May 26, 8057 AD

Cosmus Arts and Sciences research lab 7, formerly Trissite flagship Koh za

The silhouette of the research station is outlined only by occasional green running lights; I have to fill in most of the shape with my imagination. It'll be a while before we move out of Saturn's shadow.

"Terran Council bus number twenty-eight requesting dock," the driver says into a microphone, sounding inextricably absorbed in his boredom.

"You're all clear," a guard tells us on the intercom.

Our bus moves in closer to the disgraced bastard child of nearly every major shipyard across half the galaxy. I've seen pictures of the Koh za before; she may have been powerful, but she was ugly as sin.

The station's hangar opens, a strange patch of light in otherwise uninterrupted darkness. The driver shuts off the impulse engines and takes us inside on thrusters, landing us perfectly.

"Last stop," he says in a monotone, pulling a housekeeping magazine from God-knows-where and putting his feet up on the dashboard.

I take my briefcase and hop off the bus, followed quickly by a short Arcturan woman with a half-eaten jhala cake between her teeth. Her deformed right ear twitches as she looks around.

"Would you like me to take your pack, Kromah?" I ask her.

She nods and gratefully hands me a heavy bag, and then finishes the jhala cake. "Thanks," she says, rubbing her sore wrists. "I don't think I packed as light as I ought to have."

"No worries," I reply as I shoulder our bags. "We should have enough room."

"Mister McCalligan, a letter for you," somebody says to me as he passes.

"Just Jallir, please," I call after him.

I open the old-fashioned envelope, take one look at the message inside, and rip it apart.

"Was it Linra again?" Kromah asks me as I pocket the paper scraps.

"Yup. Let's get moving."

My mood soured somewhat by the letter, I take our things into the elevator. Kromah pushes the button for the eighth deck, and we wait.

At the fifth deck, a Lunarian telepath sidles carefully in, carrying a box of spanners. Tenth deck, please, he says, swishing his tail slowly. The Overseer wants these pronto.

Kromah pushes the requested button and the elevator continues its ascent. It's so finely-tuned I don't even notice that we're moving until it stops at deck eight.

We step off the elevator, leaving the Lunarian to deliver his spanners, and make our way down the hall.

You might be wondering what's going on. Who's the Overseer? What's Cosmus Arts and Sciences? How come we're on a research station retrofitted from a former battleship?

I hear your questions, and I'm going to answer them.

Kromah and I are members of Polaris Interpretations, one of the leading names in the fight against the Shoro. We send a bunch of people after major battles to scour the battlefield and search for Shoro technology. We can then reverse-engineer it and try to figure out what might work against it; as it stands, Shoro weapons cut through our strongest force shields like a raybeam through butter. (I would say a hot knife, but since a raybeam is absolute overkill, it works here.)

The Overseer is a special kind of law enforcement officer who attends such ventures and ensures that everybody's doing it legally. We haven't met our assigned Overseer for this project yet, but I hear Major Tom Hunter is one of the Enceledan Police Force's best men.

Cosmus Arts and Sciences started out thousands of years ago in the late 24th century as an enterprising robotics corporation founded by renowned cyberneticist Thompson Kelskey. After Kelskey's unexplained disappearance in the 2410s, they began to branch out into warp science and terraforming until they became the jacks-of-all-trades that they are today.

"Excuse me, Mister," a Stok'staa janitor says, broom in hand.

"So sorry!" I exclaim, stepping out of his way and following Kromah down the hall.

"Here's our room," she says, gesturing to a door with the number 8-29.

She opens the door -- it's a sliding entrance that makes no sound at all -- and reveals a shining, grand, utterly plain gray cabin.

Kromah whistles. "Looks like it's a good thing I packed my photos," she comments, looking around at the blank walls. "We've got some redecorating to do."

I nod in agreement and thankfully drop our luggage on the floor. "I'll check out the bedroom."

She pulls out a picture of her dozens-strong family and thinks about where to put it while I go into the next room.

It's a cute little place -- well, it will be once Kromah's done with it. It has two beds and a large nightstand between them. Each bed has a dresser near the foot, along with a computer alcove in the wall. It's completely symmetrical and pristine... just the way the Trissites liked it.

