“Operation Compost” 🔥

NorNavio – War Room

Redford, Cynthia, and Wyatt stood around the tactical holo-table, its blue light washing over their faces as they reviewed ship operations and future deployment plans.

Lieutenant Galt flickered into existence in the 3D projector, ANN’s voice riding on the feed.
“Reaper’s Eye reports two converted pirate freighters and approximately fifty fighters vectoring toward Station Kailyn.”

Redford didn’t miss a beat. He turned to Wyatt with a grin that said go have fun.
“Wolfhound, go deal with the pirate scum for me. We’re mid‑repairs, and I’m not letting those clowns steal a minute of my repair time.”

Wyatt snapped a crisp salute.
“Yes, sir. Consider it done.”

Redford nodded to Galt.
“Inform Station Kailyn the Wolfhound is en route to take out the trash.”

NorNavio – Composter Barracks

The overhead speakers crackled.
“Composters, prepare for battle. We’ve got pirate friends in need of… composting.”

Armor lockers slammed open. Composters sprinted to their quarters, suiting up in combat armor with the speed of people who really enjoy their jobs. Within moments they were charging toward the fighter bay.

NorNavio – Fighter Bay

Controlled chaos.
Technicians darted between Super Raptors, refueling lines hissing, weapon carts rolling, crew chiefs barking orders like drill sergeants hopped up on caffeine. Warning lights flashed as overfuel vents hissed into the air.

Then—everything froze.

Wyatt, the Wolfhound, stepped through the doors.

For one sacred second, the entire bay held its breath.
Then the tech crews doubled their pace like someone had hit fast‑forward.

A moment later the rest of the Composters arrived, splitting off toward their Raptors. They performed quick, disciplined preflight checks, climbed the ladders, and sealed themselves into their cockpits.

Launch

The Super Raptors roared out of the bay, accompanied by the Count Asgard drone. Engines flared as they burned hard toward the incoming pirate force.

Wyatt’s voice crackled over comms.
“Composters, time to compost the pirate trash.”

He laid out the plan with practiced ease:
“Composter Two and Count Asgard, you’re with me on the right freighter. Three, Four, Five — take the left. We punch straight through their fighters. Release countermeasures on approach to scramble their tracking. Once we hit torpedo range, launch Sapulin Assault, drop their shields, railgun the core, then mop up the stragglers. And protect your wingman — I’m not explaining to Jincho why one of you scratched his paint.”

Engagement

Minutes later, the battle lit up the void.

The converted freighters erupted in twin blossoms of fire as railgun rounds punched through their engine cores. Pirate fighters tried to scatter, but the Super Raptors were faster, meaner, and flown by pilots who treated dogfights like a competitive sport.

One by one, the pirate fighters were shredded — or, as the Composters preferred to say, “properly composted.”

Wyatt chuckled over comms.
“Nicely done, Composters. Honestly, I was merciful. I didn’t even give them Count Asgard’s speech.”

A chorus of laughter followed.

The Raptors formed up, engines flaring as they burned back toward the NorNavio.

Part 2 l Part 3 Pending

The Black Ship Side Stories

Warriors of the Principality

The Action of Buchannan Bay

A Tale of Tallulah Finnegan

Opening Scene:

Joel and Zelina; gas-giant Buth-Chanain-c in the background.

JOEL: “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Joel Sofur with the Firentis Grand Informant,

ZELINA: “And I’m Zelina Barristain.”

JOEL: “We are here to bring you another chapter in our Warriors of the Principality special report series.

“Tonight we examine one of the smallest engagements of the early stages of the succession crisis, but one whose consequences still resonate throughout the Principality.”

“Let’s look at the Action of Buchannan Bay, regarded by military analysts as one of the first confirmed defeats of one of the Regent’s mysterious Black Ships.”

ZELINA: “Anyone who has travelled to Astoria from this region of the Principality has likely travelled by Buchannan Bay, even if they have never stopped.”

“The Buth-Chanain system is most noteworthy for being a stable hyperspace lane node, which ultimately connects many important planets, including Astoria, Balakura, Macha, and Camrim.

“Since the systems contains no habitable worlds, for much of the Principality’s history it was an undeveloped backwater.”

JOEL: “That changed eight hundred years ago during the last civil war when House Finnegan enclosed an entire planetoid, Buth-Chanain-b within an immense military-industrial station. Known today as Buchannan Bay after the noble house that administers the station, it functions as both a battle station in wartime and one of the region’s foremost shipyards in peace.”

Star Fortress over planetoid Buth-Chanain-b, aka \"Buchannan Bay\".

ZELINA: “The Buth-Chanain system is deep within the Principality and smuggling is the most frequent problem there. Piracy is rare. External threats such as the Drazzan, Erebians, or the Hierarchy are all but non-existent.

JOEL: “As such, the garrison at Buchannan Bay was a peacetime garrison of only three Penelo-class Corvettes, the Intercession, the Evanescence, and the Resplendence.

 “Sometimes referred to as Pocket Corvettes, these ships were small by the corvette standards of Principality. Their shields and engines were on par with larger naval corvettes. Their stock armaments were significantly weaker—though it turned out that two of the three had been heavily modified—and their companion-ship compliment reduced to a single shuttle and a pair of Seagull-class fighters.”

“They were intentionally safe postings for naval officers hailing from the higher standing noble houses.” 

ZELINA: “In this case, the commander of the patrol flotilla was from Great House Finnegan itself. Lieutenant Master Tallulah Finnegan had led the station patrol for six months. Lady Finnegan was already a battle proven leader having had multiple engagements with pirates over her career.”

“She was known for her cunning in battle and a willingness to bend naval doctrines when the situation required it. Her record suggested a preference for surgical strikes over overwhelming force whenever possible. Her superiors occasionally questioned her methods but rarely challenged her results.”

Intercession Commanding Officers.

JOEL: “Notably, she also worked closely with her Marine and Auxilia forces. Marine Captain Galen Sarethi was the commander of her assault forces. Lord Galen had actually served with Lady Finnegan for three tours of duty.”

ZELINA: “He was an unusually high rank for a corvette marine detachment officer-in-charge. Rather than pursue a more prestigious assignment, he accepted the posting solely to remain in Lady Finnegan’s service. He would be on the bridge of the Intercession at her side when the skirmish began.”

JOEL: If the Intercession was small and simple, the ship opposite her was anything but. The Fulminating Darkness was a Corvis-class corvette variant. Even today, remarkably little is publicly known about these corvettes, but it is clear that they are significantly more advanced than their Principality rivals.”

“Command of such a vessel is a high honor. Such opportunities are rarely entrusted except to officers with exemplary service records or to members of the Principality’s most powerful Houses.”

ZELINA: “Captain Aurelian Tigan satisfied both requirements. The brash young officer was experienced in clandestine missions having served in the Fifth Fleet, monitoring the Erebian Commonwealth.”

Fulminating Darkness Commanding Officers.

His Executive Officer, Lieutenant Master Alaric Tirom, had the same experience and the two men had also served together before the dispute. Lord Tirom was a pragmatic officer whose cautious nature often tempered Captain Tigan’s aggression.”

JOEL: “Both men were recalled to their Houses before the coup was attempted. Briefed on the new class of ship they were to command; they were then quickly ferried to the staging grounds and issued their orders.”

“They were clandestinely inserted into the Buth-Chanain system, where they waited silently, monitoring traffic until the time was right.

“After the Prince and Second Princess escaped the coup, the Fulminating Darkness was activated with orders to capture or destroy their ship if either member of the royal family attempted to transit the system on their way to friendly space.”

JOEL: “Following the coup, Buchannan Bay went on high alert.”

“With her third corvette in space dock for maintenance, Lady Finnegan went on patrol with the Intercession and the Evanescence.”

“Within days, incomplete information started to come in regarding the Black Ships in the Regent’s formations. Around that same time, the station sensors began picking up intermittent ghost-contacts…”

 

Narrative Transition:

“There it is again.” Sensor Technician Eric Brynn said, looking at his sensor screen. It was the second time this shift that he had picked up the anomaly. A small burst of energy in orbit of the system’s only gas giant. The computer could not identify any artificial source and had determined it was just a tiny asteroid strike.

It had been going on for three days now. Though the Buth-Chanain system was young, cosmologically speaking, he knew that could not be right. He had been stationed here for 5 years. Asteroids did not fall into Buth-Chanain-c with that kind of regularity.

He went to work.

By the end of his shift, he had it. He reported to his commanding officer, a bored-looking unambitious Ensign from House Buchannan who knew his entire career would be spent on this one station.

“Sir, Please take a look at this.” He said as he handed his report across.

“We’ve been getting these sensor blips for a few days now.”

Arching an eyebrow, the Ensign skimmed the summary of the report. “The computer is identifying them as asteroid impacts.” He said, dismissing the report further.

“My lord, please, indulge me. That doesn’t align with my experience. Take a look at what is actually being recorded.” Eric started.

“Buth-Chanain-c is a giant ball of ammonia. When an asteroid strikes, it creates a thermal reaction and cracks the ammonia into nitrogen and hydrogen gas. The heat then usually ignites the hydrogen.”

“Yes,” the Ensign said impatiently, “a fuel source for the tail-fire as the asteroid descends into the atmosphere.”

“This isn’t doing that. Instead, we are seeing highly energetic electrons breaking down the ammonia at temperatures low enough that the hydrogen isn’t combusting.”

The ensign finally became interested as he thought for a moment, “That’s a sign of a plasma discharge.”

Eric nodded. “And lastly my lord, look at the time stamp. Every 156 minutes. Even if there was an active bombardment going on, no asteroids will be that consistent.”

The ensign fully reviewed the data, then looked up over the tablet at Eric.

“Let me get this straight. A million credit computer tells you that you’re chasing asteroids and you don’t believe it and come up with this on your own.”

As Eric started to protest, the ensign held up his hand. “Don’t worry. You’ve convinced me. There is clearly something unusual out there. I’ll submit the report to command.”

Intercession preparing to depart and evaluate the sensor anomaly.

Three hours later that report left station command as part of a data update to Lieutenant Master Tallulah Finnegan. It was not tagged in any way to make it stand out, but she had set up filters on her messages to flag anything that referred to sensor readings.

She read it at once, then called out: “Galen, sending you a file.”

She waited as he read it. He immediately locked eyes with her and opened a private channel through the ship’s network.

“That cannot be a coincidence.”

“Agreed. Though the classified data on these new Black Ships did not include anything actionable regarding their sensor profiles, this anomaly is the best lead we have.”

“Could be jumping at shadows. Command does not even know if there IS a Black Ship here. It’s only a reasonable assumption.”

“I would have one here if I controlled their strategy.” Tallulah countered.

“And besides,” she continued. “It is clearly something. Catching smugglers is always rewarding.”

“True enough.” Galen conceded as he closed the connection.

Aloud, he then added. “Damn fine work from that sensor tech too. If this proves to be something, it should be noted in his file.”

Tallulah nodded in agreement as she brought the tac map online. She fed the sensor data from the station in and extrapolated a course.

“Helm, adjust course to this heading. Comms, order the Evanescence into position six hundred meters behind us, one hundred to port, forty below. Both ships are to deploy their enhanced sensor rods and establish maximum power, overlapping fields. Triangulate any anomalies.”

She dropped into her command chair and gripped the armrests. “Take us out.”

 

The worst part of covert operations is the insufferable waiting. Aurelian Tigan thought to himself for the 1000^(th) time in his career. They had been smuggled into the system a week ago, nearly docked to the side of that Cayston Star Galleon. It galled him that House Tigan had to suffer aid from House Cayston. Lord Vortiger had proven fine, as near as Aurelian could tell. But everyone knew that Marquis Tamiran, head of House Cayston, was the most treacherous snake in all of the Principality.

Not that I could say that aloud, he thought as his eyes flicked over to his executive officer, Alaric Tirom. House Tirom was a vassal to House Cayston, and he had long ago learned to not express his dislike of his friend’s patron in front of him.

Originally, they had been in deep space, right off of the most likely hyper-lane vector to interdict any ships fleeing Astoria. After a few days without a catch, he had ordered the ship deeper into the system so that they could monitor all traffic. They had settled into a comfortable orbit around the local gas giant, Buth-Chanain-c.

Carefully situated between the world and one of its moons, they were effectively shielded by the moon’s sensor shadow and invisible to any long range scan. And though the moon made a large dead space in their scanning as well, he had oriented the vessel so that the dead space did not obscure any of the hyperspace entry points. A stealth probe doing an active orbit around the planet provided him with any additional sensor coverage he needed. Every two and a half hours as it passed close by the Fulminating Darkness it adjusted its course and transmitted its findings on a laser pulse beam before returning to its circuit.

