New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
July 24th, 666 GE
It seems that I have what might be called a rather unusual power […] everyone loves me, every thing in fact. […] The ugliest old man, the sweetest young child, yearn only for one thing from me. Life is hell, I tell you.
(Harry Harrison & Jim Burns, Planet Story, Pierrot Publishing Limited, London, 1979)
“The kids are great tonight, don’t you think?” Pos Parrell yelled to his assistant.
José Oy just shook his head and wrinkled both ears. Parrell gave up. With the amps cranked to maximum volume, trying to talk was pointless. Not that he needed to. José’s agreement was unmistakable—his skin had already changed color four times since the show started, shifting from pale yellow to deep blue: a sure sign of happiness.
Parrell glanced around, soaking in the sight of the Reely Feely, jam-packed with bodies. Most had come for the music—an incredible fusion of Denebolan rock, ancient Earth blues, and explosive tones that sounded like they burst from the heart of a supernova.
But most of the credit belonged to the lead vocalist.
Blondie Mary. The voice of an angel, the magnetism of a cougar.
Parrell knew music. He’d spent two decades working with fledgling rock bands, and he’d rarely seen talent as raw and brilliant as the Oo’Tomo. They were wasting themselves in this dump. He should warn them—even if it ran against his own best interest.
A thundering wave of applause marked the end of the show. Ding, the small, furry guitarist, raised his instrument triumphantly. The mutant drummer followed with a flashy twirl of her sticks. Gee’la—the strange multiple from Fomalhaut III who handled the keyboards—dissolved the vaguely humanoid form he’d kept for the past two hours and transformed into a towering brown flower. Frankie, the bass player, responded to the crowd with cool detachment.
Then Mary stepped into the limelight, swaggering on her moshaawwk boots.
“And now,” she purred, “we wrap up with one of our favorite songs: ‘Don’t Be Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf!’”
The crowd roared. It was their signature hit. When Ding played the opening chords, the hall fell into reverent silence. Moments later, most of the audience was singing along with Mary.
Maybe I should offer the kids a formal deal, Parrell thought.
Three nights a week at the Reely Feely… the profits would be fantastic.
He grinned, congratulating himself on his nose for talent.
“… Never, never again, oh baby!
Should you be afraid of the big bad wolf,
Of the hooded claw,
Jumping and howling, hideous and raw,
They’ll come,
Oh dear, oh dear,
From the deepest lair, in the darkest night,
To eat your heart…”
The stage flushed crimson. The audience gasped in delight as the five performers rapidly morphed into hulking, terrifying monsters—howling in perfect rock-blues rhythm. Then, just as suddenly, they shifted back into their natural forms. Mary launched into the final verse:
“… Always and always, oh baby!
You’ve got to believe that the power is yours,
The strength to rise,
Flying and twinkling, happy and glorious,
They’ll come,
Oh dear, oh dear,
From the highest skies, in the brightest day,
To save your soul…”
A giant crack split the ceiling of the stage, and a golden shaft of light poured down. A powerful voice—perhaps divine—boomed out an unintelligible proclamation. The Oo’Tomo transformed into angels, their wings long and radiant white. With a final, sparkling chord from Ding’s guitar, the band let go of their instruments and soared into the light.
The thunder of the crowd shook the very walls.
Parrell didn’t hesitate. As the house lights flared back on, he pushed his way through the maze of tables, heading straight for the dressing rooms.
He was determined to be the first to congratulate them.
Let me know if you want this turned into a narrated scene (with internal monologue emphasized more), or into something even more lyrical, if that suits your style better.
Gliese 614, coordinates 285.747/+79.016/20052.661
July 24th, 666 GE
Twiglet woke early and made her way to the Headquarters cafeteria for breakfast.
The heavy window shutters—solid silver—had been raised to let in the rose-colored light of Gliese 614. The place was empty, of course; as was customary even back at the old Headquarters on New Xanadu, the working day didn’t begin until after ten.
She padded over to the Food-o-Matic and ordered a nematode shake. To her delight—and mild confusion—it served her exactly that. Food she could actually stomach was a rare find. Wherever she went, it was always the same: everything was either disgusting, toxic, or outright lethal to mahjit physiology. As far as she knew, there were no other mahjitans nearby. Then again, perhaps hers wasn’t the only species that fed on live bugs and worms.
She took a seat by the window, eager for a proper daylight view of Avalon’s forest.
