
“Please, don’t! It’s nothing important, I swear…” Falke stammered, though his panicked expression screamed the exact opposite.
The Councilor executed the order without a moment’s hesitation. He stepped directly up to Falke, who had wedged his body between the bureaucrat and the frame of the door.
“Step aside, please. Unless you want me to physically hurt you.”
The actor recoiled, letting out a weak whine as he stepped back. Condla violently threw the door open.
Beyond it lay a lavish bedroom, furnished in an identical style to the living room: explicit erotic paintings lining the walls, another massive viewing window looking out into the cosmos, a premium holoscreen, and an expansive, round bed equipped with adjustable gravity field mounts. But above all else, there was blood—a staggering, horrific amount of blood. It was splattered across the walls, soaked deep into the luxury rugs, smeared over the designer sheets, and covering the shredded body of the young woman who lay motionless on the mattress.
She had long, vibrant red hair.
“You insane… reckless lunatic!” the Councilor shouted, his eyes wide. “You couldn’t possibly have—”
He rushed into the room. The victim had been brutally assaulted, her throat ripped wide open, her flesh violently savaged and gnawed. Fortunately, the face was still entirely recognizable, despite being permanently frozen in a horrific death mask. Bran Condla let out a profound, shuddering sigh of relief.
“No, it’s not her!” he called back to the Chancellor, who had just appeared on the threshold.
Volker Chang lunged forward, grabbing Falke violently by the lapels of his dressing gown and slamming him hard against the wall. The actor gasped for air, his eyes wide with absolute terror.
“Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic, mangy little cur!” Chang hissed venomously, his face inches from the actor’s. “The only reason I haven’t personally ripped your throat out of your neck is that, according to our calculations, you might actually be the Zha’nkhaij. Only a certified, monumental idiot would bring a civilian back to his apartment on a night of the High Galaxy! What if someone had heard her screaming, huh? What if, instead of the two of us, the local enforcers had shown up at your door? What would you have done then? Ripped them to pieces too? Just to drag us all down into the abyss with you?!”
“I… I didn’t mean to… Lord Chang!” Falke gasped out, desperately clawing at the Chancellor’s grip. “I told you… I hadn’t shifted in so long… I lost control…”
“You stupid, brainless idiot!” the Chancellor roared, throwing him back against the drywall. “A true werewolf must possess absolute, flawless self-control! And that goes double for anyone who aspires to become our Messiah! One more monumental screw-up like this at the wrong moment, and the entire Work is finished! Pray to whatever dark devils you believe in, Falke! Pray that this never happens again, or I will personally ensure you pay a price worse than death!”
“It… it won’t happen again, Lord Chang. I swear it. I promise!”
Chang reluctantly released his grip, though his eyes remained fixed on the trembling actor.
“Councilor Condla,” he commanded, without breaking eye contact with Falke, “call Bathinn. Tell him to meet us here immediately with one of the official ministry transport ships. Move!”
“What are you planning, Your Excellency?” the Councilor inquired, swiftly pulling out his Datapad.
“This pathetic worm still needs to get rid of the corpse. Well, we will take care of it ourselves. The Underworld is absolutely full of convenient places where things simply disappear.”
Tr’lang, coordinates 154.843/+17.332/6921.24
August seventeenth, 666 GE
Kyle dreamed he was back aboard the Aranui.
He wasn’t alone. There was a presence occupying the copilot’s seat, though he couldn’t quite make out her facial features. It was a woman, however; of that much he was absolutely certain, because he could distinctly smell her scent—a musky, sensual, deeply penetrating aroma. She was staring at him with eyes like burning embers, eyes that actively scanned, searched, and turned his very soul inside out, stripping bare his most deeply hidden secrets. Kyle did not like what was happening. Who was this stranger? How dare she penetrate the inner defenses of his mind? Gathering his mental strength, he fought to break the connection and avert his gaze—and surprisingly, he succeeded with relatively little effort.