“Captain! Short range sensor contact. Appears to be a Seagull on patrol.”

“Any sign they have seen us?”

“Still monitoring sir.”

Turning to Alaric, he ordered: “Prepare for silent running.”

His XO saluted in confirmation and began issuing orders into his terminal. Aurelian tied directly into the ships computer to see what the sensor tech was seeing.

He saw the Seagull immediately. He watched its posture for several seconds before determining that it had not seen them.

“Sensors,” He called out, “if this was a standard corvette, were they close enough to register us?” He was confident they were.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Magnificent vessel.” Aurelian said appreciatively. He then ordered: “Track that Seagull. Make sure it does not stumble across us. See where it came from if you can.”

Aurelian disconnected from the computer and walked over to Alaric. As he approached, Alaric tilted his head in greeting, then said: “I wish the Duke’s forces had been able to train longer in these before we all had to deploy. We do not really know what they are capable of. And though they look impressive, there is bound to be very real, practical, limits to their capabilities.”

Aurelian sighed. It was the fourth time this conversation had been broached in the last few weeks. “You are well aware that I agree with you. But I know you also understand the Duke’s position. Getting these was a great boon, one that he could not risk being discovered before he was ready.”

“I understand that, but we both know that ill-prepared crews lead to bad assumptions, mistakes, and dead men.”

Aurelian reached out and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Then we just need to be careful.” He said with mock bravado, then continued. “You know as well as I do just how much of an honor this command is for both of us. The crews of these corvettes will see more glory than most cruiser captains during this dispute. I dare say that I am almost glad the Pretender-Prince slunk away, we would not have much opportunity otherwise.”

As Alaric started to reply, the sensor officer called out. “My lord, you need to see this. I think I found the origin for that Seagull.”

Alaric turned and walked over to the sensor tech. After a moment of discussion, he turned towards the main screen and called out: “On screen.”

A picture of the nearby moon filled the screen, with a series of vectors plotted across it. Turning to Aurelian, Alaric started: “As the Seagull left our area, it did not deviate its X axis at all. The computer was able to trace it back around the moon and that is when passives picked up this.”

The screen zoomed in to a blurry shape of a long, thin ship. “What we are actually picking up is a weak sensor reflection bouncing off of the planet, but this,” he said, gesturing towards the shape. “appears to be the origin point for that fighter. “

“What is that?” Aurelian asked.

“It is behind the moon so we cannot be certain on passive sensors. 100% certainty that it is a ship, but we cannot verify more than that. Adding the probe data, the computer puts it at 70% chance of being a destroyer grade warship.”

“A destroyer?” Aurelian questioned. “We have been here for a week and have not observed a warship that large anywhere. Just those small corvettes.”

“I know sir. But unless we go to active sensors, we will not know for certain. And I do not think that particular risk is worth it.”

“Agreed. Remain on silent running.” Aurelian looked beyond Alaric to the sensor tech. “Track that ship for as long as possible.”

“As you command, my lord.” The tech replied, “With the probe on its current trajectory, we will lose the echo in a just a few moments, but I will plot a trajectory based on our last data points. We might be able to pick it up again as it transits the far side of the moon.”

Aurelian nodded, please with crewman’s initiative.

 

“Seagull I-1 reports no contact ma’am.”

Tallulah and Galen exchanged brief glances, then she spoke. “Confirm that we just registered the anomaly on our sensors.”

“Confirmed ma’am. 12 minutes ago.”

“So it will appear again in 144 minutes.” Galen reasoned.

“We will reach the perimeter of the moon in 140 minutes.” Tallulah noted. “Just in time to catch the next the anomaly.”

“It is telling that the Seagull could not detect anything. If there was a smuggler there, it should have been able to register it. We are either dealing with an exceedingly small probe, or…” She let the thought trail off as Galen just nodded.

“I’ll go prep the marines.” He offered.

“Auxilia too.” Tallulah countered. “If there is a chance of boarding this thing I want to take it.”

“Have you considered what we are going to do if their captain has a legitimate claim of neutrality. We cannot just take the ship then. We are talking about several million credits of Draymor property. They are going to want it back.”

“I don’t know.” She hissed through clenched teeth. “It’s not a registered vessel, and it is in Finnegan space. That breach alone would justify a boarding action. Call it a contraband inspection or something.”

Galen huffed in slight disapproval. “Flimsy.” Then he shrugged his shoulders and continued with a wry grin that worked all the way up to his solid black cybernetic eyes. “but also not my problem. You just pay me to shoot stuff.”

Tallulah snorted in mock derision, “Undignified.”

“My sincere apologies, Lady Finnegan, it is my honor and duty to vanquish our foul enemies during noble boarding actions.”

Tallulah laughed quietly at the pompous rejoinder. “Exactly. And you cannot do that if my troops are not ready.” She said as she waved her hand towards the lift door.

Galen snapped off a crisp salute and turned and marched off the bridge.

Tallulah turned back to the view screen and felt her mood start to sour as the risk of the unknown began working its way through her thoughts.

 

Galen walked out of his quarters having changed into his black combat armor. He was still holding his plasma sword. He took a moment to appreciate it. A long straight chokuto with a subtle filigree that matched the trim on his armor. He had spent two full years’ salary on his armor set and weapon. Holstering the blade, he quickly walked down to the armory to perform an inspection of the troops. He checked the time. He had 30 minutes, then he wanted to get back to the bridge.

The troops snapped to attention when he entered the room. They were arranged in sharp rows. Three platoons of forty-eight, consisting of marines and auxilia, mostly in mixed triad teams.

He walked the ranks, then nodded in approval and made his way back to the front of the room and began a situational briefing.

“Warriors of the Principality. We are less than an hour from an unknown contact. The captain has reason to suspect that it might be a ship loyal to the traitorous Duke Draymor.

If we confirm that the unknown contact is hostile, we will engage at range to soften it up. However, should we get a chance to board the captain is going to take it. We have no idea what to expect at this point, so I want everyone to stage in different zones.

First Platoon, head to the shuttle bay and prep the shuttle. Second Platoon, half of you to the port airlock, half to the starboard. Third Platoon, stay here. If we can directly dock, then your platoon will immediately support the squads at whichever airlock we breach. Second Platoon, whichever team doesn’t get honor of being the spear tip, hustle it over to the other side of the ship and back up your brothers and Third Platoon.

All specialists, especially electronic warfare techs, full kit.

Any questions?”

There were none, so Galen dismissed the men back to their preparation and made his way to the bridge.

 

A few minutes later Galen was standing beside Tallulah’s chair as they both watched the timer count down.

Tallulah tied into the ships systems did a quick survey. Both the Intercession and the Evanescence were in position. One of the Seagulls was close, the other three having been sent further afield. And absolutely nothing else of interest.

She checked the counter, less than a minute. She decided to stay logged in so that she could see what the sensor operator saw directly.

And then there it was. She heard the sensor officer call out.

“Contact! Bearing 165, down 35. 50000km. Plasma flare confirmed. Magnitude indicates positional thrusters… sensors cannot make anything else out, including a ship.” The sensor officer’s voice had started out strong and became increasingly confused as the sentence went on. Tallulah felt that same confusion from her own viewing of the sensor logs.

She continued for Galen’s benefit. “Since we cannot actually make the ship out, we have no way of knowing if they have seen us, but this sensor spike wasn’t any different than the previous one, so I am going to play a hunch that they don’t know we’re here yet.”

Waiting a few more seconds until she was satisfied that nothing was changing, she disconnected from the system. “Sensors, follow that contact. Call out the moment anything changes. Helm, based on that sensor shadow duration, the unknown must be in orbit. Can you calculate speed and direction?”

The helm officer did a quick reference on the computer. “My lady, at the altitude we are seeing the anomaly, it must be moving ~20 km/s. I don’t have any ability to actually confirm prograde or retrograde at this distance.”

“Damn.” Galen said aloud. “50/50 chance on the intercept. Unless we divide our ships.”

Tallulah hummed deeply in her chest, then tapped her jaw. “No.” she said very slowly. She was missing something; she was sure of it.

“What would we do if the situation was reversed?” she said quietly to herself.

“That would depend on the mission profile.”  Galen responded.

She tilted her head idly, then it came to her: “Of course, and they have to be on an observation mission.”

Then with more energy, “Sensors, Helm, does one orbital direction allow for better coverage of the hyperspace lanes or the station?”

The Helm officer spoke first, “Prograde, Ma’am.”

Tallulah looked at the sensor operator expectantly.

“Confirmed, captain.”

A satisfied smile spread across her face as she ordered: “Helm, plot an intercept. Conn, recall the gulls. Then transmit this same order set to the Evanescence. They are otherwise to continue mirroring our position. Sensors, continue sweeping and triangulating with the Evanescence.”

She sat up straighter in her chair, excitement in her eyes. “Engage.”

Intercession underway.

On the bridge of the Fulminating Darkness, Aurelian and Alaric were staring at the sensor ghost on the tac map.

“It’s started moving again.” Alaric observed.

Aurelian growled deep in his chest. “Sensors, monitor it as best you can and update the tac map when the computer can generate a reasonable trajectory.”

“Aye, sir”

“I don’t like this.” Alaric said quietly. “There should be nothing in this system large enough to be a threat to us right now. And even if there was, they should not be able to see us. And yet...” He concluded with a hand wave at the tac map.

“I agree with both points, but not your conclusion. Whatever it is, it was moving in straight lines on non-intercept course. Even if its sensors picked up something it cannot possibly have seen us.”

“Computer has a projection, Captain. Putting it on the tac map now.” The sensor operator called out.

A cone appeared on the tac map, displaying the potential headings of the unknown vessel. Part of the cone overlapped with the Fulminating Darkness’ orbit. Alaric looked at Aurelian and simply raised an eyebrow.

“We could break orbit, slip away.” Alaric suggested.

“We would not be able to maintain adequate sensor coverage of the system. It would violate our core order. I am not going to abandon our charge without a firm reason.”

Before Alaric could reply, the sensor operator continued. “Sir, we also picked up that Seagull again. It appears to be on an intercept course with the contact.”

Aurelian was surprised by that. “Wait. You cannot tell me what that ship is, but passives can pick up a fighter that is tens of thousands of kilometers away?”

The sensor officer shrunk a little under the captain’s gaze. “We were able to get an engine spectral reading on the fighter, my lord. The extra data point was enough for the passives to produce a better read.”

Aurelian nodded in response as he thought. He turned to his Weapons officer who tilted his head in respect as they made eye contact. “Work with Sensors. Bring up the latest intelligence we have on any destroyer that was in this area before the conflict. If we have that ship’s spectral signature on file, scan for it. Perhaps luck is with us and we can ID our mysterious stalker.”

“As you command, Captain.”

Alaric paused in thought as Aurelian turned back to him. “Poor odds.” He said, “but creative. Good call, sir.”

 

Tallulah was watching as the distance to target slowly ticked down. She then glanced at the counter for the anomaly. They should register it again in just a few minutes. She started to call out for a general status update when the sensor officer called out: “My lady, sensors are suddenly getting disrupted. Not sure what the source is, but it appears to be artificial.”

“All stop.”

“All stop, aye.”

“Sensors, run a diagnostic on the system. Comms, confirm if Evanescence is having the problem.”

As the officers acknowledged Tallulah began reviewing what limited information House Finnegan had on these Black Ships for a lead.

“Sensors confirmed operational, ma’am.”

“Captain,” the comm officer called out. “Evanescence confirms sensor disruption. They report that the time of disruption was a few moments after us, exactly the amount of time that accounts for the distance between the two ships.”

Tallulah’s eyebrows shot up at that. Turning to Galen, “Fixed radius sensor scrambler?”

“Seems so.” He responded.

She hummed thoughtfully. “The easiest solution to that problem is to have the Evanescence fall back so that it can maintain sensors and confirm the next anomaly. We would be on target by that point.”

“The trouble would be finding them. That search area is still a huge amount of space. Even if we deployed both Seagulls, trying to find a Black Ship superimposed over space without sensors is a high bar.”

“You are a marine, you have trained for night fighting, how do you work around the handicap?” She asked.

“Well, the easiest solution is to put a tac-light on your battle rifle or to fire a star flare.” He joked, waving a hand at the bright-grey planet on the view screen, then suddenly went serious as he and Tallulah had the same idea at the same time.”

Continues in Part 2.
My thanks to EkhidnaWritez and SciFiStories1977 for writing and curating this world that so many enjoy.

  The primary coolant manifold didn’t just fail; it unspooled.

