Moncilat Prime, Exquisite Jade City

Reilly and Edwards were in character until the moment the door closed on their shared palatial suite. Then the two of them softly groaned.

"I hate pretending to be like that. Stuck up, acting like this is my universe and everyone else just lives in it. The only thing that was good about today was the M5 show. Though I think half the Moncis had kittens when they saw the flaming hoops." Reilly walked into the bathroom and changed, coming out in a pair of 7th Cav sweatpants and an undersized Legion t-shirt. "But the rest of that bullshit? Reminds me too much of growing up."

Edwards smirked, having changed her own clothes into something more comfortable. "Just think, it coulda actually been your life."

"I'd rather not. This is ten times more fun then pretending I care about whether the canapés are organic or if the Terran Historical Association has selected a proper representative this year."

"Forget that then. But would someone please tell me what this planet has against straight lines? Like even the floor's curved."

"Oh that? It's a conveyance of artistic energy, softening and guiding the viewer toward the focal point of the composition. In this case, the doors and the bedroom."

Edwards stopped short. "Seriously?"

Reilly waved a hand. "Yeah - you grow up in Anchiano Colony and you learn all kinds of useless art facts."

"Well, if you have any other useless information, lemme know." Edwards sat down with her tablet, flicking a few controls and entering codes before she started reading. "Good news, nobody from the Legion's gone missing. Bad news is, everyone we tagged as a potential problem has gone missing. Except for our guests in the other room."

"The comm frequencies we tagged as theirs are dead." Reilly glanced over at Edwards. "I'm gonna burst to Rosie. See if they've got anything." There was a long pause, then a longer pause as Reilly frowned at her tablet. "What the hell. They're supposed to be in low sync orbit, it's taking way too long to...Oh. Oh shit." Reilly looked up, her face ashen. "Get your tablet and bring your fat ass to the bathroom." Without waiting to make sure Edwards was following, Reilly bolted for the bathroom and jumped into the polished jade granite tub and started forcing herself to breathe slowly.

To her credit, Edwards simply grabbed her tablet and started flipping through screens, her own face paling as she followed Reilly to what was the thinnest sliver of hope they had for survival in the event that whatever the Legion ships had in store weren't enough. The two sat, watching their tablets with only their breathing preventing the room from achieving absolute silence. Finally Edwards spoke.

"You tell everyone?"

Reilly flicked a nod. "They're as safe as they can be."

"Those trajectories. These meteoroids are not doing natural de-orbits, they're guided." Edwards paused, looking up at Reilly. "We're in a bad movie right now, you know that?"

"Yeah. We need to whistle up a deep ocean oil-drilling crew and a couple oldnukes, we'd have this fixed in a jiff."

Edwards kept her eyes on her tablet, not daring to look up. "Any regrets?"

"Not pissing on the front door when I left my parents' place. Thought about doing it, but I couldn't. Didn't drink enough water that night I guess."

"C'mon, really."

Reilly cleared her throat before glancing around the room, hesitating. "Pinky-promise?"

Edwards looked up from her screen with soft eyes. "Pinky-promise."

"I never said the L-word to Lomeia."

"She knows you do. She told me when you look at her, you smell like the Grizzly does when he's looking at his family." Edwards paused, looking at her tablet. "Legion's maneuvering."

"And Rosie's in a mood." Reilly had a smile ghost across her face as she listened. "Your turn."

"Not enough naked Skyrim with Andrighetto."

"Come on."

"Well, he's probably not Mister Right, but as far as a Mister Right-Now...he's not bad."

"And for real?"

"That I didn't jump for OCS. Didn't want my parents saluting me at formal occasions. Felt wrong somehow."

"Fair enough. Your folks'd be proud to salute their daughter though. Maybe." Reilly looked back to her tablet and listened to her earpiece. Finally after a long moment, she relaxed. "Holy fuck. Holy fuck they did it." There was a pause and a too-loud laugh as imminent death became a memory. "And Orbital Control is having a conniption. I'll sound the all-clear and remind 'em not to look too relieved."

Edwards stood, smiling broadly but shivering from some unknown cold. "We're gonna. We're gonna live."

"Yeah. And...now I've got some questions for our guests." Reilly's voice hardened a bit. "Grab the Motivator."

Edwards went to her luggage, pulling out a device that looked not unlike a short cattle prod. She joined Reilly, who had a large set of electric shears in her hand. Together they opened the door to the adjoining suite and went into the other opulent bathroom where four bound Hurdop sat waist deep in an ice bath.

