Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake.
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lezard’s leg and owlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
(William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I)
Starmont, coordinates 91.349/-74.222/000.001
July 3rd, 666 GE
The great mansion stood on the brink of a precipice.
Jagged rocky cliffs pierced the sky in every direction, and the glassy waters of a lake below mirrored the glorious sunset above the icy dome of Mount Rapti. The mansion’s architecture—sober and essential—was the only sign of life in an otherwise desolate landscape.
At dinner time, a lone woman occupied the large balcony. She stood silently, clutching a woolen shawl to her chest as she watched the sun’s last golden rays vanish beyond the ridgeline.
Her name was Katrina Sirtis. She was not strikingly beautiful, but fresh and pretty, dressed simply, and adorned only with a cheap necklace strung with semi-precious stones.
“Lady Katrina…”
A droid bowed respectfully before the Chancellor’s lover and unofficial Second Lady of the Galaxy.
“Yes, I know, Bathinn.”
“We are about to serve dinner, my lady.”
She sighed. “What about His Excellency?”
“He hasn’t come down yet, but we expect him any minute now.”
Before following the butler inside, she lingered a moment longer, taking in the sunset’s fading light.
The lounge was a rectangular space, thirty feet long. One side was a plastiglass wall overlooking the balcony; the opposite wall held a crackling fireplace. In the center stood a round table surrounded by red-leather chairs. Along one side wall ran a buffet, where the Chancellor’s droids served appetizers and small dishes.
The twenty or so guests—all strictly human—included a few senior officials and their families, the Chancellor’s staff, his doctor, and his personal pilots.
Lounging on a corner sofa, the Minister of the Interior indulged in his favorite pastime: entertaining a captive audience.
“…and then I told him, ‘Dear Khu’ajv, I’ve decided to put in a good word for you with His Excellency. Trust me—you’re the best choice to become his successor!’” He sneered. “You should’ve seen him… so proud he nearly tripped over his tentacles! I mean… can you picture him as Chancellor of the Galactic Empire? A revolting alien! Billions of good human citizens, handed over to a monster who can’t even pronounce his own name without drooling all over us!”
The audience burst out laughing. Some clapped. Lady Katrina suppressed a grimace.
She couldn’t stand Bai.
That slippery toad thrived in shadows, always scheming his petty plots. He was sycophantic, cruel to his staff, and had the gall to parade as elite despite growing up on Diphda IV—one of the Empire’s most backward and bigot planets.
Unfortunately, the lounge was full of dull people that night.
Near the fireplace, Bran Condla, the pompous Security Adviser, had once again dragged Haider Karens, the Secretary of the Treasury, into one of his endless rants about interest rates.
Ugh. Katrina winced. I’d rather suffer Bai’s vulgarity.
She peered into a side parlor, where lower-tier officials were gathered around a game of Kryple. She was just about to join them when—
“Lady Katrina!”
It was the clucking voice of Mrs. Condla, calling from the sofa. Just the silly hen Katrina had been trying to avoid.
Forcing a smile, she turned back.
“My dear,” Renny Condla trilled, fluttering her eyelashes, heavy with chrysoprase glitter, “you simply must help us! We’re des-pe-ra-te! The Chancellor’s birthday is fast approaching, and we’re stuck! Sircas or Garindan?”
“Lady Condla, I don’t think—”
“Oh! Silly me,” Renny interrupted with feigned innocence. “Of course—you wouldn’t know. Zelah Sircas and Uwe Garindan are the two hottest stars of the Arcturian current. Such primal force… such evocative passion! They’re all the rage in New Xanadu!”
Katrina took the blow in silence.
Bitch.
She came from humble stock. Her father had served in the military until retirement; her mother still programmed farm machinery on Rigel. She was the third of four siblings, and her fateful meeting with Chancellor Chang had happened six years ago, when she was twenty-two and working as a secretary at a holo-station.
“Dear Lady Condla, I’m sorry to disappoint you… But the Chancellor isn’t an art lover. In fact, he despises it. May I offer a suggestion? Don’t ever use that word in his presence.”