Her first impression was of a rather monotonous landscape, painted in purples of every possible hue. A soft pink dawn shimmered across the eastern sky. Even the grass in the clearing where Headquarters stood had a deep lilac tint. Here and there, she spotted beds of red roses. A winding road—just wide enough for two jeeps side by side—led to a single gate, the only break in a fifteen-foot wall draped in dark violet creepers. Beyond that, the forest she had traveled through the night before began in earnest, stretching—as far as she knew—across the island and most of the continent.
Hopefully, silver doors and shutters weren’t the only line of defense against a potential werewolf attack.
That bumptious Lescovar!
Why hadn’t he relocated the Base? There was no doubt a traitor among them. And it certainly wasn’t Durrell Wang.
In any case, Headquarters had become a death trap.
They might show up at any moment.
And attack.
The wall clock read just before eight. Twiglet drained the last of her shake and stood.
At last, she would meet Hwan Bernala.
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
July 24th, 666 GE
Facing the mirror in her dressing room, Mary was arguing with the tiny hologram of a young man projected by her Datapad.
“No, I don’t feel like it tonight… And tomorrow night either… What? Because I’m busy, what do you think?”
Behind her, the drummer rolled her eyes and stopped massaging the muscles at the base of her neck.
“Please, Highness, would you hold still for a moment?”
Princess Virginia—also known as Mary la Bionda—quickly covered the hologram with her hand.
“Shh! Stop yelling that word, you stupid cow! Do you want to blow our cover?”
Lady Gladys Van der Meer, stage name Six Legs, sighed. She hated this incognito routine. Sure, she enjoyed playing drums at royal events, but she was sick of performing in the seamier dives of the Underworld. And most of all, she loathed dressing like a tramp to “blend in with the lower classes,” as Virginia liked to say.
The princess could have booked the best venues in the Galaxy through official channels—but no. She always had to do things her own way.
“How many times do I have to tell you?… No, I’m not seeing anyone else right now… No… Besides, that’s none of your business. It’s over between us, you know that… Come on, give me a break, Lex… You can be such a pain sometimes… I have to go now… Yes… Me too… Bye… Bye.”
With a huff, the princess tossed the Datapad onto the counter.
“That idiot,” she muttered. “If only he’d get off my back!”
Gladys was about to make a snide comment when someone knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” Virginia called.
“I’m Parrell!”
“Just a moment!”
She hurriedly threw on a blonde wig and a pair of dark glasses. Frankie, the bass player—who also happened to be a captain in the Imperial Guard—checked his Datapad for a few seconds, then gave the all-clear.
“You were great, guys!” said the manager of the Reely Feely as he stepped inside. “I’m so happy about you! The show was really nice.”
Virginia shot him a withering look.
“Nice?” She turned her back to him. “Is that all?”
“Oh… s-sorry, Mary!” he stammered.
Parrell was a tough guy, well-connected with the Underworld mafia. Right now, though, he looked as timid as a kid on his first day of school.
“What I meant was… it was awesome, wonderful—one of the best I’ve ever seen! Actually, I’d like you to play here three nights a week, or even four. On Saturdays, double time, of course.”
“Oh, dear…” Virginia smirked. “I’m not sure, Possy. I’d have to check my schedule… Hey, Six, can we take a gig three nights a week?”
“I don’t think so, Mary,” the drummer replied sullenly.
“Don’t listen to her, Pos. She’s joking, as always. Of course we can!”
“Excellent!” Parrell beamed. “I’ll have the contract ready as soon as possible—three hundred credits per night, drinks not included. It’s not much, but—”
“Don’t worry, Possy, that’ll be fine. And… would you please excuse us now?”
“S-sure! Sorry again, Mary… See you later!”
Parrell backed out of the room. For Six and Virginia, now arguing softly, it was as if he had ceased to exist.
As he left the dressing room, he bumped into Frankie and greeted him. The response was a low, ominous grunt.
Gliese 614, coordinates 285.747/+79.016/20052.661
July 24th, 666 GE
“Take a seat, Twiglet!” Hwan Bernala said, settling behind his desk.
The Master looked far more energetic than the night before. He stood straighter and could walk unaided, aside from a sturdy silver cane. Twiglet, intrigued by its unusual hilt, leaned in for a better look.