Reilly took the lead. "Well. I'm glad to see nobody's left. Now as I suppose you've gathered, we have questions. The first question is simple. Have any of you ever read the works of Lord A'Shanyu? Fancied himself quite the warrior-poet from what I understand..."

Edwards closed the door as Reilly flicked the electric shears on, filling the bathroom with a high-pitched buzz.

___________

Terran Foreign Legion Ship Twilight Rose

Gryzzk stared at the blank canvas and the dollops of paint on the clear palette, and then back over to the brushes. He was supposed to paint something. Anything. For the life of him, he had no idea what to do next. He sat there for long minutes as the canvas mocked him by existing unpainted.

"Freelord Major, I have a few archived painting tutorials from Terra. I think perhaps one of them might help."

"I suppose it couldn't be any worse."

Gryzzk's desk-holo lit up, showing a lanky Terran with what could only be described as large hair and full beard, who spoke in a calm even tone and talked about what a joy it was to be able to paint. He progressed through with measured brush strokes that made a background, and then what he called 'an old cabin, it's had a hard life' surrounded by little trees, and then a happy accident of some kind was folded into the work. To Gryzzk it seemed an amazing thing to see blurs become a Terran field with a mountain in the background in such a short timespan.

He tried reproducing a Vilantian dawn in the prescribed style, making a purple and red background, with the dark sky fleeing before the light of the sun. Then he had a thought and had the printer make a tea with the Throne's Dawn flower. He kept working, quietly trying to imagine himself as the First Throne, looking over the sunrise, and then adding a single Throne's Dawn flower as the centerpiece. He kept painting and repainting, finally taking a step back.

It was hideous.

Gryzzk flung the canvas aside and began anew, his frustration at the absolute silliness making him attack the canvas more than paint on it. His anger at his own attempts to be what these fools wanted him to be. If they wanted anger, he would give them channeled rage. The Throne's Dawn was still going to be the centerpiece, the laurel of a war well-won in protection of others. The background was more red than purple, the greens jarring, and the spots on the leaves were a sharp white blood on a verdant shield rather than a true representation of the flower's leaves. Finally, he stepped back, daring the painting to say anything. He set his brush in the washing cup and took a long drink of tea.

Except that he'd mixed up the cups and took a healthy swig of paint-water. He blew the water out in the sink and groaned in frustration before taking the tea-soaked brush and giving it a last brush-stroke across the canvas. As the scent hit his nose there was a moment of clarity as the painting seemed to gather a new life with the scent of the tea. This was the happy accident he'd heard about. The scented brush gave the whole painting a final sheen of something that was pleasing to Gryzzk. No doubt whoever looked at it would think it barely a step above the barbaric works of the ancients from before the Great Civilization. Perhaps that was the point. He was a servant turned leader, and his charges were a horde of small angry louts who desired nothing more than to drink, fight, and mate - occasionally in that order.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He took to his bed feeling strangely relaxed. Perhaps there was something to this hobby thing after all. Certainly not painting, but non-work activities as a whole.

With the morning came a deep shuddering breath. Gryzzk stood and looked at the painting, still catching a faint scent of tea from the canvas before he took it to the bridge.

Hoban was at his station early - apparently his self-inflicted penance for his tardiness the other day. "Morning Major. Taking up painting for a hobby?"

Gryzzk shook his head. "No. Painting was considered frivolous when I grew up. Despite the recent events, I have not yet shaken that idea."

"You'll find something." Hoban glanced back at his console. "FYI, Orbital Control still hasn't officially forgiven us. Unofficially, they're reviewing an apparent anomaly in their sensor logs that prevented them from even detecting the incoming objects."

"I am unsurprised. They have seventy million reasons to forgive us, according to Rosie."

Rosie breezed onto the bridge, looking far happier. "That might be my fault, Freelord Major - my warning was apparently crudely phrased. The Moncilat appear to have delicate sensibilities, even after I spent the night pointing out the required action clauses in our contract which absolve the Legion of any physical, emotional, or sociological liability for actions taken in defense of ourselves and our contract. Fortunately our employers were quite willing to agree to the hazardous duty bonuses, particularly after their casualty estimates exceeded mine. Collective-standard gravity appears to have left them vulnerable to certain effects that would be caused by meteor strikes."

"What was their estimate?"

"Ninety million immediately dead, with another forty-five million dead or permanently injured in the aftermath."