It hits me like a brick. Real people slept in those beds for months. They called this cabin their home. They lived, they laughed, and they died here less than two weeks ago.

I feel slightly sick to the stomach. This is my first deployment in Polaris Interpretations, so I haven't had a chance to become desensitized to this sort of thing. I can't stop thinking about how a recently deceased Marrissans used to sleep in this bed.

I get a hold of myself and bury the feelings. It's only natural that I'll encounter this in my line of work; I might as well get used to it.

I sit on the bed and test it. It's a little bit bouncy, but incredibly soft. Perfect for holding a full-grown Marrissans... one who died on this ship...

Stop it, Jallir. Get on with your job.

"How are the beds?" Kromah asks, entering the room with a plaque of some sort under her arm.

"They're quite comfy," I say, bouncing a bit to punctuate. I don't mention my moment of lucidity.

"Very good. I've got the bathroom looking half-decent, by the way, but may I borrow your photo of the Oriana Borealis? It matches the toilet seat cover."

"Sure, go ahead," I reply, distracted by a stray green scale in the corner. It must have flaked off one of the naval officers.

"Thanks, Jal. You're a darling."

She happily rummages through my bag until she finds the desired photograph and takes it to the loo.

My phone vibrates insistently in my pocket. I pull it out with speed rivaled only by a quick-draw professional and check it.

It's a text from the Overseer himself. Urgent evidence found. P.I. employees, meet in tenth deck central-aft engine room at 17:00. Tenth deck engine room, 17:00. Urgent evidence.

"Kromah?"

"I got it, too!" she shouts from the bathroom. "We've got half an hour. Suit up."

She takes her bag into the restroom to change into her P.I. uniform, and I move my pack from the main room to the bedroom to do the same.

I lay out the uniform on my bed and strip down before putting each item on one by one. Gray pants and shirt, with a white jacket and purple kneepads. My rose epaulets look very nice, if I do say so myself.

I fasten the final button and go out to the main room to wait for Kromah.

"I'm ready, I'm ready!" Kromah says as she hustles out of the bathroom while buttoning her cuffs.

With only ten minutes left after repacking our tablets and notes and all kinds of study implements we might need, we hurry out to the elevator.

The Lunarian we met earlier is back, this time texting on the phone in his hand. Fancy seeing you back here, he says without looking up. Are you in 8-29?

"Yep," Kromah replies, calling the elevator as we reach it. "How about you?"

8-31 next door. The High Ghartah's old quarters, I'm told. He left it quite a mess.

The elevator opens at last and we step in. The telepath hits 10 and we start going up.

The name's Kutarn. I've heard about you two -- the first Imperial officers in the ol' P.I, huh?

"That's right," I state. "You should have seen my uncle's face when I said where I wanted to work!"

We share a good chuckle over that, and then the elevator chimes to deposit us two decks higher.

The engine room is located at the end of a large antechamber, with massive pipes leading to and from it. Periodically, it emits a loud clank and a hiss from somewhere in the plumbing. The heavy bass of the warp core is audible even out here; it's being used as a secondary power generator, so the normally quiet thumping is much louder than usual.

A group of fellow tech scavengers is heading toward the engine room, so we join them and walk in.

I stop short the moment I take in the state of the room.

A gigantic, jagged hole is left in the metal wall, which seems to lead from the maintenance decks several decks down. Green caution tape has been set up around the gap, warning curious onlookers away.

A wide fuel rod on the side of the warp core is broken completely in half; it takes a lot of effort to do that, even for something like a Marrissans. The whole thing is coated with lead tape, presumably to keep in the dangerous alpha radiation emitted by the warp core's uranium reactor.

In the middle of the room stands a decapitated Shoro with its joints locked up. The owner's severed head lies at its hooves on the floor, surrounded by chunks of roasted flesh and dried yellow blood.

Somebody gags. "Why hasn't this been cleaned up!?" he exclaims.

"I can answer that," a firm and quiet voice says from behind.

We turn to see an incredibly tall Terran in an Overseer's uniform stepping into the room, his hands behind his back. His knee-high boots are exquisitely shined. His black hair is slicked back so well it might have been made of plastic. The left side of his jacket is coated with medals of recognition.