“Do you like it? It’s a wolf’s head—Canis lupus—an old Earth species, and the werewolves’ favorite form to shift into…”
Twiglet was enthralled. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a wolf depicted—any Holroyd operative was well-versed in lycanthropic iconography—but the pommel was a miniature masterpiece. With its jaws wide open and emerald eyes gleaming, the beast looked hauntingly real.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Bernala smiled. “It was a gift from Fern for my retirement…”
Of course it was, Twiglet thought. Flashy, bordering on tasteless. Still, she had to admit Bernala had always liked that kind of knickknack. His office was full of them. Everywhere she looked—paintings, icons, statuettes, bas-reliefs, holograms—the wolf was the star. In one corner stood the most disturbing collectible: a full skeleton, vaguely human at first glance, but oddly deformed. The skull was too long, the bones too thin, the teeth far too sharp.
As far as she recalled, Bernala had owned it for years and considered it one of his most prized possessions. It had been excavated from a prehistoric Earth burial and was believed to be evidence of ancient human–werewolf hybridization.
“So… why did you want to see me, Twiglet?”
“Oh… well, Master…” Suddenly, she didn’t know where to begin. “There’s a lot I want to ask you… but mostly… about Durrell Wang.”
Bernala frowned. “Yes?”
“Durrell was my best friend, Master, and I’m sure he wasn’t a traitor.”
The old man sighed and rubbed his eyes with a veined, wrinkled hand.
“I know how you’re feeling, Twiglet. I didn’t want to believe it either… until we found his confession.”
“Pardon me, Master,” Twiglet said sharply, “but faking a holo-message is child’s play.”
“Perhaps. But he also lied about his DNA.”
“With all due respect, Master, that doesn’t prove much. Maybe he was just so eager to join the Society that he forged his own test. Besides, high lycanthropic gene percentages don’t automatically make someone an Apostle. Personal background counts too. Plenty of werewolves live decent lives.”
“Very well, Twiglet,” Bernala interrupted. His bloodshot eyes had turned misty. “You may be right. But if Durrell was innocent… then who gave the Apostles our agents’ names?”
Twiglet had her suspicions—but kept them to herself.
“Someone else,” she said cautiously. “Someone still among us. And that same person is Durrell’s murderer. I just can’t believe he took his own life.”
Bernala sighed again, fiddling with his cane.
“I’ll tell Fern to be on alert,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to tighten surveillance. Fortunately, only Fern and I have access to our most classified data…”
Fern again… It’s always Fern. What if he was the spy?
“In the meantime,” Bernala continued, “do you think you could help us?”
“I’ll do my best,” Twiglet replied. “Before I left Bageechaa, I started a synchro-complex analysis using local data. The bias was too high to yield anything useful… but if I had access to the Society’s internal database, I’m confident I could get meaningful results.”
“Excellent,” Bernala said warmly. “It’s good to have you back.”
“Thank you, Master. But… there’s one thing. When my house burned down, I lost my OCC unit.”
“That’s all?” he said kindly. “Tell Fern to issue you a new one.”
“Well… actually, I was wondering… could I use Durrell’s? It was a good unit. And—well—I know it sounds silly, but it’d feel like he was still with us.”
Before Bernala could respond, there was a knock. Without waiting, a familiar bushy head poked through the door.
“May I—oh, sorry, Master. I didn’t realize… Ahem, hello, Twiglet!”
“Come in, Fern,” Bernala said. “Twiglet wants to use Wang’s hyper-neural probe. What do you think?”
Fern gave her a wary look. “Wang’s probe? Why?”
“Sorry, that’s private,” Twiglet replied.
“You can’t log in as system admin. Those probes self-wipe if—”
“Oh, please! I know that.”
She immediately regretted her sharp tone. Weeks with Captain Tokalau had clearly left a mark.
“Well… I do know his password,” she added.
“You do?” Fern frowned.
“In the good old days, we shared a few projects.”
“In that case… I don’t see why not. Master?”
“Use Wang’s office too, Twiglet,” Bernala said. “It’s time you had your own space.”
“Thank you again, Master.” Twiglet stood. “One more thing, since Fern’s here: don’t you think this base is a little… exposed?”
They both looked puzzled.
“I mean… the curfew is fine, but during the day we’re far too visible.”
“We’re not visible at all,” Fern objected.
“Are you kidding? We’re sitting in the middle of a clearing!”
“Why don’t you look outside?” Bernala suggested.
Twiglet hesitated, then moved to the large window behind his desk. It was about an hour after breakfast, but the view outside still showed a reddish dawn.