His mysterious companion let out a laugh. It was a sharp, sarcastic sound.
“Well, look at that! You’re much stronger than I anticipated!”
He decided to ignore her. He didn’t understand what she meant by that. In that exact moment, the Aranui began to roll violently. Alarmed, he peered out through the viewports and saw that they were flying at a dangerously low altitude over a desolate plain—a desert composed entirely of jagged rocks and fine dust, sparsely dotted with stunted patches of vegetation. Dominating the horizon was a massive, monstrous solar disc, colored a deep blood-red. Suddenly, the memory rushed back to him: Tr’lang! This was Tr’lang, and they were going down. For the first time, he turned his attention to the holoscreens and the warning LEDs blinking aggressively across the primary console.
There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt: the Aranui was losing altitude and… he looked back outside. With the fluid, rapid transition typical of dreams, the landscape had completely shifted. Now, they were flying headlong toward an immense cliffside of solid black basalt, upon whose summit gleamed some sort of sprawling structure.
“Do you like it? It’s my home,” the woman’s husky, sensual voice purred. “Come visit me, Kyle…”
Another violent, shuddering roll rocked the Aranui.
“Kyle!”
Now the voice calling out to him was entirely different—sharper, thinner.
“Kyle! Kyle!”
It was one of his usual awakenings, the kind he had been forced to grow accustomed to ever since he was a young boy. He found himself drenched in cold sweat, his breath hitching in his throat. As was his absolute habit, his very first instinct was to check his neck to ensure his amulet was still there. It was.
If he still had that, then things weren’t completely hopeless just yet.
“Oh, Kyle, finally! You were having a terrible nightmare…”
He blinked rapidly against the dim light, rubbing his eyes several times before he could manage to keep them open. Shirl’s beautiful face was hovering close by, betraying a trace of genuine worry.
“Good morning!” she said, offering a faint smile. “Well, almost. It’s so incredibly dark outside…”
Still groggy from the dream, Kyle shielded his eyes with one hand and lifted his left wrist to check his watch. It read 12:04, local time. He propped himself up on an elbow to survey their surroundings. In the dull, reddish light filtering through a pair of narrow, grime-crusted windows, the dormitory room appeared even more squalid and dilapidated than it had the night before. The vast majority of the cramped bunks were now entirely vacant.
“Dark, huh?” he scoffed, his voice raspy. “And what the hell did you expect from a dM2-class star? Hey, speaking of which… how’s Twiglet doing? Big Boy!” he called out, leaning over the edge of the high berth.
He was genuinely startled not to find Ufu’lan standing guard below. In fact, Twiglet’s middle bunk was completely empty. The only thing remaining was the pile of their personal gear, from which the two largest duffel bags were conspicuously missing.
“That’s exactly why I woke you up,” Shirl explained, her tone shifting to one of concern. “I thought maybe they had just gone out to grab some breakfast…”
“In that incredibly charming bar downstairs?” He let out a massive yawn, swung his legs over the edge, and sat on the side of the bed for a split second. An instant later, he dropped agilely down to the floorboards.
“We’d better go look for them right now,” he said grimly, reaching up to help Shirl climb down as well. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this…”
Outside, the air felt noticeably less freezing than it had the previous night, and the familiar silhouettes huddled beneath heaps of rags had completely vanished.
Left in their wake were the usual, inevitable mounds of rotting garbage, which heavily polluted the dry, motionless air. For a change, Kyle decided to carry Wolfram in his arms. The exotic cat was entirely fed up with being cooped up inside the travel bag, and now that his stomach was full, Kyle figured he wouldn’t try to bolt.
They easily relocated the Loup-Garou’s rear entrance. The heavy door at the far end of the corridor was cracked slightly ajar; exercising caution, Kyle leaned in and pressed his ear against the wood.
“I’ll raise a thousand,” a familiar voice was saying inside.
“See your thousand, and raise you two thousand,” a second voice countered.
“Count me in too,” the first voice shot back.
“Another fifteen hundred.”