Gryzzk let out a low whistle. "Well, I suppose in the face of such things I should deliver my apology for saving so many lives. XO, signal Orbital Control that they may send a shuttle to receive my apology at their earliest convenience. And warn them that we have returned the ship gravity to our standard, not theirs. They should prepare appropriately. Let me know when they arrive, I'm going to breakfast."

It seemed somewhat fortunate, but Gryzzk was early in the chow line for his usual Vilantian porridge and Earl Grey tea and started mentally going through his day. First, confirm status regarding their primary objective was concluded. Assuming it was, he was going to have to bring everyone back and give them a light day or two in order to re-acclimate to proper gravity. Then he was going to need to figure out how to find the Throne's Fortune base (or bases) and convince them to find a new line of work - permanently. If it wasn't, that was going to be a new obstacle.

It seemed simple enough in his head. But the reality was probably going to be vastly different.

He took a deliberately easy pace with eating, looking over the usual ripple of reports as prepared by the departments. If the troops saw him harried or hurried, such emotions might cause them concern - and that was not his job. It seemed like Rosie knew it as well, as her bridge report of late had also included an element of humor or jokes she'd heard among the various departments. Not all of the jokes were polite. Or good. Today's joke was in that vein - "What's the difference between Sergeant Reilly and Chief Tucker? - Chief doesn't have to clean fur from his tongue every morning."

It was enough to put a smile in his scent as he headed back to the bridge, tea in hand.

The bridge had a mildly amused scent as he walked in, with O'Brien glancing back. "Major. The art critics are about five minutes out. Per tradition, if it's deemed crap they'll leave it with us so as not to pollute the installation with that which is 'gauche'. Prissy bastards. XO's being sneaky and specifically requested Leafborn to be the recipient. "

"To what purpose, XO?"

Rosie shrugged. "I was able to decrypt Captain Hoban's previous conversations with Miroka, and I listened in last night. I'm about eighty percent sure she's not intentionally pumping him for information. The last twenty percent is because the transmissions all had disabled scent-markers. Terran noses are mostly crap compared to ours so why bother, y'know? Just wasted bandwidth."

"Fair enough. Do we know whom we will be receiving for the handover?"

"Captain Dulaine, Pilot Miroka, and one of their communications staff - Yomios. Apparently their comms team are also the lead art critics."

"Oh joy. I get to to scent their reactions in real time." Gryzzk sighed softly, lifting the painting casually. "We'll do the handover in the conference room. Tell them to dock at the forward hatch. XO, make sure any recordings are at maximum fidelity. Just in case that twenty percent becomes a hundred."

"Can do." Rosie canted her head upward in acknowledgment.

There was a gentle thump against the ship's docking ring, causing Hoban to frown. "Something's off if Miroka's driving."

"With me, Captain. And on the way, explain."

"Oh, easy - she had about three feet per second too much delta-v with that docking. I mean I adjusted for it, but still. Last time it was four inches per second." Hoban made the necessary commands to delegate further control to Rosie before they made their way to the forward docking hatch.

The hatch hissed open, and the Moncilat were again there in their uniforms that appeared to have all the colors in existence. They moved stiffly as they boarded, with each of them stumbling a bit as their weight more than doubled as they crossed the threshold. Gryzzk could scent anxiety and metal - it seemed as though they were wearing braces of some sort under their uniforms. They all walked slowly to the conference room, with Miroka leaning on Hoban quite a bit. Gryzzk took a slow breath, but couldn't note any sort of duplicitous intent from Miroka. What he could catch of their collective scent was a resolute determination in the face of some unknown thing. Yomios seemed very displeased to be here; whether it was the gravity, the low ceiling, or some other malady Gryzzk wasn't sure, and he really didn't have time for deep inquiry.

The conference room had been dialed to Terran standard, which helped a bit, along with various finger-foods for the Moncilat to take their mind off the crushing sensations throughout their bodies. With the painting simply sitting on the easel, Gryzzk made a slight gesture to it as he explained. "This is...a representation of a flower that represents good fortune on my homeworld. The leaves are naturally dotted with white, and legend has it that they became that way after our first planetary sovereign wept over them after the war that unified our planet. I must confess that I have not painted anything since I was a very young child, so that is the skill you are observing."