Major Tom Hunter stops in front of the battlesuit and wordlessly picks up the head by its antlers, looking into the lifeless eyes with a sad frown.

"I don't want to say this, but you deserved it, old man," he mutters, just loudly enough that Kromah and I can hear him.

We exchange glances. Kromah checks to see if Hunter is looking and then makes a looping motion by her ear.

"Nobody's been here since the attack," the Overseer says in a heavy Mendalish accent, dropping the head on the floor and turning to us. "The searchers were ill-equipped for its radioactivity. After acquiring the appropriate protection, we sealed it safely.

"I have reason to believe that this room, previously unsearched, contains evidence as to the whereabouts of Korchikah Finsha."

The assembled scavengers start muttering among themselves.

"I'm not done talking," he continues with an edge to his voice that shuts everyone up. "I would like to catch you up on a timeline of speculated events.

"On the fifteenth of May, at 8:03 AM, a small Shoro attack force dropped out of warp directly next to the Koh za and boarded the ship. A battle ensued, and four hours later, the computer noted a breach in the engine room."

He points to the gigantic hole in the wall and floor. "You can tell what seems to have caused it," he says, nodding to the headless Shoro. "I believe it was pursuing someone who took shelter in the tunnels and found their way here."

He begins to pace as he speaks.

"The Shoro might have cornered them, or perhaps they had a standoff, but whatever happened, the Shoro has been executed with a concentrated raybeam blast, implying the High Ghartah by virtue of his uniquely modified weapon."

He toes the head, which is now lying sideways on the ground. "The Shoro's breath pipes were destroyed, either by impact with the ground or by the Finsha himself."

He walks over to a pile of debris near the warp core.

"The trail ends here with this."

He grabs a holoprojector from a table next to him and scans a small object. It appears several times larger than life in front of us.

"A single ring finger, apparently sliced off," he says. "I've matched the scale patterns to those of the Finsha. The marks at the base of the finger imply a piece of serrated metal, a theory supported by this discarded Shoro battery pack."

Said pack appears next to the sickening appendage. It's been torn and gutted, with several wires hanging out.

"I believe the Finsha needed to recharge his raybeam emitter. Lacking any of the required implements, he improvised, using the warp drive to transfer the battery's charge to his gun. He handled the battery pack clumsily, severing his finger on the razor-sharp edges."

A Veganite raises her hand. "If all this is true, then where did he go?"

The Overseer smiles grimly. "I spoke with the board directors of Cosmus Arts and Sciences about this. Our new task is to find out what happened to the High Ghartah of Triss'uaana."

"Well, this should be easy, right?" a Lesathi says. "We'll just check the security cameras."

He walks to the wall and looks up at a scorched slab of metal.

"Therein lies the problem," Hunter says with a humorless smirk. "The Shoro shot every camera they could find."

Then how are we going to find the High Ghartah? Kutarn inquires.

"The old-fashioned way -- investigation and speculation."

Tom Hunter begins to assign us tasks amidst uncertain conversations.

May 20, 8057 AD

Canterlot -- capital of Equestria

Luna whispers cliché comforting phrases in my ear as I cry quietly into her wing. She even nuzzles me once or twice. Her body is incredibly cold, but that's a feature rather than a bug in the hot midsummer air.

I eventually break up the hug and, through shaking breaths, tell the story of my father's execution. First of all, the flaying, which took an hour. The Princess shudders as I describe the way rusted metal hooks were used to rip his eyes straight out of his skull.

I slowly retreat back into my shell and the dull drone in my voice returns. I make no mention of any sort of sappy hug. Tears? From my eyes? Shut your fucking mouth.

"After three days passed, they finally killed him," I state hoarsely. "I was almost happy to see my father put to rest at last. No more pain. No more screaming."

A tear slides down Luna's cheek as she widens her eyes in horror.

My voice gains a steel edge as anger builds up in my heart.

"I've dedicated my very existence since then to making sure no one else gets that fate. Three thousand years later... just five days ago, in fact... I was in my new flagship. She was called the Koh za -- that's Old Trissite for Thunderbolt, I think. She was beautiful. Ran more smoothly than any other ship in the galaxy."