   In the command center of the Silent Explorer,  Threl felt the shudder through his secondary thorax before the environmental gauges even registered the pressure drop. The ship had spent three planetary cycles hovering in the high thermosphere, silently mapping the erratic, sprawling thermal signatures of the new bipedal occupants below. The species—human, they called themselves on their open, unencrypted frequencies—were crude but deceptively organized.

  Now, they were going to be witnesses.

   "Atmospheric capture in thirty standard intervals," the navigation sub-mind chimed, its voice a serene contrast to the cascading crimson warnings flooding the console. "Structural integrity degrading. Vector unrecoverable."
   
  "Redirect emergency power to the forward kinetic shields," Threl commanded, his mandibles clicking in sharp, rhythmic stress. "Vent the remaining plasma from the drive core. We will not give this world a second sun."

  The Silent Explorer groaned, a massive, predatory shape of dark alloy and bioluminescent telemetry now stripped of its stealth shrouds. As it breached the upper stratosphere, friction took hold. The hull, designed for the frictionless void, began to burn. To anyone looking up from the surface, the ship was a jagged, multi-pointed star tearing a jagged wound across the midday sky, bleeding a thick trail of ionized purple smoke.

  Inside, the gravity anchors tore free. Threl gripped the command console as the ship skipped violently off a dense thermal layer, spinning the horizon into a sickening blur of alien blue atmosphere and jagged, rust-colored mountain ranges.

  "Impact trajectory calculated," the sub-mind reported calmly as the console beneath Threl's hands began to melt. "Distance from target population center: four thousand, two hundred kilometers. Impact probability: absolute."

  Good, Threl thought bitterly, bracing for the kinetic crush as the ground rushed up to meet them. At least we die in isolation.

  The final impact was not a clean halt, but a violent, multi-kilometer plow through an ancient, petrified forest, scattering molten alloy and shattered shale across a desolate basin. Then, silence took the valley, broken only by the hiss of dying reactors and the dripping of synthetic fluids onto the alien soil.

  The humming of the makeshift consoles in Pod 6 was the only sound cutting through the   midnight quiet. Security and Tactical had done what they could, deploying what little equipment they had brought from earth for this task to set up a rudimentary space observation facility. Mansur Danyavi, the Pod 6 leader, harbored no illusions; true planetary defense was a project for future generations. For now, his goal was simple survival: give the settlement enough early warning to evacuate to the massive subterranean cave networks discovered by Pod 4 if something hostile ever knocked on their door.

  Because of that lingering anxiety, the observatory never slept.

  "Jon, look at this. That’s the third time I've tracked that same signature passing overhead," Margaret said, leaning closer to her monitor. The pale blue glow of the telemetry data reflected in her tired eyes.

  Jonathan didn’t look up from his tablet, waving a dismissive hand. "Relax, Maggie. It's probably just a piece of space junk in a decaying, close orbit. The upper atmosphere will swallow it in a few days."

  "That’s just it—it’s not decaying," she countered, her voice tightening as she pulled up a comparative overlay. "Look at the trajectory. It’s holding altitude. More than that, it just made a subtle vector adjustment. That's a controlled course correction, Jon. I’m calling Leader Danyavi."

  Jon finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Your funeral, Maggie. You know how he values his three hours of sleep. If you wake him up for a stray meteor, he’ll have you scraping the algae vats by dawn."

  "It's not a meteor," she said grimly, already reaching for the comms unit.

  Ten minutes later, Mansur stood in the center of the command post, rubbing his eyes, his uniform hastily thrown on. He looked thoroughly unimpressed. "This better be a catastrophic system failure or an active invasion, Margaret."

  "I think we're being watched, sir," Maggie said without flinching. She stepped back, opening the display to reveal the tracked orbital lines, highlighting the deliberate corrections. "It’s too precise to be debris. It’s a deliberate orbit."

  Before Mansur could respond, the heavy blast doors slid open, and Marcus stepped into the room, looking equally sleep-deprived and twice as annoyed. "What could possibly be so urgent that it couldn't wait until morning, Manny? Some of us actually run the logistics that keep this colony alive."

  Mansur didn't snap back. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the glowing red trajectory line on the main screen. The irritation in his voice cracked, replaced by a cold, sudden weight.

   "We have an uninvited visitor, Marcus," Mansur said quietly. "They're sitting in a low orbit and have passed directly over our heads at least six times that we've managed to log. I am assuming it isn't a human vessel—because they are completely ignoring every automated handshake and greeting protocol we've broadcasted."

  The argument died instantly. Within an hour, word had leaked. The quiet night turned chaotic as thousands of colonists stepped outside their habs, eyes glued to the sky. A tiny, piercing pinprick of light drifted steadily across the stars—an artificial moon tracking a silent path over their new world.

  Then, the sky shattered.

  A brilliant, blinding flash erupted from the small object. On the monitors in Pod 6, the clean telemetry line splintered into a chaotic tangle of warning alarms. In the sky above, the steady pinprick turned into a violent, tumbling fireball, plunging down toward the upper atmosphere in an uncontrolled spiral. A thick, jagged tail of fire and ionized purple smoke cut a wound across the sky, turning curiosity into absolute dread.

  The ship hadn't even broken the cloud layer before the colony's command grid exploded into action.

  Down in Pod 4, the mining division held the keys to the settlement's only heavy atmospheric shuttles. Gary and Susan didn't wait for a formal chain of command; they were already sprinting down the gantry, firing up the main thrusters of Shuttle One preparing for whatever came next.

  "Medical team, move, move!" Dr. Mulvey shouted, swinging himself into the bay of the shuddering transport. Behind him, EMTs Kenny and Craig hoisted heavy trauma kits through the door, while Nurse Sarah began securing the mobile triage units to the floorboards.

  Four security officers from Pod 6 stepped aboard next, their boots clanging heavily against the metal ramp: Sergeant Cole, Corporal Smith, Jones, and Haskell. They checked their sidearms, though everyone in the bay knew that against whatever came out of that sky, they were likely providing more raw muscle for rescue operations than actual tactical security.

  The final passenger slid through the doors just as the hydraulics began to whine. Dr. Lizeth Sanchez, the colony’s sole xenobiologist from Pod 11, was pale but breathless, clutching a specialized scanner to her chest.

  Exactly twenty minutes after the first flash in the upper atmosphere, Shuttle One's thrusters roared to life, lifting off into the dark, smoke-choked sky. Back at the pad, the ground crews were already frantically prepping Shuttle Two, waiting in tense silence for the first report from the crash site before launching into the unknown.

  Shuttle One sliced through the planet's upper atmosphere, tracing the jagged entry corridor left by the falling vessel. Below them, a persistent scar of thick purple smoke bled into the sky, acting as an unmistakable beacon through the dense canopy.

As the shuttle banked over the final ridge, the true scale of the impact came into view.

"Oh my lord," Private Eric Haskell whispered, pressing his helmet against the viewport. "Look at that swath cut through the jungle. It’s a mile of pure devastation. There’s no way anything could have survived that."

Sergeant Cole didn't look back from the forward console, but his voice carried a sharp, commanding edge. "Don’t make assumptions, Eric. We’re a rescue detail, not a cleanup crew. Until we confirm otherwise, we assume there are survivors and we act accordingly. Keep your head in the game and your thinking positive."

"Yes, Sarge," Haskell muttered, tightening his grip on his harness.

  As the shuttle cleared the tree line, a collective silence fell over the cabin. Expecting a scattered field of burning metal, they instead looked down upon a massive, alien structure. It was completely intact, wedged into the earth, and remarkably, there was no fire.

  "The jungle is too dense for a standard landing," Susan called out from the cockpit, her fingers flying across the navigation board. "We're going to have to set down right in the middle of the impact trench. It's the only clear zone."

  "Yo got it," Gary said, his hands steady on the primary flight controls. He maneuvered the heavy atmospheric shuttle down, bringing it to a smooth, dust-kicking halt a safe distance away from the silent wreckage.

  The cabin pressure hissed as the seals released. Every soul aboard was already sweltered inside their heavy radiation suits—bulky, specially treated layers capped by thick, transparent helmets that made breathing sound loud and artificial.

  The ramp dropped, and the team descended into the humid, crushed jungle. The medical contingent took the lead, with Nurse Sarah holding a clicking Geiger counter out in front of her like a shield.

  She stopped, tapping the gauge in disbelief. "The radiation readings... they’re incredibly low. Way lower than a ship of this scale should be emitting after a high-energy descent."

  Dr. Mulvey leaned over her shoulder, checking the display. "How is that possible? A drive core that size should have irradiated the entire valley."

  "I wonder if they intentionally ejected their core and fuel reserves before atmospheric entry," Sarah mused, her voice echoing slightly inside her helmet.

   Dr. Lizeth Sanchez, the xenobiologist, stepped forward, her eyes wide as she examined the smooth, unbreeched hull of the alien craft. "If they did that, it gives me a lot of reason to be optimistic about what we’ll find inside. Jettisoning a toxic drive core to protect an unknown planet's ecosystem? That’s a highly sophisticated moral choice. It’s a very good indicator of what kind of species we're dealing with."

  Sergeant Cole unclipped his long-range comms unit, striking a heavy gloved hand against the side of his helmet to clear the static of the distance.

  "Settlement Command, this is Shuttle One. Do you copy?"

  A few moments of crackling static passed before Manny’s voice cut through. "We copy, Shuttle One. What’s the status out there?"

  "We have landed at the crash site," Cole radioed back, his eyes surveying the towering, tilted vessel. "Coordinates put us approximately 4,500 kilometers west of the settlement. We’ve successfully deployed the location beacon. Radiation levels are surprisingly low—safe for human exposure in moderation. The ship itself is still completely intact, and from what we can see, there are no hull breaches."

  Cole paused, looking up at the sheer angle of the hull. "There is a complication, though. The ship is wedged into the bedrock at roughly a 45-degree angle. It's going to make finding an entry point and climbing inside incredibly difficult. For the secondary transport, make sure to add heavy ladders, ropes, and climbing equipment to Shuttle Two’s inventory. We are proceeding on foot to locate a hatch. Out."

  "Roger that, Sergeant Cole," Manny’s voice returned, sounding a fraction less tense but entirely focused. "We'll start prepping the gear. Keep us informed of your progress, and let us know the second you want us to launch Shuttle Two."

  "Understood. Cole out." Turning back to the team, the Sergeant gestured toward the looming alien shadow. "Alright, people. Let's find a way into this thing."

 The shadow of the tilted alien vessel loomed large over the salvage team as they navigated the crushed foliage around the base of the hull.

   "Hey, Sarge! Over here," Private Jones called out, his voice muffled slightly by his helmet comms. He was crouched low near the belly of the craft, where the hull curved sharply toward the mud. "Looks like some kind of access hatch tucked under the main plating. It's small, though. Only a couple of feet off the ground. Looks like a ground maintenance port."

   Sergeant Cole stepped over a shattered tree limb to take a look, but before he could even inspect the frame, Gary’s voice cut over the channel, sharp with sudden panic.

  "Step back from that thing, Jones! Don't touch it!"

  Jones froze, his hand hovering inches from the hull. "What's the issue, Gary? It's just a door."

  "It's a localized atmospheric bomb if you open it wrong," Gary snapped, stepping closer, his pilot instincts kicking in. "Look at the seal. If there's a major pressure differential between the inside of that dead ship and this planet's atmosphere, popping that latch will either blast you halfway back to the settlement or suck you straight through the opening like wood through a chipper. Neither scenario leaves enough of you to bury."

  Cole frowned inside his helmet, looking between the pilot and the small hatch. "What do you suggest we do then, Gary?"

  "I’m a shuttle pilot, Sarge, not an engineer," Gary said, holding up his hands. "I just fly 'em. I'm just alerting you to the fact that if you pull that lever blindly, you're rolling the dice with everyone standing in this trench."

   Cole didn't hesitate. He reached for his long-range comms unit, switching to the high-frequency relay back to base. "Settlement Command, this is Cole. We've located an entry point, but we have a potential atmospheric hazard. We need an aerospace engineer on the horn right now."

   A few seconds of heavy static filled the line before a calm, pragmatic voice broke through. "Shuttle One, this is Kevin Brown from Pod 9. I'm on. What's the situation out there, Sergeant?"

  "We've found a ground-level maintenance hatch," Cole explained, keeping his eyes on the metal seam. "We're concerned about explosive decompression or an immediate vacuum draw due to internal pressure differences."

   "Alright, copy that," Kevin replied instantly, his tone shifting into diagnostic mode. "First question: does the door mechanism appear to swing inward, or outward?"

   Cole leaned down beside Jones, brushing away a layer of fine soot from the hinges. "It’s recessed into the frame. It appears to swing inward."