She paused, suddenly aware that all eyes were now fixed on the staircase behind her.
Volker Chang was descending the last steps, face set in a dark, furrowed grimace. Without acknowledging the guests, he made his way straight to the table.
Bathinn scurried forward and pulled out one of the chairs facing the window—a signal for everyone else to take their seats.
Holunder Bai offered his arm to Katrina. “Please, my lady…” he smiled, baring long teeth.
Hyperspace, coordinates ******/******/******
July 3rd, 666 GE
They left Odie Binx and his wards in front of a nondescript building, deep in the damp bowels of the Underworld.
Maybe Odie lived there, or maybe he didn’t. He’d been vague on that point, offering only a fleeting comment about a safe place and friends who’d take them in.
Just before saying goodbye, Twiglet had a long chat with him.
Three days later, Kyle and the others were drifting through chaotic nothingness, bound for Gliese 614.
According to the Imperial Cartographic Service, the K3V star had no planetary system.
“What could be safer than a planet that doesn’t exist?” Twiglet had remarked.
Tracking the hyper-beacons, they plunged deep into the Galactic Halo. Their route cut through higher dimensions—currently the only known method of breaking the light-speed barrier. Still, a journey to the farthest reaches of the Milky Way was no small feat. Generations of astronomers had attempted to chart the outermost planetary systems, with limited success. The Halo’s dark matter was an unpredictable stew of rogue planets, unborn stars, black holes, wandering asteroids… anything and everything. Navigating too close to any of these cosmic oddities meant certain death. That’s why no regular flights—apart from Space Force patrols—ventured into the Halo.
Yet, despite the danger, the Aranui’s passengers spent long, drowsy days. Sharing the same cramped quarters had been difficult from the start. The ship’s tight quarters fostered grudges and petty rivalries, and the fact that neither Kyle nor Twiglet—least of all Uful’lan—was straightforward to get along with only made things worse.
More often than not, arguments broke out during Kryple games. To Kyle’s growing frustration, Twiglet kept winning. She was incredibly skilled—and disgustingly lucky. Kyle had even tried cheating a couple of times, but it didn’t help. In the end, he gambled away his whole salary—what he hadn’t yet earned, anyway.
He also couldn’t stand watching her eat live bugs. Cockroaches, worms, scorpions… she chowed them down like candy. It ruined his appetite.
Shirl mostly kept to herself. She either slept or chatted with the Aranui’s onboard system.
That particular day, around eleven in the morning, Kyle was in his cabin, glaring at a smelly pile of clothes. The washing machine had finally broken down right after they’d left New Xanadu, and all his attempts to fix it had failed. Time to face the truth, he told himself. The Aranui was falling apart.
He hated to admit it—because the ship was all he had left.
It had cost him his entire Space Force bonus: more than 150,000 credits. But in the years following the war, prices had skyrocketed. A ship of this tonnage—used or not—was now worth ten times as much. Without a stable job, he’d never be able to afford another.
He sighed and triggered the cabin’s cleaning routine.
The bed folded into the wall and returned a few seconds later, perfectly made. A swarm of nano-droids zipped across the floor, vacuuming even the tiniest specks of dust. Usually, the ship handled all this automatically, but during long-haul flights, Kyle preferred to disable most systems. Energy had to be conserved—he didn’t know when or where he’d next be able to refuel.
He switched on a holo-vid and tried watching a football match—Alphard III vs. Canopus VII. It had been played just a week ago, but he soon lost interest. The game was dull, and he already knew the outcome. By noon, he decided to head up to the main deck.
He was passing the galley when he overheard Twiglet’s voice.
“…of course I miss it. It was my home, even though I was born and raised on Shing-Na. But I hope to go back someday.”
“It sounds like a beautiful place,” Shirl replied.
“Oh, it certainly is. Isn’t it, Uful’lan? Bageechaa is a single, immense forest that swarms and crawls with life, day and night. Nobody knows how many species live there—millions, maybe billions. They’re furtive… and often dangerous. Near the spaceport, a village had sprung up. Before the war, it was almost a town. Now, though, it’s wild again. Primordial, I’d say…”
“Thell uss abouth Fitz o’Fitzhoot,” Uful’lan mumbled, his mouth full.