My fist clenches automatically. "The Shoro couldn't let it last. Two months after our maiden voyage, they ambushed us to recapture their homeworld. We were in the middle of a wedding reception -- two of my best crew had just married. They were also the first two to die.

"I did what I could, but they slaughtered us all. I was the only one left. One of the Shoro pursued me into a dead end, and I killed him with pride. He had some weird device on his arm, though.

"I decided to stop running and start being an idiot. I took the Device off his arm and said 'You're probably not going to harm me. I'll take you.' I dallied so much the other Shoro caught up to me. But it wasn't just low-ranking mooks -- oh, no, they sent the fucking leader."

Luna shivers despite herself.

"I had no idea he was telekinetic," I say offhandedly. "He just raised his hand and fucking whoosh, I went flying! I broke my ship's propulsion system, and the broken pieces did something to the Shoro Device."

I wait a few seconds before continuing so I can seethe in peace.

"It transported me and two of the Shoro into some strange void. We ended up in a small village about six hours' flight from here."

"Ponyville."

I go stiff and look up at her slowly with the most incredulous, most disgusted face I've ever made.

"Ponyville?" I repeat with rage. "Seriously? Who the fuck named that!? That's the most boring name I've ever heard in my life! It's even worse than the 'City of the Purple Terrans' -- at least that had a story behind it! That name is like..."

Drop the subject, pal. It doesn't matter. Just take a deep, deep breath.

I obey Rational Finsha. I always do.

There you go, champ.

He's probably the only thing I like around here.

I go back to my story. "Anyway, we ended up in" -- I blanch with disgust -- "Ponyville. The Shoro took hold of me and badly injured me, but I managed to kill one of them with my gun." I pat the coat pocket containing my trusty weapon.

"Its head fell right off, easy-peasy. The other, however..."

I trail off and take some time to control my anger.

"It lost one of its arms, but it managed to steal the Device. It flew over a dense forest, and I fell unconscious from one injury or another. One thing led to another, I woke up in a hospital, yada yada, I punched the Princess of Friendship or something, kayoed a nurse, and now I can't save the world because your bitchy guards got all up in a huff about it."

"What... what hast thou done!?"

"Say what? I hit a princess in the face," plain old Korchikah says before Rational Finsha can stop him. What an imbecile.

"She was in my way," I continue as Luna's face gets redder and angrier. "She wouldn't let me leave the hospital. I bet I cracked her skull real bad."

The thrill of mouthing off to royalty sets in as Rational Finsha silently screams. A twisted grin grows on my face. Plain old Korchikah feels like it's time for Luna to see his darker, bloodier side. Idiot.

She takes some wary steps away from me and turns to Batwing. "Sir Midnight, how many hath he injured?"

"Thirteen, my lady. This monster did also bring about the destruction of an elder's home through vandalising a support beam."

And you were doing so well.

Shut up. I know.

Luna turns away from me and takes a breath.

"Initial trial in three weeks' time?" she asks.

"Thy wisdom knows no bounds, my lady."

"Soundproofing barrier?"

"'Twould be wise, my lady."

"Keep him in the dungeons until the eve of Autumn."

"Yes, my lady."

They nod to each other, and then she spins back to me. Her horn lights up again and a shimmering blue bubble is inflated around us. The thestrals place their hooves over their ears.

Luna's face almost literally burns with rage... and when she speaks, she speaks with a thousand individual voices at once. It's so loud I can feel the ground shaking.

"By decree of Princess Luna Starsong, Mistress of the Moon, thou art under arrest on the charges of attempted assassination of Equestrian royalty, thirteen counts of physical assault and battery, and deliberate destruction of sacred house and home! To the dungeons with thee, foul monster! Away!"

Fuck.

Run for your Goddamn life, moron.

Author's Note

Korchikah's in biiiig trouble now.

It's been a while! I had some personal issues, but I'm back in full swing -- at least for another chapter or two, I know.

Just so y'all know, I imagine a Mendalish accent sounds pretty similar to a Scottish one, in case you want to know what Major Tom sounds like.

Have a good one!