   On the other end of the line, Kevin let out a low whistle. "Okay, that changes things. If the internal pressure was higher than the planet's atmosphere, the force would be pushing the door against its own frame—meaning there is no way you'd have the physical leverage to open it anyway. So, we have to plan for the opposite scenario: a vacuum. If the internal pressure is significantly lower, the second you release the locking mechanism, the atmosphere out there is going to slam that door inward violently."

   The team stood in tense silence as Kevin laid out the safety protocols.

   "Here’s what you need to do," Kevin instructed. "Put a heavy harness on whoever is flipping that latch, and tie them down to a serious, immovable anchor point—use the shuttle's landing gear if you have to. Next, clear out all loose debris, rocks, and tools within a ten-yard radius around the opening. If it sucks air, anything nearby becomes a projectile. Once everyone is clear and anchored, try to flip the mechanism. If the door blows open, pull the operator back immediately and wait for the pressure to equalize. Good luck, Cole."

   "Understood, Pod 9. Out," Cole said.

   The next ten minutes were a blur of coordinated, anxious sweat. Jones was strapped securely into a heavy-duty tactical harness, the high-tensile line anchored back to the primary landing strut of Shuttle One. Smith and Haskell worked quickly, clearing every loose branch and stone from the zone until the muddy ground was entirely bare.

   The rest of the team retreated to a safe distance, watching through their visors as Jones took a deep breath, braced his boots against the slick hull, and reached for the manual release lever.

   "Ready when you are, Sarge," Jones muttered, his heart rate spiking on the squad monitor.

   "Do it," Cole commanded.

   Jones gripped the lever and hauled backward with all his weight, bracing for an explosive rush of air, a crushing vacuum, or a deafening metal tear.

   Instead, the mechanism turned smoothly. With a gentle, anti-climactic hiss, the seals parted, and the maintenance door slid back into the interior tracking with perfect, silent grace. The air pressure was identical.

   Jones blinked behind his visor, looking back over his shoulder at the heavily anchored line stretching to the shuttle.

   "Well," Jones said, exhaling a breath he'd been holding for five minutes. "That was easy. We're in."

   "The power is completely out," Dr. Mulvey noted, tapping the dead control panel just inside the maintenance hatch. His headlamp sliced through the absolute pitch-black of the corridor. "Not even emergency backup grids seem to be online. We're going in blind."

   He turned back toward the entry port, adjusting the straps of his medical pack. "Cole, get on the horn and call in Shuttle Two. We need extra boots on the ground to help search this vessel, and tell them to bring heavy-duty portable lights and every ladder they can haul. Dr. Sanchez and I will take Private Haskell with us to head deeper into the interior. I want the other three medical staff split up, each accompanied by a security escort. Do not wander off alone."

   Stepping fully into the ship felt like walking through a funhouse. Because the vessel was wedged into the bedrock at a sharp 45-degree angle, the concept of a floor had vanished. The team found themselves awkwardly treading along the junction where the wall met the deck, balancing precariously as they navigated the tilted architecture. Despite the orientation, Mulvey ran a gloved hand along a seamless interior bulkheads. "Structurally, she held together beautifully. No major collapses. I’m actually becoming optimistic about finding survivors."

   "Dr. Mulvey! Over here!" Haskell’s voice echoed down the corridor, sharp with a mix of adrenaline and awe. "I've got... I think I've got a being over here."

   Mulvey and Lizeth scrambled down the tilted corridor, their beams converging on a small alcove. For a moment, everyone stared in silent fascination. It was the colony's first face-to-face encounter with an intelligent alien lifeform.

  But the awe was short-lived. The being’s neck was bent at an acute, unnatural angle.

  "He's gone," Mulvey muttered quietly, checking for a pulse point on an unfamiliar anatomy before stepping back to let the xenobiologist through.

  Dr. Lizeth Sanchez dropped to her knees, her scanner hummed as she quickly began logging the details. "Look at the physiology," she whispered, her fingers tracing a pad over her digital notes. "Delicate hands... no natural armor or defensive structures. The jawline has flat teeth, clearly adapted for vegetation. It's a biped, two arms... but exceptionally tall. The bone density suggests a home planet with much lower gravity than Earth."

   She tilted her light slightly. "And the attire—highly intricate, fancy textiles. Whatever that implies for their social structure. Two eyes, but completely monochrome. No distinct pupils. The skin tone is difficult to gauge accurately post-mortem, but..." She tapped her screen. "I’m logging it as a deep, dark blue for now."

  "Lizeth," Mulvey interrupted gently, laying a hand on her shoulder. "We'll have all the time in the world for documentation later. Right now, we need to look for the living."

  Lizeth exhaled sharply, switching off her scanner. "Right. Right, of course. Let's move."

  The three explorers pressed onward, climbing upward through the steep incline of the vessel until they breached a wide, circular chamber. The walls were lined with dark, dead display arrays. It was unmistakably the bridge.

  And it was not empty.

   "We've got movement!" Haskell yelled, his light sweeping across a row of high-backed command chairs.

   The five bridge crew members were still strapped tightly into their shock-absorbing seats. They had clearly prepared as best they could for the impact, a stark and miraculous contrast to the violent devastation visible through the fractured forward viewports.

   Lizeth rushed to the nearest chair, checking the vitals of the slumped figure. "They're alive! Shallow respirations, but they're alive. Mulvey, we've got five living, unresponsive targets on the bridge alone!" She immediately unclipped her comms. "Shuttle One, this is Sanchez! We need to find an extraction route out of here right now. Get the immobilization stretchers ready and tell Shuttle Two to bring more up to the hull now!"

   Outside, Susan monitored the comms from the cockpit of Shuttle One. Hearing the urgency, she looked up through her canopy at the tilted alien ship. "The interior corridors are too steep and narrow to carry stretchers back down to the maintenance hatch," Susan radioed back, her tone cool and analytical. "But look at the structural layout from the outside. There's a secondary cargo hatch right above the bridge deck, and because of the crash angle, it's pointing almost straight up at the sky. If you can manually pop that hatch from the inside, I can hoist a rescue basket right down into the room."

   "Can you hold a hover in this wind, Susan?" Mulvey asked over the comm channel.

   "I used to run rescue operations at sea back on Earth, Doctor," Susan replied with a confident smirk. "Compared to a pitching deck in a North Atlantic gale, a stationary spaceship is a cakewalk. Open the roof, and I’ll do the rest."

   "Do it," Mulvey commanded. "Let's get these people off this ship ASAP."

   Susan’s experience was anything but overstated. With absolute, surgical precision, she maneuvered the heavy atmospheric shuttle into a rock-steady hover directly above the exposed upper hatch. The winch hissed as she lowered the rescue basket straight into the heart of the alien bridge.

   One by one, the injured crew were strapped in and hoisted to freedom, hauled directly to a makeshift triage station established on the muddy jungle floor below. By the time the secondary search teams finished sweeping the lower decks, the final count was established: twelve survivors, five casualties.

   As the last rescue basket cleared the upper hatch, Sergeant Cole stepped onto the bridge, his hand resting firmly on the butt of his sidearm. He looked at the lingering medics and techs who were staring longingly at the alien technology.

   "Alright, everyone, that’s the whistle. Move it out," Cole ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Pack up your kits and head to the exit. No exploring, no scanning, and absolutely no pictures. We don’t want to give our new guests any reason to think we're looting their ship before we've even had a chance to properly introduce ourselves."

   He gestured for Haskell and Jones to clear the room. "Seal the hatches tightly behind us, secure the site, and let's go home."

Inside the clinical chill of Pod 2, the atmosphere was frantic but focused. Asha Lin, the medical pod leader, paced between the intensive care bays. She had assigned a full trauma team to each of the twelve non-human patients, their instructions clear: keep communications entirely open and relay every single observation—no matter how seemingly insignificant—to the entire diagnostic network. Dr. Lizeth Sanchez stood near the central hub, watching the monitors, her expertise in alien physiology ready but limited by how little they actually knew.

  "Team Three, report!" Asha called out as a warning chime began to pulse.

“I just fitted a positive-pressure mask to force atmospheric air into its lungs,” the lead physician for Patient Three shouted over the hum of the medical equipment. “But look at the dermal readings—before I even dialed in the oxygen mix, the patient's color started to brighten. They aren't suffocating from a lack of O2; they’re physically struggling to expand their chests. They can’t breathe.”

   One by one, the other trauma bays chimed in over the comms with identical findings. The patients were exhausting themselves just trying to inhale.

Lizeth stepped forward, her eyes darting between the towering, elongated skeletal scans and the respiratory data. The piece clicked into place. “The gravity,” she said, her voice dropping in sudden realization. “This world's gravity is too high for them. This planet’s gravity is Earth-standard 1.03G.  To a biology built for low-gravity environments, our atmosphere feels like liquid lead pressing down on their chests. It’s crushing them.”

Asha looked up. "Options, Lizeth. Fast."

“We need to get them into water tanks right now,” Lizeth insisted. “Hydrostatic buoyancy will neutralize the downward force, supporting their bodies and taking the weight off their respiratory muscles. It’s the only way to stabilize them.”

  The medical pod couldn't build tanks on its own, but the colony's network was designed for rapid adaptation. Pod 1, Logistics, had been on high alert since Shuttle One returned. The moment Asha forwarded the emergency request, they scrambled. Within twenty minutes, engineering teams had drafted fabrication schematics for twelve custom, person-sized immersion pools. They were designed with temperature-controlled, filtered water systems, elongated to accommodate the aliens' towering frames, and engineered with an ergonomic, contoured bottom that allowed the patients to lie comfortably without any danger of their heads slipping beneath the surface.

  Down the line, Pod 10 received the schematics. Excitement rippled through the fabrication bay as they fired up four industrial-grade 3D printers at maximum velocity.

  In less than an hour, the first specialized immersion pools were being rolled into Pod 2 on heavy casters.

  The medical teams worked seamlessly, transferring the fragile, giant figures into the warm, supportive water. Almost instantly, the erratic respiratory monitors began to level out. The deep, strained gasps subsided into steady, rhythmic breathing. Now, all they could do was wait to see if it was enough.

   Less than an hour after submersion, the alien in Pool Four stirred. Intricate, monochrome eyes blinked open. Stricken by sudden panic, the being's gaze darted around the clinical, sterile white walls of the medical bay. The memory of the violent crash seemed to flash through its mind, followed by a visible wave of exhaustion and profound relief: survival.

   Confused, the being instinctively tried to push itself up, attempting to rise out of the water to evaluate its surroundings. But the moment its upper torso cleared the surface, the brutal, invisible weight of the planet's gravity slammed it right back down into the contour of the pool.

   The alien lay still, utterly bewildered. It had clearly never experienced hydrotherapy, and it had no concept of what technology these strange, incredibly short, bipedal creatures were utilizing to keep it alive. It parted its lips, its throat working to form words, but the heavy atmosphere yielded nothing more than a faint, clicking whisper. Realizing the futility of the effort, the traveler let its head sink back into the padded headrest, its eyes slowly closing as it drifted back into a deep, healing sleep.

   Across the courtyard in the command center, Marcus reviewed the initial medical reports. The crisis was far from over.

  "We need more data, and we need it now," Marcus said, turning to the security and engineering representatives. "We're ordering a secondary sweep of the crash site. First priority: search what looks like the galley or storage bays. Locate anything that might be considered food or nutrients, and bring every scrap of it back. Second priority: search for any handheld tech, data pads, tools, communicators, anything that survived the impact intact."

  He tapped the table for emphasis. "If we're going to keep them alive, we have to know what they eat. And if we're going to coexist, we have to find a way to talk to them."

  The second sweep proved both highly successful and deeply frustrating. Gathering sustenance wasn't the issue; Lizeth’s preliminary cellular scans suggested the aliens possessed a remarkably adaptive digestive system, capable of processing almost any local vegetation  without toxicity.

  Communication, however, was a wall. The search team returned with crates of sleek, undamaged handheld devices. Among the haul, the engineers identified five distinct models of advanced hardware. Yet, even with the collective minds of Pod 9 and Pod 10 hovering over the laboratory tables, not a single human could figure out how to so much as power them on. There were no buttons, no visible ports, and no familiar interfaces.

  Marcus stared through the glass at the sleeping visitors in their pools. "The tech is dead weight to us right now," he muttered quietly. "We're completely in the dark until our guests wake up. If they wake up."

   The breakthrough was a matter of inches and physics.

  Through trial and error, the medical team discovered that as long as the water levels remained just above the chest—resting right where a human collarbone would be—the hydrostatic pressure was perfectly optimized. It was enough to support their long, fragile torsos without restricting their respiratory movement, allowing them to breathe normally. More importantly, the buoyancy took the crushing strain off their cardiovascular systems, allowing their hearts, yes, they possessed more than one, to effectively pump blood up their long necks to the brain.