“Again? Haven’t you had enough of that old story? I must’ve told it a hundred times!”
“Please, Twiglet! I like it! And Shirl hasn’t heard it yet…”
“Yes, Twiglet—please,” Shirl chimed in. “I want to hear it too.”
Twiglet sighed.
“Oh… fine. I guess it won’t hurt to tell it again. It’s just a legend, really… though there might be some truth to it.”
Despite his sour mood, Kyle felt intrigued. He wandered in, pretending he just wanted tea.
“Five hundred years ago,” Twiglet began, “the first human exploration team landed on Bageechaa. Dr. Fitz o’Fitzhoot was one of them… Why are you just standing there, Captain? C’mon, take a seat.”
Kyle opened his mouth to decline, then changed his mind and sat down.
“Right… So, Fitz was a young scientist sent to study the local life forms. One day—against orders—he slipped into the forest alone…”
She unrolled her tongue, focusing.
“For hours, he cataloged pedunculate heads, dentate shoulders, wings, rustlings, paws… Tiny skriteks, whistling mirulons, pchwist, yanaatje… He got so immersed in the underbrush that he lost all track of time. At sunset, he realized he was hopelessly lost. Just when he was about to panic, he heard an odd little tune…”
The galley fell silent.
Kyle forgot about his tea. Shirl stared, wide-eyed. Even Uful’lan had stopped chewing.
“He sat beneath a gorgeous purple mushroom and listened to the music—it seemed like minutes. Then, perhaps he fell asleep, because when he woke up, the mushroom had turned into a dry stump. His communicator wouldn’t work. Scared, he retraced his steps. It took hours, but he finally found his way back. By the time he reached base camp, the sun had vanished.
“But the clearing he remembered was now a vast launch pad—floodlit, fenced with electrified wire. No sign of the old shuttle… just dozens of strange new vehicles.”
“Hey, I know this one,” Kyle interrupted. “It’s an old story!”
“Silence, please.” Twiglet shot him a withering look.
“Near the gate, a stranger stood guard. Fitz begged to be let in, claiming he was part of the crew. The man asked for his name.
“‘Lieutenant Fitz o’Fitzhoot,’ he said.
“‘Are you kidding me? Fitz o’Fitzhoot disappeared in these woods over three hundred years ago,’ the man replied.
“And with that… Fitz screamed and crumbled to dust.”
“Wow!” Shirl whispered.
“Oh, it’s nothing special,” said Uful’lan. “Just time tunnels.”
“What?”
“Well… According to Peg Powler—a friend of Twiglet’s who’s lived there for ten thousand years—the Bageechaa forest emits a supernatural aura that distorts space-time.”
“Anyone else want to tell a story?” Twiglet asked.
“I’m not the type,” Kyle said. “I prefer to live my own adventures.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?” she said abruptly.
“Shoot.”
“Why did you leave the Space Forces?”
An awkward silence followed.
“You don’t have to answer,” she added gently.
Kyle sighed.
“Right… I might as well. Nothing special. I joined at eighteen—big dreams, you know? Travel, duty, saving the Galaxy… That’s where I met Aral. Weema came later. The three of us served together during the war.
“After the war, Weema left. She and Aral were engaged. Aral and I both applied for a promotion course. He got in. I didn’t.
“Why?” Twiglet asked.
“I never found out. Our records were excellent—mine was probably better. I tried for months to get answers, but no one would give any information. I didn’t want to end my career as just another pilot officer. So I resigned.
“I used my bonus to buy the Aranui. Started my own business. That was ten years ago.”
Starmont, coordinates 91.349/-74.222/000.001
July 3rd, 666 G.E.
At dinner, the conversation languished. The Chancellor was in a sullen mood, exchanging only a few words with Minister Karens, who sat opposite him. He completely snubbed the two women beside him—Katrina and a visibly antsy Lady Condla.