Miroka leaned more into Hoban as Yomios appeared to force herself to the easel before speaking, her scent becoming...complicated, as if she were feeling something she didn't want to. "Crude use of shading...barbaric line strokes. Even the subject itself is an ode to war." Yomios began moving the back of her hand over the canvas, closing her eyes and then shuddering for a moment as her fur caressed the work. "Anger. So much anger here. This canvas was not painted, it was assaulted. Each bristle leaving a furrow of color." She withdrew her hand and leaned forward slightly, pausing at something before moving her face close to the canvas and inhaling. She flinched back in surprise at the result, pausing her inspection to take a nibble at a fruit dish. "The wash is a calming counterpoint of complexity." Yomios moved, examining the work from several angles before speaking again. "There is...there is surprising depth in this. Layers of an onion. Given the events preceding it and immediate aftermath, the work is adequate." She finished her appraisal and stepped back, apparently flustered in some way.

There was a slight acknowledgment from Gryzzk - though he couldn't quite read Yomios' scent, it seemed as if her opinion had changed in some way. "With the compliments of the ship and crew then. Consider it a peace offering."

"We appreciate the results of the actions taken, and accept it in the spirit offered." Captain Dulaine's reply was measured.

"Well then. I think that it would be a positive thing if you were to retire to your own ship. As much as we appreciate your scent, we would not wish to cause you injury with an overlong discussion."

"Of course."

The group made their way to the airlock hurriedly, with the Moncilat stopping just over their side of the gravity threshold. Yomios spoke first, glancing at Captain Dulaine. "Thank you for the hospitality, Major. You have given us...several things to consider."

Miroka had a soft smile and scent as she settled to a knee and leaned down to nuzzle Hoban. While Gryzzk wasn't sure precisely what was said, the conversation took far more time than a simple 'thank you'. Finally Rosie cleared her throat.

"We do still have things to attend to, Captain Hoban."

The two paramours blinked and looked around, with Hoban biting his lip and Miroka looking a little embarrassed. "We should, ah...yeah. I'll be on the bridge to check the undock goes cleanly." Hoban all but sprinted to the bridge, leaving Gryzzk and Dulaine shaking their heads at each other in mutual recognition of what was forthcoming.

"Captain Dulaine, should I have my XO contact yours for duty roster coordination?"

"I suspect if we do not, our helms will be poorly cared for. We'll be in touch shortly."

The two commanders parted, allowing the ships to separate and Gryzzk to head for the bridge, where O'Brien was having a slightly animated discussion with Hoban.

" - your lass could wrap herself around you three times and still have the flexibility to lick any part of you still exposed."

"Okay, if you're trying to convince me this is a bad thing you are off to a crappy start."

"She's from a low-G world. She's brittle. Fragile. Your meat-and-two-veg'd break her baby barn if by some miracle you got that far, and anything that'd make you sweat'd put her in the hospital for a week."

"So what I'm hearing is 'be gentle', mostly."

O'Brien snorted. "Oi. I'll talk to you later when the brain behind your eyeballs is back in command."

Gryzzk cleared his throat. "Anything to report from the surface? Or in a decaying orbit, possibly aimed at our employers?"

Rosie spoke up. "We are coming up on the noon transmission from Reilly - our employers indicate that they have received messages from Throne's Fortune indicating that they are going to seek alternatives. According to our employer, that normally means the juice ain't worth the squeeze or it's no fun anymore, so they're shifting to another company. They consider the contract fulfilled, with payment en route as we speak. Additionally, analysis of her scent indicates Miroka is not involved in any duplicitous actions. So she's either unaware or she's a very good intelligence agent in addition to being a decent pilot."

"Good - advise Captain Rostin of his excellent work and let them know to prepare for personnel retrieval. When Reilly calls advise them to begin packing, and that they will be on medical rest for a day while their bodies re-adjust. Hoban, lock in orbit and then report to the shuttle bays to supervise launch and retrieval operations. Then start making inquiries to see if we can determine the next target of Throne's Fortune. If we're lucky, we might be able to acquire a second contract here and get paid twice."

Hoban left the bridge with a slight wave, moving energetically.

Gryzzk settled into his chair, feeling a little relaxed. The job was done, and now it was time to pack up and go home to celebrate. All this and the tea was still warm - this boded well for his mood. He'd have to consult with the doctor about the possibility of shore leave.

Rosie cleared her throat. "Freelord Major, incoming from the surface."

"On holo, please."

The image filled with Reilly's form, looking professional but distraught - in the background Gryzzk could hear Edwards attempting to threaten her scanner into providing the data she wanted and not the data she was getting.

"Major, everyone reported in as normal except for Col'un, Prumila...and Nhoot. Edwards is scanning for their comms and trackers, but nothing's coming back." Reilly swallowed, her eyes bright. "We think they've been kidnapped, sir."

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