“I… uh… I happen to own a modest little property over on Bageechaa. It’s one of the moons orbiting Gienah VI, a very quiet, peaceful little spot…”
Curiosity piqued, Kyle nudged the door open and stepped into the bar. What he witnessed left him completely open-mouthed.
Four individuals were gathered tightly around a table, locked in a tense game of Kryple. The most unbelievable sight of all was Twiglet. She appeared completely, miraculously recovered, sporting that exact air of mock innocence that Kyle had long since learned to recognize.
In this exact moment, however, the Mahjit had far bigger fish to fry.
One of her opponents was the Reghuul—the sleeping beauty from the night before. He seemed to have finally slept off his massive hangover, though his spare head, the specialized electronic module he utilized to communicate, maintained a thoroughly stoic, vacant expression. Then there was Ghast, the four-armed bartender. He was the one who had just spoken. Ufu’lan was also part of the gathering, but he had already folded his hand and was currently busy tearing into a roasted, rat-like creature drenched in a thick, dark green sauce.
“I’m in!” Ghast declared, flashing his usual, creeping smirk. “What’s your move, Onui-Rha?”
“Nothing doing, boys… That’s entirely too rich for my blood. I fold,” buzzed the Reghuul’s mechanical spare head.
Kyle approached the table in absolute silence. He thoroughly loathed the bartender, but right now, he almost felt a pang of pity for the guy. He watched Ghast spread his cards across the tabletop with a look of pure, blissful arrogance, utterly convinced of his victory, before activating the cards’ microcircuits in rapid succession. The first four displayed a sequential array of Zaphirs in various colors. A flawless Grand Zaphir. Under any normal set of rules, it was an entirely unbeatable hand.
“Aha!” the bartender crowed triumphantly. “What do you think of that, my friend?”
“Not bad, Ghast! Really, not bad at all,” Twiglet commented smoothly, flicking her long, forked tongue. “You’ve been incredibly lucky, but…”
She tapped the edge of her own cards to initialize the digital displays.
“…I happen to be just a little bit luckier!”
Ghast visibly wheezed, gasping for breath as if he had just taken a heavy fist directly to the solar plexus.
“Hey, wait… That’s impossible! That’s cheating!” he squawked loudly. “That’s a Super Zaphir…”
“Which hand comfortably crushes a Grand Zaphir, if I am not mistaken,” the Mahjit clarified with absolute mercilessness. She immediately began raking a sizeable pile of loose gemstones and precious minerals across the table toward herself.
Ghast slammed a massive, furious fist onto the wood, rattling the glasses.
“God dammit! You knew how to play this game, admit it!”
“Darling, please mind your language when addressing a lady. I swear on my life that until today, I had never even touched a deck of cards,” she smirked, happily stuffing the spoils deep into her pockets.
Sighing heavily and muttering a string of foul curses under his breath, the bartender stormed away from the table.
“Oh, come now, Ghast!” Twiglet called out, attempting to soothe him. “Look there! You have two brand-new customers! Why don’t you bring them some breakfast?”
“No, no, Ghast!” Kyle intervened hastily. “Don’t bother! Maybe later…”
He preferred the localized agony of starvation over a plate of whatever roasted rodent Ufu’lan was eating. He shot a glance at Shirl, who shook her head violently in agreement.
The bartender disappeared behind the counter. Kyle slid into his vacated seat.
“It is a true pleasure to see you two awake, my friends!” Twiglet greeted them warmly.
Her large red eyes were bright and alert, and her scaly skin had reassumed its healthy, vibrant shade of pale green.
“I see you made a remarkably fast recovery,” Kyle observed dryly.
“Yes, I really can’t complain. All things considered, it could have gone much worse for me. I believe the credit goes entirely to the local cockroach population of this planet. They are easily the plumpest, most succulent insects I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. Honestly, Tr’lang should absolutely be included in the culinary tour itineraries for all Mahjitan citizens! I suppose because the population here is entirely too poor, or perhaps just too beaten down by life… nobody bothers to waste credits spraying them with insecticide, and so…” Twiglet trailed off, as if suddenly remembering something important. “Oh! I haven’t properly introduced my new friend yet!”