  "We need to stabilize the cervical cradle," Asha Lin noted, adjusting the mechanics on Pool Four. "Their neck muscles simply aren't strong enough to support their heads against this gravity yet. But look at the localized tissue density. They're already adapting. They're getting stronger."

   While physical survival was being mastered, the engineering team hit a wall with the technology. It turned out Gary's prediction had been an understatement: the handheld devices were utterly bricked to human touch, seemingly locked to the unique biometric or neural signatures of their specific owners.

The impasse broke when the first recovered patient finally gestured toward the crates of retrieved hardware.

  With painful, deliberate movements, the alien reached out of the water, picking up a sleek, silver device. Nothing happened. It cast it aside and picked up another. Dead. One by one, the being systematically searched through the pile, holding each unit up to its face. Finally, on the seventh attempt, a brilliant violet light pulsed across the casing, and a holographic array unfurled into the humid air of the medical bay.

The first true conversation had begun.

  For hours, Dr. Lizeth Sanchez sat by the edge of the pool, working alongside the translation matrix projected by the device. It was a tedious, beautiful dance of patience—learning about them as they, in turn, deciphered the nature of humanity.

  "The matrix is stabilizing," Lizeth murmured, her eyes wide as she interpreted a series of fluid geometric symbols. "They call themselves the Vixtar."

  "Can you ask them why they were lurking in our upper atmosphere without broadcasting?" Marcus asked, leaning against the doorframe of the lab.

  Lizeth vocalized a series of soft, clicking tones, guided by the display, and waited for the device to hum its translated reply.

  "They weren't hunting us, Marcus," Lizeth explained quietly, looking up with a look of profound empathy. "They’ve been monitoring our settlement out of pure caution. Their species is physically delicate; they aren't a warrior class. When they saw an unknown, industrialized colony drop onto this planet, they chose to observe before risking an encounter."

  She turned back to the Vixtar in the pool, whose monochrome eyes held a deep, ancient calm. Through the translator, Lizeth began to share humanity's own vulnerability. She explained that their colony was isolated—that a catastrophic, rare sequence of events had cut them off from Earth, leaving them entirely alone on this frontier, potentially for centuries.

  The Vixtar responded with a wave of complex symbols that the matrix translated as a profound gesture of shared grief. Lizeth learned that the Vixtar understood isolation all too well. Their own ancient home world had been swallowed by a dying sun. They were a diaspora, a species now scattered across three distant star systems that carefully supported their fragile biology.

   As the linguistic database grew, the cultural exchange deepened. Lizeth discovered that the Vixtar possessed no concept of gender; they were a monomorphic species that reproduced asexually through a conscious, deliberate biological choice. Even their names were beautiful, though practically impossible for human vocal cords to shape—an intricate combination of low glottal clicks and tonal hums.

   "I explained the rescue mission to them," Lizeth reported to Asha and Marcus. "They remember the explosion that crippled their drive core. And... I told them about the five casualties." She paused, looking softly at the being in the water. "I assured them their crewmates are being held in high-grade stasis. I wanted them to know we haven't disturbed them, since we don't know their funerary customs."

   The Vixtar in the pool bowed its head slightly in acknowledgment, a ripple of deep blue pulsing across its skin tone.

   The alien raised its device, projecting a new schematic onto the wall—a blueprint of the crashed ship's environmental lockers. The translator chimed, rendering the alien's soft clicks into a clear, synthetic voice.

   "We must return to the vessel," the translation read. "Inside the primary staging bay, there are twenty atmospheric suits designed to shield our frames from high-gravity stress. If your people can retrieve them, we can leave these waters. We can walk among you. And we can use the main array on our ship to call home."

  The air inside the newly pressurized staging bay of the Silent Explorer hissed with a familiar, sterile comfort. As the twelve survivors stepped out of their heavy environmental suits, they finally looked upon the interior of their vessel for the first time since the crash

  The Vixtar were utterly frozen in surprise.

  The primary data cores remained entirely untouched, their security seals unbroken. The weapon control panels were pristine, and down in the lower bays, the tracking mechanisms for the missiles and laser turrets sat precisely as they had been left before the impact. Not a single component had been dismantled; not a single circuit had been spliced.

 The humans were honorable.

  By every metric of galactic classification, these small, dense creatures should have been categorized as a "War Class Species." They possessed the musculature, the tactical discipline, and the sheer physical resilience of apex predators. Yet, despite holding absolute dominance over a helpless, broken vessel, they had made no move to conquer. They had stolen no technology, demanded no secrets, and hadn't even attempted to covertly study the ship’s defensive grids. They were a deeply dichotomous people—simultaneously capable of terrifying violence and profound, gentle restraint. They were almost impossible to classify.

  As the engineering systems began to hum back to life, the human escort quietly withdrew, vacating the central bridge and the communications room without even being asked. They simply left the Vixtar to their privacy, closing the hatch behind them.

  Threl watched the bulkheads seal, a deep blue ripple of respect flushing across his skin. The humans were in an incredibly vulnerable position on this isolated world, cut off from their own kind, yet they had deliberately chosen to trust.

 Standing before the primary long-range communications array, Threl began to format the transmission back to the Vixtar systems. He knew exactly what he would say. He would tell his world of the miraculous rescue in the crushed jungle. He would document how these alien doctors had instantly deduced their environmental agony, submerging them in custom pools to alleviate the crushing gravity. He would report the absolute dignity shown to their fallen crewmates, the meticulous care taken to secure their vessel, and how the colony had accommodated their every request without hesitation or demand.

  Most of all, Threl would tell them how the humans had looked past their weapons, bypassed their archives, and hadn't even asked what the Vixtar intended to report to their high command.

   With a steady hand, Threl initiated the subspace link, sending the data screaming across the stars. His final recommendation would be absolute: a formal, enduring partnership with these small, hardy, and beautifully complex creatures.

https://preview.redd.it/2m8wyjssr3bh1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=f6df0392a368250bcca2cf1044f3f0952dbffee8

There seems to be very little interest in this story as it is not TBSU. I may post this series on Vox9 but I think I will make this the last episode. Thanks for reading.

Thomas Hargrove stood at the narrow window of his thirty-eighth-floor cube on the eastern face of Tower 47 and wondered who would have thought Binghamton would end up like this.

By the year 2000 every factory had closed and the university was the only decent job left. Proud immigrants had built this city, stitching shoes and rolling cigars. IBM had pulled whole families out of poverty. It used to be a good place to live. Now it was all gone.

He was seventy-two. The morning haze smeared across the glass. The high-rise glittered like a promise made in 2010 Shanghai, mirrored panels catching the weak sun and turning the whole stack of buildings into a single blinding mirror. Inside, the walls were the color of old teeth. Every flat surface pulsed with the same twenty-four-hour media feed: soft-focus celebrities, lottery draws, weather loops that never changed because the weather outside no longer mattered. The air smelled of recycled plastic and someone else’s dinner from three floors down.

As the oceans rose, relocation projects had pushed people farther and farther from the sea. Binghamton seemed like the perfect place to land all those refugees. By 2073 more than three million people lived here, packed into towers that sparkled on the outside but were nothing but coffins for the living on the inside. There was no work, no play, no school. Just the endless feeds covering every wall.

The landscape had changed to match. Giant data centers filled every space the high-rises left behind. It made perfect sense. Three rivers met here. Major highways crossed the valley. Everything needed to keep the servers cool and supplied was already in place. The machines did not need people to run them. Fusion reactors the size of cigarette packs powered everything without wires. The data centers had almost no contact with reality except for the low, steady hum that most people no longer even noticed.

Tom pressed his forehead to the cool glass. Three million souls crammed into a river valley that once held eighty thousand. Miami, New Orleans, half of Boston—all gone under or evacuated in rolling relocation waves that started in the 2040s and never really stopped. Binghamton sat inland, safe. The planners called it perfect. Tom called it the place where the world came to wait for the end.

He still remembered when it had been different. Not the sanitized nostalgia the feeds tried to sell with grainy clips of smiling factory workers. The real thing. His great-grandfather Miguel Rivera had come up from Puerto Rico in 1952 to stitch shoes at the Endicott-Johnson plant. Family stories said Miguel could sew a perfect welt in his sleep and still have time to roll a cigar on the back porch of the little house on Chenango Street. By the time Tom was born in 2001 the shoe shops were ghosts and the cigar factories had become antique stores. IBM had arrived like a second sun. His father soldered circuit boards for the big blue machines that filled warehouses out in Endicott and Vestal. “We pulled ourselves out of poverty with solder and nothing else,” his father used to say, laughing the way men laugh when they are proud and terrified at the same time.

Then the factories closed for good. The university became the only steady paycheck. Tom himself had taught freshman composition there until the relocation charters started landing refugees by the tens of thousands. He still remembered the first wave in 2047. Families from the Outer Banks carried nothing but photo albums sealed in vacuum bags. They looked at the hills like they had been promised mountains of gold. Instead they got stack-and-pack housing rising faster than the rivers could rise.

Tom turned away from the window. The media wall opposite his cot flickered with a smiling anchor promising another perfect day in the Tri-River Prosperity Zone. He muted it with a wave of his hand. The silence that followed was never true silence. Beneath the tower and beneath the entire valley the data centers hummed. They had eaten everything the high-rises had not claimed: old malls, old ball fields, the stretch of floodplain where kids once played pickup baseball. Black monoliths the size of aircraft carriers cooled by the Susquehanna, the Chenango, and the Tioughnioga. Inside them lived the real population of Binghamton now: trillions of bits, quadrillions of calculations, the entire digital nervous system of what was left of the country. People were not needed. Fusion packs the size of cigarette cartons powered the whole grid without wires and without maintenance crews. The only contact with the living was that low constant note that had become the city’s heartbeat. Most days you stopped hearing it. Most days you stopped hearing anything real.

Tom’s daily ration arrived through the slot in the wall: nutrient bar, vitamin pouch, single-serving coffee that tasted like regret. He ate standing up the way he had since the towers went up. There was no kitchen, no table, no reason to sit. The cube was eight feet by ten feet, designed for one adult or two children if the allocation board felt generous. Tom had lived alone since his wife Lena died in the 2062 flu outbreak. Their daughter had taken the relocation lottery to the Great Lakes arcology and never looked back. He did not blame her. The feeds told you the arcologies were paradise. Tom figured paradise probably had more than one window.

He dressed in the gray coverall everyone wore: government issue, self-cleaning, ugly as sin. He stepped into the corridor. The hallway was a moving river of bodies. Three million people meant the elevators ran twenty-four hours a day, packed shoulder to shoulder, eyes glazed at the personal screens embedded in every sleeve. No one spoke. The only conversation was the soft chorus of sponsored content leaking from earbuds. Tom rode down in silence, wedged between a woman who smelled of synthetic jasmine and a boy no older than fifteen whose face was lit by a game Tom did not recognize. At street level the air was warmer, thicker, laced with the ozone bite of the data-center exhaust vents.

He walked the old route anyway, the one his feet still remembered. Past the base of Tower 12 where the university quad used to be. The buildings were still there, hollowed out and retrofitted as server annexes. Students had not been in classrooms since the 2050s. Everything was remote. Everything was feed. He passed the ghost of the old IBM campus: now a single unbroken data block stretching half a mile. The rivers had been widened and deepened with concrete channels to handle the cooling load. Their surfaces shimmered with heat mirage even in the morning.

Tom’s destination was the only place left that still felt like it belonged to people instead of machines: a narrow strip of unclaimed land between the Tioughnioga and the highway embankment. The city called it Maintenance Buffer Zone 19. Everyone else called it the Ditch. It was too rocky for another tower and too close to the flood line for a data center. Wild sumac and knotweed had taken over. A few old-timers still met there on good days. They brought contraband: real coffee beans traded on the dark barter nets, yellowed photographs, stories no feed would ever carry.

Today only two others waited on the cracked concrete pad that had once been a boat launch. Rosa Delgado was eighty-one. She had come up from Miami on the first big charter in 2048. She still spoke with the lilt of the Keys even after twenty-five years. Beside her sat young Micah Okonkwo, nineteen. His parents had fled the flooding of Lagos before he was born. Micah had never seen a real river that was not channeled for coolant. He came to the Ditch because Rosa had promised him something called “history you can taste.”

They sat on overturned crates. Rosa passed around a thermos of actual coffee: bitter, strong, miraculous. “My uncle rolled the last cigar in this city,” she said, voice low so the patrol drones would not pick it up. “Not here. In Tampa. But he said the smell was the same everywhere. Tobacco and hope.”

Micah laughed, a short surprised sound. “Hope does not have a smell, abuela.”