The meal, as usual, matched the host’s unpretentious palate: vegetable soup, filet steak à la Prodigy, inocybe cake, mineral water, and Meshèm wine.
At the end of the meal, Volker Chang stood and addressed the Minister of the Interior.
“Mr. Bai, I’ll meet you in my study.”
Together, they took the elevator to the upper floor, while the remaining guests finally allowed themselves to breathe.
Once inside his office, Chang sank into an armchair.
“Well?” he said, motioning for Bai to sit.
“The Plan is proceeding perfectly, Your Excellency!” the Minister beamed. “We’ve eliminated ninety-nine percent of the Holroyd spies!”
“And the princess’s clone? What about her?”
“Oh, her… ahem.” Holunder Bai cleared his throat. “The fire at the Nine Wonders left very few survivors.”
“Very few?”
The Chancellor’s gaze was like a black hole, boring into the darkest corners of space.
“There’s a good chance she’s among them.”
Lord Chang bared his teeth in something resembling a smile, but Bai didn’t relax. He had known his boss far too long to feel at ease—especially when the worst was yet to come.
“You’re a failure, Bai. And your half-werewolves are morons.”
“But… but, Your Excellency…” the Minister stammered.
The Chancellor slammed a fist onto the armrest.
“If she’s still alive, a crucial part of the Plan collapses!”
“Pardon me, Your Excellency, but we encountered unforeseen complications, such as—”
“Shut up,” Chang hissed.
He was so furious, the Change had begun. Coarse, brownish hair sprouted along the backs of his hands. His fingernails extended, sharpening into curved claws.
“Only a pack of idiots would burn down an entire skyscraper to eliminate a couple of miserable spies!”
Holunder Bai broke into a cold sweat. His career—and possibly his life—was hanging by a thread.
“Lord Chang, I can assure you: the synth isn’t a threat. We’ll track her down soon. And in the worst-case scenario, there’s still a second opportunity. The Holroyd Society is after her too. If they succeed, it won’t be hard to snatch the girl from that den of losers.”
The Chancellor didn’t respond. Instead, he stood and approached a wide window.
The Minister watched, holding his breath, as the Change began to reverse. Slowly, the fur withdrew, the claws retracted. Chang’s hands returned to their usual human shape—though still smoother and more manicured than most.
Bai exhaled in relief. It had gone better than expected. The Chancellor’s fury was always less volatile when the Galaxy was out of view.
Time for good news.
“By the way, Your Excellency,” he said lightly, “you’ll be pleased to know the Zha’nkhaij candidates are down to just six. All proceeding according to plan.”
“It had better be. Keep me informed. And I won’t tolerate any more failures.”
“Of course not, Your Excellency.”
The Minister rose from his seat and hurried out.
Hyperspace, coordinates ******/******/******
July 4th, 666 G.E.
Wolfram ran through a vast meadow of Nepeta cataria. He paused now and then to drink from a streamlet, to chase a bug, or simply because one paw itched and he had to lick it.
When he grew hungry, he only had to think of what he wished to eat, and an open can of food popped into existence. The choice transcended the wildest dreams of an ordinary ship cat: tuna, wei‑wei stew, mixed moshaawk, and yanaatije flavors. One moment he was diving into a delicious mousse of Spican salmon. A luscious, intense, invigorating scent convinced him he had finally reached cat paradise.
Still, something was amiss.
The bright blue sky dissolved… first into yellow, then into bloody red. Soon, a brooding, ominous darkness swallowed the heavens, and the trembling ground shattered under horrible spasms.
Next to Wolfram, an enormous black hole sucked away all the cat food. Meowing in sorrow and frustration, the cat fell. He plunged beyond the edge of the Universe, engulfed by a strange drowsiness. Around him, entire species died out. Stars collapsed. Young galaxies aged.
He fell and fell… until he landed on Kyle’s bed.
His master tossed and turned in the grip of recurring nightmares. Wolfram yawned, stretched, and hopped to the floor.
Then he padded out of the quarters.
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