Fern joined her. “Notice anything odd?”
“No, I—” She blinked. Are they mocking me? Then it hit her.
“A hologram!” she gasped. “We’re inside a hologram!”
“That’s right,” Fern said. “From above, it looks like dense kodar jungle—purple trees, mostly. Only from ground level can you see through the illusion.”
“But… what about the landing pad? That’s visible from orbit!”
“Oh, that,” Fern shrugged. “We keep it for supply freighters… and the occasional visitor. Even if the Apostles spotted it, finding us would be nearly impossible. This jungle is a labyrinth.”
“Actually, I thought it strange ours was the only ship on the pad,” Twiglet said. “Where’s yours?”
“Ours?” Fern grinned. “We only have one ship—and you’re already aboard it.”
Wolfram’s day had gone wrong from the start.
He’d spent the whole night locked in a strange-smelling room, waiting in vain for Kyle to bring breakfast. When a human woman finally opened the door, he’d darted between her legs and fled. Unfortunately, the escape hadn’t helped much. He spent hours wandering the base’s endless corridors, searching for food—or at least a familiar face.
His master was nowhere to be found, and the more time passed, the hungrier and more anxious Wolfram became. Then, suddenly, his hypersensitive nostrils caught a familiar scent. After a brief moment of uncertainty, the cat realized he’d picked up the trail of Twiglet—the cold-blooded creature who’d been living aboard the Aranui for the past few weeks.
He followed the scent without hesitation. With luck, it might lead him to Kyle as well. Eventually. The trail ended at a locked door. From behind it came Twiglet’s voice, along with a couple of others—both human.
Too hungry to bother with stealth, Wolfram began meowing at the top of his lungs.
Moments later, the door slid open, and a bushy-haired human stepped out.
“What the hell’s going on here?” the man snapped.
His mood was bad—Wolfram could see it in his aura, glowing a dark orange-red. The cat instinctively tensed, ready to bolt.
“Twiglet,” the man growled, “could you please tell your pilot to keep his obnoxious cat locked up? Animals aren’t allowed here!”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” she called from inside.
Bushy-hair didn’t reply, but stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.
“Wolfram! What are you doing here?”
“Miaowwrr!”
Twiglet’s aura was strange—as usual—but friendly. That green-blue shimmer was comforting enough for Wolfram to relax and allow her to scoop him up.
“What’s the matter, Twiglet? Whose animal is that?” asked another human voice from inside the room.
“Oh… um… he’s Captain Tokalau’s pet,” Twiglet replied. “But don’t worry, Master. I’ll take care of him.”
Right then, Wolfram spotted the human who had just spoken.
At first glance, the man seemed harmless—old, frail, and reeking of the typical scent of age. But what truly disturbed the cat was his aura.
Or rather, the complete lack of one.
To Wolfram, the absence of that mysterious glow could only mean one thing: death. Yet here this man was, speaking, moving, behaving like the living. But as far as the cat was concerned, he was deader than dead.
With a sharp hiss, Wolfram twisted free.
Twiglet tried to hold on, but he dug his claws deep into her arm. She yelped in pain and dropped him.
In a flash, Wolfram bolted down the hallway—gone like lightning.
Twiglet reached the cafeteria around noon, having spent the last few hours with Fern Lescovar.
He’d taken her down to the subterranean hangars, where six space fighters were stowed. Calling them “fighters” was generous—at best, they were obsolete surplus from the last K’rell war. In case of a surprise attack, they’d be nearly useless; their only real function was to buy time for the mothership to escape into hyperspace. Just the day before, Twiglet had still doubted the possibility of a lycanthropic attack on the Holroyd Headquarters. But if the conspiracy truly led back to Chancellor Chang himself, anything was possible. Still, she took comfort in knowing she wasn’t a pilot—no one would expect her to fly one of those wrecks.
The cafeteria was crowded. Twiglet waited in line to use the Food-o-Matic, finally keying in a meal of spican graptolites and a cocktail of tiny blue Shing-Na spiders. She balanced the tray carefully and scanned the room, dodging a noisy pair of palernians as she searched for her travel companions.
She spotted Uful’lan almost immediately. His unmistakable black-blue bulk stood out against the perpetual red glow from outside. Sitting alone near a window, he was about to demolish a mountain of food. She wove between two long rows of tables and sat opposite him.
“Good morning, Uful’lan,” she said. “I see you’ve already made yourself at home.”