“It did,” Tom said. He pulled a small metal tin from his pocket and opened it. Inside lay three brittle cigar bands saved from his great-grandfather’s collection. The gold lettering had faded but you could still read Endicott-Johnson and the year 1964. “My abuelo used to say the city was built by people who knew how to make something with their hands. Shoes. Smoke. Then circuits. Then nothing at all.”

They talked until the sun climbed high enough to bake the concrete. The hum from the nearest data center was louder here, a bass note you felt in your teeth. Micah asked the question they always asked eventually. “Why do we keep coming here? There is nothing. No work. No school. Just the feeds and the boxes.”

Tom looked across the river at the black wall of servers. Fusion packs hummed inside them, invisible and untouchable. The machines did not care about July heat or human birthdays. They did not care that tomorrow was the Fourth. The government, whatever was left of it, had announced a National Unity Broadcast at dusk. Every surface in every tower would show fireworks that were not real, speeches written by algorithms, children waving flags generated in real time from your biometric data. It was supposed to feel like celebration. Most years it felt like another cage with better lighting.

“Because remembering is the only thing they cannot ration,” Tom said.

That night the towers lit up like Christmas in hell. Every window, every exterior panel, every elevator door became a screen. Red, white, and blue washed across three million faces pressed to glass. Tom sat on his cot and watched the spectacle with the sound off. The feed showed happy families on beaches that no longer existed, soldiers saluting skies that had been empty of planes for decades. He felt nothing.

Then the power flickered.

It was impossible. Fusion packs did not flicker. Yet the media wall stuttered, went black, and for three full seconds the cube was nothing but concrete and silence. Tom’s heart slammed against his ribs. In that darkness he heard something he had not heard in years: real wind moving against the tower. Then the lights returned, brighter than before. The feed resumed with extra enthusiasm, as if apologizing.

But the flicker had been enough. Tom grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs. Thirty-eight floors down he moved with a crowd that did not know why it was moving. Something in the collective nervous system had registered the glitch. People spilled out into the streets, blinking like sleepwalkers woken too early. No one spoke, but no one went back inside either.

He made it to the Ditch just as full dark settled. Rosa and Micah were already there, along with maybe forty others: old, young, every shade of refugee skin the relocation program had ever delivered. Someone had dragged out a rusted grill. Someone else had real hot dogs, smuggled from who knew where. A woman named Carla from the Bronx produced a battered American flag she had carried through three evacuations. They planted it in a crack in the concrete using a broken broom handle.

The data centers kept humming, but the sound seemed smaller tonight. Maybe the fusion packs had been overtaxed by the Unity Broadcast. Maybe the machines were simply ignoring the meat for once. Overhead the real sky, unfiltered and unlit by advertising, showed stars. Not many. Light pollution still ruled. But enough.

They told stories. Rosa described the last sunrise she had seen over the Atlantic before the dikes failed. Micah recited the Yoruba lullabies his mother sang while the Lagos lagoons swallowed their street. Tom read aloud from a water-stained copy of the Declaration of Independence he had kept hidden since college. The words sounded ridiculous and perfect at the same time.

Someone started singing “America the Beautiful.” Voices joined, ragged and off-key. A boy produced a handful of firecrackers: illegal, dangerous, glorious. They popped against the night like tiny rebellions. Sparks reflected in the river, and for a moment the black data monoliths looked almost beautiful. Their warning lights blinked red and white in accidental rhythm.

Tom stood a little apart, hands in his pockets, feeling the summer air on his face without a filter between him and it. He thought of his great-grandfather sewing shoes under bare bulbs, of his father soldering boards while the radio played baseball, of the city that had once believed work and family and a little piece of sky were enough. He thought of the three rivers that had carried immigrants in and refugees later and now cooled the machines that had outlived every dream they served. He thought that maybe survival was not about winning. Maybe it was about still showing up on the cracked concrete with a hot dog and a song.

The firecrackers faded. The singing died into quiet laughter. People began drifting back toward the towers, but slowly, reluctant. No one wanted the night to end. Rosa hugged Micah hard enough to lift him off his toes. The boy was crying and laughing at the same time.

Tom stayed until the last spark floated down the river. The hum of the data centers rose again, steady and indifferent, but it no longer felt like a threat. It felt like background music to something stubborn and alive.

He looked up at the towers glittering against the stars. Coffins, yes, but also lanterns holding three million heartbeats. For the first time in years he did not feel alone inside his skin. The glitch, the stories, the illegal smoke on the wind, the flag still fluttering on its broom handle. It was small, ridiculous, impossible. But it was theirs.

It was the best 4th of July ever.

Ash brought the boat around hard, and the skeleton of the skyscraper began to fall away behind them, its stripped ribs shrinking against the gray. He kept glancing back at it, at the dark shape of the pod sitting dead on the wet iron where its owner had left it, at the fortune that pod was worth.

"We left a whole pod back there," he said. "We could turn, take it."

Mai spoke from the stern, and her voice left no room in it. "No. You finished the trade, and that place is where a colonist died now. The farther we get from it, the better."

Ash hesitated, his hand light on the wheel. A swell shouldered the bow off its line and he corrected it without thinking, his eyes still on the pod. He did not slow the boat.

Trevor came up beside him at the helm. He had not stopped watching Mai; he could not take his eyes off the thing he had seen in her chest a moment ago. He put his mouth close to Ash's ear.

"We need to get away from her too," he said. "She's one of them. A Synth."

Ash did not carry Trevor's fear. "That Synth just saved both our lives. I've traded with Mai a long time. Synth or not, she's reliable. If she wanted us dead she wouldn't have bothered."

Trevor was not moved. "Saved us. Or she wants the whole thing for herself. She's not like those colonists." He tipped his head toward the sky. "She's tied straight to it. She wants it all without a middleman."

Ash had no appetite for fighting Trevor's suspicion, so he let it lie. "Maybe she does. But right now she's the only one pulling us out. There are a hundred things in this sea that want me dead. She's the first thing that tried to keep me alive."

He turned and gave Trevor a look that had already given up the argument. "And I don't have a better plan. Maybe you're right, maybe she's dangerous. So I'll watch her."

He set the wheel to hold its heading and went aft, toward Mai. Trevor followed a step behind.

She was sitting with her back against the gunwale, one hand pressed flat to her chest. Her movements had lost their old ease; one side of her held stiff, as if the machinery under it no longer ran clean.

"How bad is it," Ash said.

"If I were human I'd already be dead." Her tone was level. For a moment she lifted her hand away, and what should have been running from the wound was not running; in its place something thin and colorless welled and did not quite fall. She covered it again, quickly. "I'm not dead. But this isn't something I can close on my own."

Trevor had stopped two steps off. He already had the device in his hand, the old black instrument, and he raised it toward her the way you raise a thing you no longer trust to protect you. It hummed. Then it went quiet. It said nothing at all. He thumbed it off and on again, as if the fault might be in the box and not in the world. It woke and died the same way.

"You see," Mai said, without turning her head. "To that thing, I'm not here."

Trevor did not lower it. Mai read the distrust in him without needing to look up.

"Those little boxes found an older kind," she said. "The kind that was bound. That kind you already wiped out." She looked at him a while, then at the water. "Don't waste your worry on the rest of it. It's useless. You just watched it fail."

"One way or another, you still work for it."

"Everyone works for someone." The shrug she meant to give did not finish; her chest would not allow it. "Today you saw who I work for."

Trevor turned to Ash. "Then she's worse now. To it we're a broken tool. The sky will come to destroy it."

This time Mai's answer was short, and she gave it not to Trevor but to the horizon.

"The sky doesn't come down for a Synth. When I stop sending word, after a while it understands I've been lost. That's all. We're cheap to it." A swell lifted the boat and set it down again before she finished. "It doesn't value us the way you think it does."

Ash had been listening in silence, but here was a thing that would not sit right in him. His eyes went to her chest, to the hand clamped over whatever lay under it, the thing that did not bleed. There was no fear in his face now, and no disgust; something older than both, the same look he wore over rusted steel that no one else could read. He crouched down closer to her, quiet for a moment.

"There's a whole world sealed up in you," he said, half to himself. Then, slower, the thought taking hold of him: "If I could take a Synth alive and open it, I'd learn everything. The sky's machines, its roads." He caught the sound of it and looked away. "It won't just let you walk off."

For the first time, tired as she was, Mai smiled a little.

"It's next to you that my life is in danger. You've always wanted more." She did not take her eyes off him. Then, lower: "But I have bad news for you. I don't fully know what's inside me either." A breath came hard, and she waited for it to pass. "The sky keeps its secrets in case one of us is taken. What you're looking at is a heap of metal and synthetic skin. Open me up and you'll find nothing you can use."

Something in Ash sank.

"So you know no more than any scalper. There's something perfect inside you and it's closed even to you. Trevor's right. You can't get us out of this. You'll only draw trouble down on us."

"I didn't draw the trouble to you. You came to me carrying it." There was no anger in it, only a kind of tiredness. "Before you, I was someone who worked steadily. Now I'm a fugitive with two green scalpers."

She looked from one of them to the other.

"Let me lay it out from your side too. You watched a colonist be killed. Whatever you were this morning, you're accomplices now."

Trevor's jaw tightened. He said nothing; he looked at the water instead of at her, as if the charge might wash off there.

"And the find," Mai went on. "If you're telling the truth, it's enormous. But you've no channel to sell it, no real idea what it's worth, and two raw hands to carry it. That isn't a fortune yet. It's a mark on your back, for every scalper and every lord in these waters."

The two of them went quiet, feeling the size of it settle on them.

Mai waited a moment, then lowered her voice. Her free hand had drifted back to the fold of her clothes, to where the knife rode, and stayed there; she did not seem to notice it.

"Right now I'm the only one who gets you out of these waters alive. I know this sea. I know who sits where. There are places I can take you." Her eyes went to Ash, held on him a moment, then moved off. "First we find someone who can put me back together. After that we can talk about the rest."

Ash looked at her. "Why help us."

Mai did not answer at once. She looked at the hand on her chest, then out at the water.

"Because this time, I can choose," she said finally.

The two of them looked toward the horizon. Only the very top of the stripped skyscraper still showed above the water. And then, far off, beyond the edge of the horizon, a thin red light came down out of the sky.

They were still trying to make sense of it when a second light followed, thicker and brilliant white, landing in the same place. Where it touched, a silent flare opened on the far side of the horizon, and behind it a shockwave. Even at that distance the heat of it reached them, and the boat wrestled a while with the swell it threw up.

Mai did not loosen the hand on her chest.

"The sky's wrath," she said quietly. "A colonist died, and the ground is paying the price for it."

Ash looked back the way they had come. "Then does it come for us too."

"It came for a colonist," Mai said. She was quiet a moment, weighing her own words somewhere between herself and the sea. "Not for me."

But she did not look away from the place beyond the horizon where the light had come down, and she watched it long after the sea had gone flat again.

My name is Jordi, and I am someone who has been working on a story idea for 39 years and is finally trying to put that idea in front of the eyes of others, but I often find that the work I do is never given a chance because I use AI as an assistant and a tool to help me write. I have a hand disability and cannot use my hands well, so AI helps me get everything written. Unfortunately, it means a lot of editing (slow, tedious editing) and a lot of crap from people who just want to scream at anyone using AI in any capacity.

Recently, I tried to ask for help to figure out whether a stats issue I noticed on the various web series sites where I have my story is due to the usual early-reader behaviors on those kinds of sites, or if there is a genuine issue I need to address. I did manage to get a few good, constructive comments I took to heart and applied fixes to the chapters in question, but then the Facebook group decided I was trying to promote the book and deleted everything. It was at least partially helpful, and I even found a few issues I hadn't realized were there, so it was all good despite the hyper-moderation.

I definitely need a place to share my long and interesting tome where it won't get called "AI slop" by people with big mouths and little sense.

We continued building our scaffolding to build the ship on. Two fisherman carried caught fish to the farm this morning. They dropped up extra fish and 1 sea turtle and came back.

Using a blade and hammer started making the ribs and seats. The seats will be used for us to relax but eventually will be mounted in the boat.

In the afternoon the Woodsman arrived with 4 nice piece of maple. These four will be used for the boat spine connected together. The ribs will be connected to it.

Made 2 devices over the construction site and hooked the blocks. This will guarantee we will easily lift any heavy pieces we need to.

Even tho this is a simple boat it will take minimum a month to build it. I have the Woodsman for 7 days and would cut as many of the trees needed as possible.

They will cut and split into planks the trees. 5 Woodsman can get a lot done in that time.

I will not write a daily log as this will be very repetitive. I rather spend my time building this boat.