She utilized a heavily clawed thumb to gesture toward the Reghuul, who hadn’t missed a single syllable of the conversation.
“This is Gyro Onui-Rha, Captain of the freighter Eudi-Rha… He hails from Ggollek IX, and his ship is currently docked just a few berths over from ours.”
Onui-Rha bowed his mechanical spare head in acknowledgment.
“Greetings, colleague!” the device crackled, directing its audio-feed toward Kyle. “Twiglet has told me quite a bit about you!”
“Well, it’s a relief to finally meet someone around here who doesn’t actually belong to this biological sewer,” Kyle cheered up, firmly shaking the thick, violet tentacle the Reghuul extended toward him. “So, you’re here on business. Frankly, that surprises me. I didn’t think it was possible to squeeze a single credit out of a godforsaken hole like this…” He glanced meaningfully at Twiglet, who was currently struggling to shove the last of the bartender’s gems into her overcrowded pockets. “Uh… what I mean to say is, I’ve seen my fair share of underdeveloped planets, but this one takes the absolute prize.”
Onui-Rha let out a loud laugh. The grating sound of his chuckle closely resembled a high-speed buzz saw slicing through sheet metal.
“Yes, I had the exact same impression myself when I first arrived. But it’s simply a matter of dealing with the right people.”
Kyle leaned in across the table. Wolfram began to squirm restlessly in his grip, and Kyle took the opportunity to hand the cat over to Shirl, who was sitting right beside him.
“Is that so? What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Well, I’ve been informed about your current mechanical predicaments…” The Reghuul uncoiled a couple of his thick physical spirals, causing his electronic spare head to spin a full, fluid 360° on its mount. “…and I believe I might be in a position to help you resolve them.”
Kyle nodded slowly, remaining silent to let the alien continue.
“According to the Captain,” the Mahjit chimed in, “the rumors stating that Tr’lang completely lacks high technology are not entirely accurate.”
“Yeah, I managed to gather that much myself,” Kyle noted. “The cyber-fighting circuit downstairs, for instance.”
“Bah, those games are absolute child’s play!” Onui-Rha snapped, his tone dripping with professional disdain. “I am talking about advanced nano-electronic components, specialized fiber-optic cabling for interstellar starships, and hyper-string generators. Not to mention next-generation geological prospecting equipment, global positioning arrays, and—”
“Fantastic!” Kyle cut him off, raising a hand to stem the tide of data. “And who exactly is supposed to supply us with this magnificent bounty of hardware? You?”
“Oh, no! Absolutely not! I wouldn’t survive very long if I attempted a stunt like that.” The Reghuul contorted his body uncomfortably. He wrapped a thick tentacle around a can of Janxx-Cola and poured the contents directly into a consumption orifice that had opened up just beneath his electronic head. “At best, I could act as your broker, your intermediary. I’ve already completed a dozen shipping runs on her direct payroll, so I know her operations well…”
“Who exactly are you talking about, if you don’t mind me asking?” Twiglet questioned.
Instead of offering an immediate answer, Onui-Rha cast a paranoid gaze around the room. But the bar was entirely deserted, save for the five of them. The bartender was still tucked away behind the counter, and judging by the exaggerated, furious clattering of dishes and glasses echoing from the back, he was in a truly foul mood.
“They call her ‘the Lady’,” the Reghuul explained, dropping his vocal track to a hushed whisper.
Something about the alien’s sudden shift in demeanor, or perhaps the weight of the words themselves, sent a profound, icy shiver straight down Kyle’s spine.