“Righth!” he replied. “Tho be a human haunth, thhiss place issn’th bad.” He paused to bite into a towering sandwich. “No… chomp… noth bad ath all…”
“Well, there aren’t only human members! I’ve seen palernians, chorts, belehks, betazoids… There’s even someone who shares my dietary needs…”
“No k’rellss, thhough.”
Twiglet hesitated.
“No… um… you’re right.” She unrolled her tongue. “Anyway,” she added quickly, “what did you guys do last night?”
“Oh, nothhin’ sspecial… We had a couple of drinkss, thhen Kyle hooked up with tthat girl…”
“Who, Theresa?”
“Thhathhss righth.”
“What about Shirl? Didn’t she join you?”
“No, sshe didn’th.” Uful’lan stopped chewing. “Acthually, I haven’th sseen her for a while. I don’th know where sshe iss.”
“That’s strange…”
Suddenly, the ambient noise dipped. Twiglet looked up and saw Kyle entering the cafeteria.
“Ah, there he is!” she said. The buzz picked up again—this time, a bit more shrill.
As Kyle made his way to the Food-o-Matic, Twiglet noticed something she hadn’t before: the way women reacted to him. Human females, and even non-humanoids with compatible physiology, all seemed thrown off by his presence. Young or old, seasoned analysts or rookies—none were immune. Many flushed. Some looked dazed. All stopped what they were doing to steal a second glance.
And the effect multiplied when he smiled.
As far as Twiglet knew, Kyle wasn’t even aware of the hold he had over women. Well, if that were true, she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to break the news.
“Hi, guys!” he greeted, sitting across from them with a tray carrying a pizza buried under tiny crustaceans and a glass of Janxx-Cola.
“I can’t find Wolfram,” he said after a couple bites. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes,” Twiglet replied. “He was meowing outside Master Bernala’s office a couple of hours ago. Saying he was hungry would be an understatement. Look at this.”
She showed him two faint scratches on her arm.
“Sorry! I sympathize,” Kyle said. “Usually, I’m the chosen victim of his special treatment.”
“You’ll have to take him back to the Aranui,” she added. “Pets aren’t allowed here.”
“You’re kidding, right? That’s not what Theresa—well, no problem, really. I was about to ask you to pay me. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“Leave?! You’re joking, right?”
“I’m serious. Why is that strange? I took you and Big Guy to Gliese 614, like I promised. Don’t worry—you’ll have time to say goodbye. The Aranui’s engines need some refurbishing, so I’m stuck here until tomorrow.”
“But… I thought…” Twiglet was caught off guard, disappointed. Though, honestly, she should’ve seen it coming. “Come on, we still need you!”
“Oh, really? For what? I’m not a scientist.”
“But you could still help…”
“Help how?”
“Well, this building is actually a disguised starship. Down in the cargo hold are six starfighters that might, in theory, repel a space assault. But if I know my colleagues, none of them has the faintest idea how to organize a defense. You’re a Space Forces vet… that makes you the expert.”
Kyle stopped chewing and looked away.
“I haven’t flown a fighter in ten years.”
“Still, you know more than any of us. Please! I was hoping you’d join our cause…”
“Leave him alone, Thwigleth,” Uful’lan interrupted. “He already made up hiss mind.”
Kyle sliced into his pizza, saying nothing.
Twiglet scanned the room, grasping for a new idea—some way to change his mind.
“Where’s Shirl?” she suddenly asked.
The question visibly rattled Kyle.
“Why do you ask?”
“We haven’t seen her since last night…”
“She’s onboard the Aranui.”
“Is she okay?”
“She wasn’t feeling well.”
“The medical center here is decent, you know.”
“Do they treat synths?”
“Oh… right.” Twiglet tended to forget Shirl wasn’t human. She acted human—sometimes too human. Especially with that obvious crush on Kyle.
And Kyle? Up until yesterday, he didn’t seem interested. “It’s Shirl, isn’t it?” she asked. “That’s why you want to leave.”
Kyle looked away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, unconvincingly.
They finished lunch in silence.
“I’ve got to go,” Kyle said at last. “Need to find Wolfram before he shreds someone else. See you at supper. And Twiglet—don’t forget my salary.”
Twiglet chose not to remind him he’d already lost it in a Kryple game.
Maybe, if she could figure out what was really driving him to leave… she wouldn’t have to.
Please return to the novel’s main page to read the first seven chapters for free!