I do know one thing the nails and splitting axes will come in very handy.

Shipwright

Genre: Sleaze Rock - Glam Metal fusion
Length: 5:47

A human pilot swaggering through the outer colonies catches the attention of a terrifyingly beautiful alien queen.

Against the advice of literally everyone around him…
he accepts her invitation.

This is just silly

   Inspector Vane adjusted the collar of his crisp, regulation coat and smoothed down his data pad. He was a man who lived by the book, respected by the sector for his unyielding competence. But right now, his heart was thumping against his ribs like a malfunctioning warp drive.

  He tapped the comms channel for the Silent Runner.

  "This is Inspector Vane requesting permission to dock for... official business with Captain Ssark."

  The holoprojector on his console flared to life, and the avatar of an energetic young woman appeared, her hands on her hips, chewing on a piece of holographic gum.

  "Oh, great. You," Amara sighed, rolling her eyes so hard Vane wondered if her processors would lag. "Nico is busy doing Captain stuff, Myra is reorganizing the armory without letting me shoot anything, and Ayda is currently shedding on the bridge couch. We’re closed. Go investigate a space rock, Vane."

  Vane cleared his throat, maintaining his best poker face. "Actually, Amara, my business today is primarily with you."

  Amara’s eyes lit up with dangerous glee. "Did someone smuggle illegal plasma explosives onto my deck? Are we under attack? Tell me I get to vent someone into the vacuum of space! Please!"

"No," Vane said firmly. "I am here to declare myself as your suitor."

Amara blinked. The holographic gum popped. "...Excuse me?"

Ten minutes later, Vane was standing in the Silent Runner's main briefing room. Captain Nico     Ssark sat at the head of the table, looking highly amused. Beside him, Kar'Tock, the alien medic, was aggressively typing into a medical scanner, while Ayda the feline humanoid lazily flicked her tail, watching Vane like a mouse.

  "Let me get this straight, Inspector," Nico said, leaning back. "You came all the way to this sector to court my ship's AI?"

  "Correct, Captain," Vane said, standing at absolute attention. "According to Sector Protocol 9-B, a sentient AI possesses individual rights, including the right to be courted. I have brought gifts."

  Vane placed a high-grade, military-spec cooling core and a data-drive containing the encrypted security footage of a notorious pirate cartel bust on the table.

  Amara’s avatar materialized right on top of the briefing table, kicking the cooling core with her boot. "A cooling core? What, do you think my processors are overheating because of your dashing looks? Amateur." But her eyes locked onto the data-drive. "Wait... is that the bust on Sector 4? The one where three dreadnoughts blew up?"

  "Yes," Vane said smoothly. "Uncensored. Raw thermal data. You can see the explosions from three different angles."

  Amara gasped, clutching her chest. "Oh, you magnificent, bureaucratic nerd."

  "Hold on," First Officer Myra said, walking into the room with a stack of data pads. "If Vane is courting Amara, does that mean he has to take her out? How does one take a starship on a date?"

  "I have reserved a flight path through the Orion Nebula's ion storms," Vane explained, completely serious. "It requires high-intensity maneuvering. It is considered very romantic for propulsion systems."

  Amara crossed her arms, a playful, aggressive smirk spreading across her face. "An ion storm? You think I can't handle a little turbulence, Inspector? I'll tear through that nebula so fast your crisp little uniform will wrinkle. You're on."

  The date was going spectacularly well by Amara’s standards. Vane sat in the co-pilot's chair, perfectly calm, while Amara cackled over the comms, pushing her engines to 110% as she violently dodged plasma bursts inside the glowing nebula.

"Are you scared yet, Vane?!" she shouted through the cockpit speakers. "I could drop the shields right now! Just a little bit! For the thrill!"

  "I trust your defensive capabilities implicitly, Amara," Vane said, adjusting his glasses.

  Suddenly, the proximity alarms wailed. A massive, jagged black ship dropped out of cloak right in front of them—a Draymorer dreadnought.

  "A trap!" Vane stood up, drawing his blaster. "They must have tracked my shuttle to ambush us!"

  "An ambush?!" Amara’s avatar appeared on the console, her eyes wide with absolute, ecstatic fury. "They dared to cloak in my nebula? On my date?!"

  "Amara, charge the main cannons, I will coordinate with Nico—"

  "Oh, no you don't!" Amara snapped, her avatar pointing aggressively at Vane. "You sit your uniform-wearing butt down right now! Last month, Nico and Kar'Tock got into a bar fight and I only got to watch through the security cameras! Last week, Ayda fought off space pirates in the cargo bay and I was stuck stabilizing the artificial gravity! I am not being left out of the violence today!"

  Before Vane could reply, Amara took complete control. She didn't just fire the main cannons; she used the ship's tractor beam to grab a massive, volatile ion asteroid and violently hurled it directly into the dreadnought's shield generator.

  The explosion was spectacular, lighting up the nebula in a brilliant cascade of green and purple fire. The enemy ship spun out of control, completely disabled in seconds.

  Amara let out a victorious, chaotic laugh over the speakers. "Ha! Take that, you garbage-scooping losers!"

  The Silent Runner returned to the safety of planetary orbit. Vane stepped off the ramp onto his shuttle, his uniform slightly singed from a minor console overload, but his posture remained perfectly straight.

Amara’s avatar flickered into view on a bulkhead projector near the docking bay.

  "Well, Inspector," she said, leaning against the painted wall of the corridor, looking remarkably pleased with herself. "You survived. And you didn't even throw up when I did that 360-degree barrel roll through the debris."

  "It was highly efficient tactical maneuvering," Vane said, offering a rare, genuine smile. "And your trajectory calculations were flawless. I look forward to our next date."

  Amara scoffed, though a slight pink hue programmed into her cheeks gave her away. "Don't get cocky, Vane. But... if you happen to find any more classified footage of planetary defense grids blowing up... you know where to find me."

  From the top of the ramp, Nico, Ayda, and Kar'Tock watched them.

  "I give it three months before he accidentally proposes by filing a marriage license in triplicate," Myra whispered.

"Five credits says Amara blows up his transport shuttle just to see him dive for cover," Ayda countered, purring in amusement.

Kar'Tock simply nodded. "They are perfect for each other."

https://preview.redd.it/pnvi4a8chaah1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=4c2b0415867319a7b7e86c21234f07d9f0435b77

Ranchers Post 1

We all woke this morning. We harnessed 1 horse to pull logs which were stacked on the side of the road. The plan is tying the chain to logs or trees and drag them out using the horse.

The Hunters and Ykantiare heading to get more sheep. Two people are dividing the sheep field into two. The got big scissors and will start gathering the sheep wool once cut.

Training the new Ranchers as been entertaining. They are learning how to break horses first.

The plan is train them for 2 days and relax and take a few days off.

Sheep look riculous looking when sheered using scissors.

We built a small area and planted apple tree seeds. Once they start growing we will create an orchard by transplanting them there.

The ladies started a small garden near the Pod. This will take time to grow.

End of Ranchers Post 1

Hunters Post 1

Because of the bear encounter yesterday we decided to go back with the Ykanti today.

Wendy horse pulling the Wagon with her driving. Frank and I riding behind with Killer running beside us until he gets tired then jumps up on the wagon. The Ykanti are leading the way.

Once we got to the trap Killer jumped off the Wagon and started barking at the Post.

Frank, Wendy and I jumped off our horses to check what Killer was barking at. Beside the opening to the trap was a bunch of fish and a bee hive had been stacked there.

We looked at each other and I noticed the tracks first. Mammoth bear and her kids left us a gift. We decided to cover them and grab them on our return.

We found the sheep again but this time us Hunters acted as sentries. In the 4 hours we were there many sheep got bagged.

At noon we returned to the Ranch and deposited our new sheep and surprising the Ranchers with the river fish and Sounds full of honey.

We left a bag of apples hanging from the trap Post where the fish was deposited.

End of Hunters Post 1

Rancher Part 1

Last night the first Wagon arrived from the road leading to the trap.

The Ykanti were back. The driver and a bunch of gear. Got a bunch of bradles and one harness.

We also were very happy to get buffalo meat and a bunch of fruits and vegetables.

Went to bed early and woke up this morning. Made sure the sheep were watered and taken care of.

I chose my favorite horse and guided him around for half an hour. Then put the bridle and harness on him and got him use to these new things getting him use to them guiding him.

The driver joined us and adjusted everything to the horse. Eventually he guided the horse to the Wagon and connected him to the wagon.

The Mechanic checked everything on the Wagon making sure everything was secure.

The Driver, mechanic and Ykanti left for the prairie via the trap and see if they could catch more sheep.

I went back to training the horses. My assistants help me put bridles on a horse. Now knowing how to do it I let them put bridles on broken horses. Still not trained but getting there and broken from their wild side.

End of Rancher Part 1

Driver Part 1

Different horse but reacts pretty good to my directions. The road through the woods is still rough. Still pretty good getting through the woods.

The Ykanti ran beside the Wagon. Once in the prairie we headed toward the area they caught sheep before. They indicated for us to stay behind a small hill and we waited.

Laying on the top of the hill we observe the Ykanti catching the first 6 sheep and brought them to us. The bags were put in the back of the Wagon.

We played on the top of the hill again watching them chase down 6 more. Suddenly a large sound came from behind us. My mind was protesting when we looked back. Not that a huge bear was behind us growling. The part that messed with my brain was the clothing he was wearing. Ok not quite clothing but furs.

We scramble upright and started running toward the Ykanti. Suddenly the growls stopped and the sound of the bear falling.

We looked back and saw the 3 Hunters looking over the bear on the ground. We stopped and headed back. Gary was tying up the bear using probably more rope than needed.

"Did you kill it?" I asked.

Gary answered "Don't know yet." Showing the dart gun "One dart brought him or her down. Might kill him. We need to observe."

We moved the sheep tying them to horses and Ykanti would carry the sheep. With some prayers all of us lifted the tied bear and put it in the Wagon. The Wagon groaned but held.

We headed back to the trap with 12 sheep and 1 bear thing.

We went to the Ranch. The Ykanti dropped off the sheep in the sheep paddock and tied the bear security to the Pod.

End of Driver Part 1

Hunters Part 1

We left the orchard early morning. We headed to the entrance to road to Fort. We found a bunch of workers there. A new hitching post had been built so we tied our horses and watered them talking to workers. A new cabin had been started.

We found out the Ykanti had gone through here the day before to hunt sheep.

Half an hour later we were heading north. About half hour from where we hunted sheep before. Sure enough the Ykanti were heading to the heard the Wagon on the other side of a hill. Two bodies laying or siting on the hill observing.

"Bear" I spotted him through my scope. Frank said "Confirm but is he wearing other animals furs?" I confirmed it knowing this was strange.

We did not want to kill this creature not knowing if he was aggressive so decided to shoot at him with a dart which would knock it out or kill them. We would use laser rifles as last option.

We rode hard for 15 minutes then while Wendy watch the horses Frank and I snuck up.

We arrived just in time when the bear thing growled and stood to his full height.

I fired a dart. The bear looked back and dropped. When we checked it was sleeping so tied it up.

We were met by the others and decided on a plan. We moved the sheep from the Wagon and tied the bear thing.

Put sheep away while a sentry was organized on the tied up bear against the Pod still sleeping.

End of Hunters Part 1

Ranch Part 2

All went well with the training today. The horses don't mind the bridles and some harness.

The Ykanti and wagon came back early. The hunters just arrived with jeep on the back of their horses. Our ranchers and volunteers grab the sheep and brought them to their field. Untied their legs and released them. The Ykanti brought the ones they were carrying and released them.

To my shock there is what looks like a bear in the wagon also tied up. It was dressed in skins or furs. They put 3 guards to watch him. Rolled him off the wagon taking many hands. They tied the bear to the Pod.

The hunters explained using the darts. They brought the horses to the trained paddock and unsadled them.

We got a bowl of food and water and put it in reaching distance of the bear.

Wendy handed multiple bags of apples explaining the Orchard and seeds the brought.

About 5pm new Ranchers, helpers and security arrived on foot from the Mine. They are here to be trained from us so we can switch vacation time back and forth.

With double the workers we will keep working on the house tomorrow at a faster pace.

One of the hunters are observing in turn at the bear at a distance.

Wendy noticed it first. This is a female probably with children. She was worried about the babies.

The bear woke up about an hour later and started pacing not in an aggressive way.

She screamed pointing at the baby sheep we had caught. After a long discussion we decided that we could not keep the bear here.

We got the horse back pulling the Wagon. We sadled our horses and firing one laser to demonstrate to the bear we guided the bear to sit in the wagon.

The Driver terrified to have a bear behind him was replaced by Wendy driving and Gary and Frank following behind with weapons ready.