“Nobody actually knows for certain if the entity is biologically female. Very few individuals have ever laid eyes on her person. And among those select few, even fewer have ever returned alive to tell the tale…”
“But you just said you know her well,” Kyle countered, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, of course. And I firmly believe she trusts my services, but up to this point, we have only communicated via audio link… Needless to say, she keeps her visual feed completely blacked out. She resides in the sprawling palace complex that dominates the skyline overlooking the city—the one perched on the high peak right at the dead center of the crater. Perhaps you noticed it on your way in…”
Kyle visibly jolted, the vivid memory of his nightmare crashing into his mind like a physical blow. Suddenly, he felt as if the air had been thoroughly sucked out of the room. He shot a frantic glance at the others, but they were all so completely captivated by Onui-Rha’s narrative that no one noticed his sudden distress.
“From up on that peak,” the Reghuul was saying, his voice buzzing low, “the Lady monitors and controls absolutely everything that transpires within the borders of R’lieh, for better or for worse. Every new arrival, every departure, every legitimate commercial venture, and every single racket run by the underworld. She is the undisputed queen of this sector, and her localized authority comfortably supersedes that of the Imperial Government itself. If I were to personally vouch for you, I am certain she would grant you an audience.”
“Hmm…” Kyle nodded, trying to steady his voice. “And tell me, friend, what exactly is the asking price for this… personal voucher of yours? I highly doubt you’re handing us this intel out of pure professional solidarity among fellow captains.”
“Heh, heh!” the Reghuul sneered again, his buzz-saw laugh echoing quietly. “You are incredibly perceptive, colleague! Let’s just say that for… let’s see… a cool thousand credits, I could arrange an initial meeting with the Lady. It is highly unlikely she will receive you in person, but… I believe this is your solitary option for sourcing the exact components you need.”
Kyle was privately of the exact same opinion, even though the mere thought of that black basalt palace filled him with a deep, gnawing dread.
“Excellent, Twiglet!” he barked out suddenly, landing a heavy, enthusiastic slap directly onto the Mahjit’s scaly shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Uh… what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her tongue darting out in confusion.
“Come on, cough up a thousand credits for Captain Onui-Rha.”
“Why me?! You’re the one holding the expedition’s central fund!”
“Do I really need to remind you who left the insect container wide open, causing this entire structural mess in the first place—”
“Fine, fine! Alright!” Twiglet cut him off testily, reluctantly digging into her pockets to extract a handful of the freshly won gemstones. “It’s just completely unfair, that’s all! I won these fair and square at the table, and—”
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Kyle short-circuited her complaint, fixing her with a lethal, icy stare.
“Nothing, nothing at all…” the Mahjit muttered under her breath, continuing to grumble incoherently to herself.
Ufu’lan, meanwhile, simply let out a broad, silent grin from behind his thick lenses.
The sun was a colossal, deep-crimson ball, spanning half the horizon. It looked exactly as it had in his dream—an apocalyptic, terrifying vision for any newcomer.
“Are you zhure the Lady iz expecting you? Otherwize, you rizhk death, you know…”
They had crossed paths with Kamaaljit almost immediately after stepping out of the Loup-Garou. The alien guide must have spent the entire night waiting around for them, and he appeared thoroughly delighted to reunite with his deep-pocketed clients from the previous day.
“Of course we’re sure!” Twiglet fired back, comfortably straddling the back of her tagot’ma, Oji. “Captain Onui-Rha gave us his word.”
“Mainly because that treacherous scoundrel pockets another two thousand credits the second this deal goes through,” Kyle wheezed, scrambling up the steep incline right behind them.
They had officially left the city center behind and were now ascending the solitary, winding trail that led to the Lady’s palace. Between the flat floor of the crater and the summit of the central peak, the elevation drop was at least five hundred meters. It would have been an absolute joke for any standard atmospheric vessel, automated robotaxis included. Instead, they were forced to hoof it. Fortunately, the localized gravity on Tr’lang was barely half of Galactic Standard; otherwise, they would have been forced to pitch camp and spend the night on the slopes.
