Xeno Core

Upon the lifeless world, burnt in the last fires of a dying star, stands a single mountain. Surrounding this peak, on all sides, are endless drifts of metal powder. At the very top, at the summit of this lone mountain, is carved a small fortress.

Measuring three hundred ubits high, and thrice that wide, the square fort is carved from the native limestone. Pitted and scored by endless winds carrying abrasive metal dust, the walls are weathered, the corners had been worn until round. A well-trodden path leads up to it, worn by long ages of use by pilgrims.

Inside is a small enclave of robed figures, standing upon thick mobile tentacles. They guard a long and winding ramp, spiraling almost endlessly into the dark stone below.

Past graffiti of ages long gone, carved words rendered meaningless by cultural shifts, down where black crusts of ice glisten on the curving walls, can be found a large round chamber. Larger than the structure high above, this is the true heart of the mountain keep.

Carved into the cold stone of this dead world, this chamber is the access point to the single resource keeping the worlds of the Spanless Empire from collapsing into fractious tribes, islands separated forever within the endless span of space.

In the center three portals stand in a triangle of equal sides. The only light in the underground temple comes from these doorways, casting deep shadows all around. These portals each lead to Homeworld, each to a different palace, where Emperors and Empresses have ruled for uncounted generations.

On his cot lays Bruen's exhausted form. His mind is caught up in dreams of a place he's never been.

Zek too tosses on her bed, deep in fitful sleep. Her body tosses and thrashes while in her mind she walks the long path up the mountain. The long walk she would take each day to gather dust for her masters and earn her the right to learn their secrets.

At the entrance to the ancient keep, the acolyte is stopped by two guards. Answering their questions she enters, carrying her burden of precious inert dust, bulging sacks held in strong lower tendrils.

With that seamless quality possessed only by dreams, time jumps seasons ahead. She sits with other potential young thaumatists, in rows before a decrepit specimen.

His body ravaged by long years of consuming the deadly dust, he glows with crimson energy. He demonstrates by creating runic patterns, long strings of complex symbols. Each symbol composed of many much smaller runes; these arrays are the basis of thaumatic enchantment. Those showing the greatest promise in these exercises will be taken to be raised in hidden temples of the Jurer caste.

Another teacher, silver dripping from her slowly melting body, guides young students through energy control techniques, seeking battle casters for the Svost training grounds in the frozen north. Medics of the Somner caste stand nearby, ready to aid in case of the unfortunate, but also ready to recruit such promising students as Zek for their own harsh training program.

Some training is shared by all castes, taught in catacombs deep beneath the ground of Homeworld. Until selected for further specialization, no dust will be given to the acolytes. Too many show early promise only to burn out quickly. Longer training allows for better acclimation rates.

Another jump and she serves as an assistant, watching and aiding as her master grafts lifesaving prosthetics to the ravaged bodies of warriors and generals in near endless procession. Her first taste of dust, and the fierce burning as it fuses with her cells, the expanding of her awareness. And also the knowledge that soon she too will be on the front lines, risking her life while attempting to keep a warband alive in hostile territory.

---

A knocking at the door awakens Bruen, but Zek remains asleep. He reaches down for his spear reflexively. Not finding it he stops as he remembers where he is.

Mos Gol, clutching the younger general's weapon stands by the door, spear ready. "Yes?" He rises and joins her as the door opens.

The gray figure that walks inside their room is enough to relax them. Robar smiles and looks around, the smile replaced with a concerned frown when he notices the deep gauge in the door of the room.

"Did you sleep well?" He carries a white tray on which is a bowl of striped fruits and three large reddish-brown blocks. "I hope you can eat this stuff, there's not much onboard besides albulbs and meatblocks."

Bruen shakes the young thaumatist gently to awaken her. Drooping and drained of color, she joins the others in the quick meal. She picks listlessly at the food before her as her companions devour their meals.

After eating they are escorted to their scheduled meeting with Patron Nosstan.

Sitting around the large table, they wait for Nosstan to begin. The leader of the gray aliens looks over the table at his three guests, unsure if they've recovered from the trauma of the battle of the previous day.

"Thank you for agreeing to another meeting," the uniformed senior officer states from his seat. "As it seems we won't be able to aid each other's exploration efforts meaningfully, we should move on to more profitable negotiations. An exchange of technology. To be more specific," he says, lowering his voice, "we're interested in your weapon there."

In the grip of his tendrils is the same standard issue spear he'd carried into this mad place. Amusement is plainly stamped in the set of his companion's faces, the small wriggles of their upper tendrils a silent laughter.

"Yes," Gol says slowly, "you would need some way to defend yourselves against tribals or rival nations. We've yet to see sign of your weaponry."

Patron Nosstan's mouth opens silently before he snaps it shut. An agreement gesture? Shaking his head once to clear it, Nosstan answers by removing the device holstered on his hip and handing it to Mos Gol.

"Point the thin end and press the firing stud on the handle. We've got a suitable target already set up over there."

"Yes, I've seen your light makers," she says, pointing it at Bruen and gripping hard enough to depress the trigger. Harmless light washes over him, his protective runes greedily absorbing the light and converting it into power. "Do you not have weapons?"

His mouth tightly compressed, the Patron holds out his empty hand. The device is returned to him without fuss. He points it at the target screen hanging against one wall. Clicking sounds can be heard as he presses with futile impotence again and again.

"One moment, please," says Somner Zek, extending her upper tendrils towards the light maker in the gray officer's hand.

He stops moving, seemingly unaware of the white energy Zek pours into his light maker. "Try it now."

Once more he aims at the center of the simulated target and presses the stud. This time the light it emits burns into the screen, scorching it badly before again being drained of power.

"It's not just light," he says triumphantly. "The SAm18 emits a beam of energized particles. The charge is limited, however," Nosstan adds with a chuckle.

Returning his device to its place on his belt, he reaches out his other hand to Bruen. The young warrior gives him the spear, but only after receiving permission from his elder. Even with poor form and saggy muscles, the old officer still skewers the screen easily.

"Keep the spear, but return us to the camp," Gol demands, rising from her seat. "We have already learned much from our visit, and it is easily replaced. The Drop, however, is still crawling with tribals. Our work must continue."

With his prize in hand Nosstan is happy to let them return to the surface of the planet below, eyes never leaving the primitive looking weapon he now grasps. Almost as an afterthought, he commands the younger officer, Robar, to escort them down to the planet and stick with them for the time being.