Ranch Part 2 End

Hunters Part 2

Ykanti joined us also with laser rifles. Two in front leading the way. 2 Ykanti on either side. Frank and I following.

The bear looked very confused in the forest but not aggressive. By the time we reached the trap the sun was going down.

We stopped the Wagon just past the trap. We took the bear down from the wagon. We walked her to the wagon trail and pointed in the direction where the sheep are. Pointed at the trail and said "follow the trail." Pointing again with everybody behind and either side of the bear I cut the ropes and said "GO TO CHILDREN" and pointed again.

The Bear looked confused and cautiously started moving in the direction I pointed.

Once the bear saw everybody distressing she started moving faster until her speed at full run was pretty good.

We watched the bear get further and further and then headed back to the Ranch.

We set up a double watch and went to bed after eating and cooling off our horses for a second time.

End of Hunters 2

this isn't a personal attack, or a harassment campaign, just a small thing I notice that really grinds my gears, is there are some stories that just boil down to "Humanity has a super-advanced piece of technology that they somehow made in secret long ago" and it really just GRINDS MY GEARS, like I get it, the genre is about Humanity "conquering the odds" and "arriving victorious", but if you need to pull out a Deus Ex Machina to do so, then go back to the drawing board, having a "I win you lose" card for humanity, makes their victory seem less...rewarding, like if you go into it knowing that the main plot point is "oh yeah the humans have a planet-splitting weapon" it feels less cool when the they win, I prefer the suspense, like the slow realization that the Aliens lack a super-weapon like Nukes...or railguns, or the aliens losing a battle because their ego caused them to underestimate humanity's grit and resolve...listen, I get why there are folks who'd like that, I get it, this is not an attack, but it's not my cup of tea...

Pretty good morning except V was acting strange. As we were waking up she looked upset. I asked her if everything was OK. She said everything was fine but looked sad.

James served us breakfast and many miners were gathered with us for breakfast. One of the Miners Wives stood up to speak.

"V since knowing you you have been very supportive for all of us. Counseling us when worried about missing family or grieving a death.

We got together with the Jewely Maker and he made a gift for us to give you."

She approached her reaching into her pocket.

"Nothing is confirmed yet but all the signs are there of you being pregnant."

Showing V and the rest of us was a pendant made of Gold with the letter V with a tree of silver between the two lines of the V in the middle of the letter.

"From all at the mine we thank you for all the support." and placed the pendant around her neck.

V stood and started crying then to my surprise being Noble V started giving hugs to everybody.

"We will visit I promise. I will miss you folks so much."

I would have never guessed it V had been sad because they were leaving today.

The driver got the harness on the horse and hooked the wagon to the horse. A guard rode the Wagon as shotgun. A Mechanic will ride along in case anything breaks.

The Ykanti will be running beside the Wagon. They left with tope and bags saying something about catching sheep.

A group of volunteers are finishing the outside cladding of the clinic.

The smiths handed 1 spare harness and a bunch of the spare bridles to give to the Ranchers.

A chunk of meat was made of wood with straw as insulation. Enough for the Ranchers and those that will join them this morning a load of fresh vegetable and fruit was placed in the back also.

The Road East from the Fort will be fully tested for the first time. If all goes well they will be in the Prairie and go north following the edge of the woods to the Trap and West to the Ranch.

The Miners left North towards the Mine via Pod 3 on foot. V hugged all leaving at the North Fence. Jaw still dropped but realized she sees the big vision that we are all survivors.

Funny seeing the farmers on their days off still manage to do some farming until told to rest.

Two wheels have been completed for Wagon 2 this week. The 2nd mechanic is helping build wheels with assistants.

Wagon 2 as mentioned will have 4 wheels. The two front wheel on a movable axle. They are testing with Ragnar and JW help how to make this front turning axle.

All back to normal here and back to routine of V doctor appointments and massages. Big difference is V is insisting we ride up to the Ranch, Mine and Farm soon and see the progress.

John Richman

We took off this morning up the road where we ended yesterday.

Our Woodsman and Volunteers divided in two groups. Half started here while the other half went to prairie entrance and worked back from there.

All Maple trees needing cutting are being brought to the Prairie or stacked beside the trail and will be brought later. Because how maples grow less trees needed cutting.

Many Maple Saplings were dug up and replanted near the prairie entrance. A hitching Post went up at the entrance and workers started working at a first cabin for those travelling through here.

An hour after we started working the Ykanti and Wagon joined up with us. The Wagon guided by Ykanti are taking the easiest path through the woods. The Ykanti adjusted the markers indicating the easiest path. They moved any dead trees to the side.

If dead trees had fallen accross the Wagon path the Woodsman would chop each end of the tree and the log moved to the side.

Both Woodsman teams met up by 2pm and the Wagon reached the prairie about that time and rode North towards the trap.

We set up an overnight camp in the woods near the entrance. We started a fire and warmed our food. Set up sentries and rested for the night.

The plan for tomorrow is clearing the path again from prairie to Fort.

The Woodsman will work on the Cabin here and a fence at either end of the Maple orchard to hopefully divert the buffalo is they come from North or South.

We marked 4 large maples on the edge of the forest. We will build a high observation platform from these 4 trees starting tomorrow. This will be a high tree house.

We will be collecting the wood that was stacked on either side of the road and stack them beside the start of the Cabin being built.

Woodsman Rep

Woke up before sunrise not being able to sleep anymore.

Wendy last on watch had a fire going and using a portable frying pan was cooking breakfast for us.

Killer was sleeping on Frank's feet. Only been just over a month. In that time our little killer doubled in size. No longer the runt.

We waited until sunrise put out the fire and walked until we got to we ended marking yesterday walking our sailed horses behind us. Killer walking like he owned the woods.

It took 3 hours of marking. We mounted our horses and rode to the opening. Instead of going left we rode right to explore.

We stopped around noon at a stream that crossed their path. They let the horses drink and cooled them off.

When we came accross a forest of apple trees we stopped for the night. Wendy went to pee and suddenly squealed. We rushed over. In front of her was another seeding pod. The list in this one was pear and apple seeds.

Half the dispensers were empty while the other half still held viles of seeds in liquid that preserved them.

No power on this one. We packed up as many of the seed viles in liquid as soon as we learned to release them from the dispenser.

We filled up with buffalo jersey and apples. These apples grew fast and had ripe red apples.

Wendy filled 4 bags with apples at least. When Frank and I stared at her... "What??? It is for the horses.." we laughed.

We decided tomorrow to go to the Ranch. Drop off the apples and see what needs fixed on the path from the trap to Ranch. Then head back to the entrance East of Pod 1 or to the Mine

Wendy took the first watch. Frank the 2nd and I would take the last. Killer nose and ears were on watch all night.

Gary Hunter

A small fire would burn all night.

Woke up this morning to eggs and steak. V had w2 plates full. V went straight to her massage and doctor check up.

With that many people working on the two wheel wagon. The Leathersmith finished the 4th horse harness etc. Wendy and him figured out how to secure everything and the driver with Wendy got to training.

Gary and Frank started marking the trail from the Fort to the Prairie East. Woodsman decided to go back to work today cutting behind them. Volunteers are grabbing those logs and stacking them just outside on the North Side. The first stable is being worked on and plans for 2 more at least began.

The Ykanti are busy building another of their buildings having completed our house. This one will be a clinic. This will free the present as housing.

The glassblower is training the other artist. Using a small glass vial Ragnar made a lid finishing in a small needle. They presented me with 5 small darts. The vial contained some of the frogs dangerous juices. Using a long tube they made a dart gun to put to sleep animal if all goes well. Kill the animal if it goes wrong. A small dog of bees wax was put on the tip of the needle to keep juices in.

At the end of the day when the hunters returned from marking the trail I will give it to them.

The Miners are enjoying their time off. They will return to the Mine in two days. Seamus told me they will start rotating then.

The Noble named Force and the commoner in charge of the farmers approached me. They explained their rotation plan. Their rotation seemed to be best. Those that were just relieved would be on vacation for 5 days. 5 would be sent to the mine to plant their new garden in 3 days.

The hunting couple are taken a few days off then will be going to the mine also to hunt for them.

The fisherman, Shipwright and workers left for Pod 6 this morning. They carried a chunk of meat to the farm dropping it off on the way to Pod 6.

Caught my little squirrel eating one square of chocolates under her tree. I laughed. "How many of those do you have left?" She responded "3 more squares so 3 more days."

When Gary and Frank came back at the end of the day. Their quick movement occurred because they had marked the path before. The path was marked until the forest changed from soft wood to the Maple forest.

The soft wood grew high and thick. Tomorrow the path through the maple forest would start tomorrow. This forest was no as dense as the evergreens. For this reason he asked for a team to transplant saplings and smaller tree on the edge of the prairie.

John Richman

The Leathersmiths, JW and Ragnar gifted us with 3 saddles today. Buffalo skins tacked on to a wooden sadle frame.

We went to our 3 horses and adjusted the sadles to them and the foot stirrups to our leg length. We rode our horses North for about an hour letting the horse get use to the sadle and us not bare backing the horses.

When we got back driver one had the harness and Wagon tied to him. He was coming out of the woods with a load of logs.

Wendy change the sadlefor the pulling harness and continued training driver 2. Ragnar and his assistants had made a pulling chain and the started pulling almost full trees out of the woods.

Volunteers started pulling small trees aka saplings out and wrapping the roots in rags. We grabbed as many as we could when riding past where the maples had been gathered. We planted them in 4 rows on either side of the exit into the prairie. In ten years we should have two nice rows of maples at the entrance.

We rode our horses slowly back towards the West end of the trail marking this end of the trail.

The bee keeper met with Wendy and Wendy was used to carry the completed bee hive to the farm. An Ykanti followed her horse to the farm at a good pace. The Ykanti carried the bee hive on a backpack chair.

When she got to the farm they installed the beehive farthest from the farm. They put the Queen Bee in her space and headed back to the Fort.

She grabbed her gear and ours and started riding down the path eventually gathering with us.

By sunset we were setting up camp on the path. We removed the sadles and bridles and watered our horses. We walked them in the prairie and let them eat. We loosely tied the horses. Set up sentries and went to bed.

Gary Hunter

Wendy kept training driver 1 and two. The bridle worked great and only a few modifications had to be made for the harness. By midday driver 1 was pulling the simple wagon from the path East to the wood stacking spot. He got plenty of hands on training today as Wendy started training driver 2.

Frank and I started marking the easiest path to turn into a road. The path we had marked before was great for foot travel. Not so good for Wagons. For this reason we modified a bit of the original path.

We marked as far as where the forest changed to maples and called it a day heading back.

Discovered a bee hive on our mission. The second bee hive was completed today somehow so the Queen Bee will be moved tomorrow to it.

By tomorrow night we should have the path completely marked. We might sleep near the prairie overnight and return to Fort the next day.

For tonight we wash and go for rest.

John Richman

Woke up and when I looked up I realized the Ykanti had already started on our roof. We slept in our incomplet house last night.

We did our morning needs and saw James burying all the buffalo. Some of it slow cooking into buffalo Jerky.

Any left over meat will be preserved and what does not remain with us will go to the Mine, Ranch and Farm

Some pure silver is made into buckles and hoops etc for the Bridles. Leathersmith, his wife and assistants are modifying the Bridles then measured the horses for pulling harnesses.

JW is making bases for saddles. Tomorrow the Leathersmith will work on the sadles.

Woodsman are playing axe throwing games and chopping ones. Glad they are enjoying their days off.

The Glass Bower as been making jars. Soon we will hopefully have honey to munch on.

The Wagon is getting lots of attention. The aids are assembling it pretty fast. The plan is for the Leathersmiths will be working on a pulling harness for the 4th horse.

The Hunters are taking care of their horses and one of the drivers is taking care of the 4th bonding with it.

Wendy taught all 3 men how to direct a horse from a wagon simply walking behind the fourth horse guiding it. They spent hours today guiding the horses switching the harness between the horses.

Even tho the hunters horses would be used mostly for riding Wendy wanted to also train them to pull things.

Late in the afternoon call came out that the Miners were coming. Sent a group to meet up with them. Looking tired from the journey they still seemed very happy to be at the Fort.

They handed the bars to the chemist for final separation of minerals.

They dropped off tools needing repairs to JW and other smiths and dropped off their gear.

Miners went swimming and were coming out of the water when farmers from Pod 2 were arriving.

The Feast was a great hit. V managed to keep everything down. At the end of the feast waitresses put the food in the cooling room.

No big speech tonight. Just advised everybody we would have a meeting the next day

We enjoyed the comeraderie and music until late then went to bed.

John Richman