Kyle was liking this little adventure less and less with every passing step. He was acutely realizing just how soft he’d become, completely unaccustomed to life in the raw open air. Ever since he had walked away from Achernar some fifteen years prior, he had spent the vast majority of his life cooped up inside the metal hulls of starships, breathing nothing but heavily recycled air.
“So… tell me, Kamaaljit,” Twiglet resumed, trying to pass the time, “what exactly do you know about this Lady?”
“Zhe is everything to R’lieh! Zhe protects uz, zhe helps uz until death!”
“Yes, you’ve already drilled that part into my head, but I was hoping you could provide some actual details. For instance, what species is she? Is she human or not? Or what does she look like—is she young or elderly? How many years has she been… uh… ruling this city?”
“Few ever zee the Lady, but they say zhe not human. Kamaaljit not know her age, but my grandmother was a little, tiny baby when the Zhignora first arrive!”
“Fascinating! And how old is your grandmother now?”
“Kamaaljit’s grandmother dead!”
“Oh… I’m sorry to hear that. And how many standard years does a member of your species typically live, on average?”
“What iz a zhtandard? I not underzhtand… we die when we die!”
“A standard year is the exact duration it takes for the planet Earth—the homeworld of humanity, mind you—to complete a single orbital revolution around its star, Sol. I mean, didn’t you ever go to school?”
“Kamaaljit not like the human zhchools… they are a fate worze than death!”
“Yeah, I can certainly appreciate what you mean by that…” Twiglet sighed heavily.
Sunset was rapidly approaching now, and Lalande 21185 loomed monstrously large on the horizon. A biting, icy evening breeze began to howl down from the city heights; it carried the persistent stench of rotting garbage alongside dense clouds of choking red dust, rendering their vertical ascent increasingly miserable.
Kyle pulled his flight jacket’s heavy hood up over his head, silently wondering how much further they had to go. For the time being, the palace remained completely hidden from view beyond a brutally steep switchback in the trail. Suddenly, a new sound cut through the howling of the wind—a strange, unsettling, yet deeply familiar whistling hiss.
The tagot’ma shattered the silence with a violent shudder, throwing its snout high into the air to catch the scent. Kamaaljit moved swiftly to grip the beast’s reins, brushing his antennae against its hide in a form of silent, non-verbal reassurance. Even Wolfram let out a sharp, panicked meow, beginning to squirm frantically within Shirl’s arms.
“Ow! Careful, Wolfram!” the synth complained, adjusting her grip. “What the hell has gotten into you?”
The whistling hiss echoed again, lasting noticeably longer this time, and sounding terrifyingly closer.
Twiglet was the first among them to read the signs.
“Wolves… Those are wolves, aren’t they?” she asked, directing the question to no one in particular.
“They come down to the zity to hunt. We muzht move fazht if we want to live!”
Absolute, unadulterated terror was vibrating through Kamaaljit’s voice.
“Wolves? Sso what, leth ththem come!” Ufu’lan attempted to joke, though his voice lacked its usual booming confidence. “It’sth almossth dinnertime anyway…”
“Ours or theirs?” Kyle interjected grimly. “Hmm… I’ve got a feeling these aren’t just ordinary local predators. Right, Twiglet?”
“No, unfortunately not.” Twiglet’s large red irises glinted sharply in the encroaching gloom. “Those are werewolves. We are standing right in their backyard.”
The massive sun dipped below the horizon with astonishing speed, instantly yielding the sky to the brilliant, unmoving glare of the perpetual full moon.
Perched at the dead end of the final stretch of the trail, the palace finally loomed into view. Massive, imposing gates forged of solid muonium—so impossibly high that Kyle couldn’t even see where they met the sky—were embedded directly into colossal cylindrical towers crafted from stone and dark alloy, which seemed to sprout naturally from the living bedrock. A long, synchronized row of glowing slit-windows crowned the top of the structures like a glowing diadem resting upon the brow of a soot-covered giant.
“I really wish we hadn’t come,” Kyle murmured, his voice barely carrying over the dry rustle of the wind. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”
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