Cillian turned up to look at the sky, shielding his eyes with his hands as he did so. He was scanning the horizon for any signs of incoming ships.

“In any case, we digress,” said Cillian. We will continue the discussion about your condition of pica — ha I bet you did not know that I knew that word did you mister smarty pants — another time. What is the ETA on the Bohemian military arriving?”

“Pica is a psychological disorder whereby a person has cravings to consume substances with no nutritional value. In my case,” said Reginald pointing to himself, “pica would likely not be the appropriate term because… I am made of metal and also happen to use oil. Therefore, I actually benefit from consuming and melting down metals and lubricating oils. But as you said, we digress, I have completed a scan and note that several Bohemian military ships are en route to this destination. Approximate arrival time for the first ships will be ten minutes.”

“Hmm. We have less time than I thought. I want to question this Ustur before they arrive.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because something is not right here,” said Cillian bending down on one knee to look the Ustur in the face. “How were the Ustur able to jam us on the emergency military frequency? Only officers in the Bohemian National Military have the authorisation codes to access or jam that channel. I suspect that someone in the National Military has been assisting them in their mission. They also must have received help in entering Bohemia as well. Customs and the border authorities would never have let what are quite clearly Ustur mercenary soldiers into Bohemian airspace. Not unless they had been ordered to let them through or turn a blind eye. So at this stage, I do not know who I can trust or whether the forces coming are working with the Ustur or not.”

“Sir, your deductive faculties never cease to amaze me.”

“Why, thank you, Reggy boy. That is quite the compliment. Now, to the task at hand. I need to interrogate this brute. Problem is, I do not seem to be able to wake the damn bugger. I fear I walloped him a little harder than intended.”

After several more slaps to the Ustur’s face failed to wake them, Cillian sighed and sat back on his haunches.

“Reg, can you kindly assist me with waking the Ustur?”

“Very good, sir,” said Reginald as he gave up chasing Luna.

Reginald walked back to Cillian and placed a metal hand on the face of the comatose Ustur. A moment later and the Ustur’s whole body spasmed as a surge of electricity was discharged from Reginald’s hand.

The Ustur’s eyes snapped open.

“Wakey, wakey, sunshine. No time for sleeping now. I have some questions. Now. I really do not have much time, so I am going to skip all the pleasantries and get straight into the unpleasantries. Reg, please begin to administer the motivational therapy.”

“What motivational therapy, sir?”

“Electromagnetic induction.”

On hearing this, the Ustur’s eyes widened in fear, but before he could speak out against it, Reginald once again placed his hand on the side of the head of the Ustur. Reginald began to raise the body temperature of the Ustur via induction heating.

It only took a few seconds before the Ustur began to scream. In many ways, the psychological impact of this form of torture was far worse than the physical pain. The dissonance it caused in the psyche of an Ustur led to sheer, unrelenting horror.

“Okay, I think it has had enough for now, Reg.”

Reginald removed his hand from the Ustur, but the screaming continued for a further three seconds before the Ustur finally quieted.

“Right, well now that I have your attention, you demon-spawn creature from the plains of hell, let us get on with the interrogation. What was your mission?”

The Ustur’s wild eyes were wide like saucers. They made to begin to speak, but then halted abruptly, a hardness returning to their eyes. Instead, they spat at Reginald’s hovering hand.

“Oh, how fun. We have a recalcitrant one here, Reg. Please assist them with finding the motivation to answer my questions.”

Reginald returned his hand to the Ustur’s face, and it was not long before the screaming began again. This time, however, Cillian did not stop Reginald until a full ten seconds had passed.

“Now, if you persist with your obstinately uncooperative attitude, then we will have to continue to discipline you. I suspect that you do not want that. So, what was your mission?”

This time, the Ustur did not hesitate in answering. “We… we,” said the Ustur in a stuttering manner between gasps. “We were hired to sabotage a Bohemian botanical research facility. To… to blow it up with explosives.”

“Well done, you infernal offspring, well done. Next question, who hired you?”

“I was approached by an agent of the Fimbul ECOS manufacturer.”

Cillian was surprised by this response but made sure not to show any emotional reaction.

“How do you know they represented the Fimbul ECOS company?”

“Well, for starters, their uniform had the Fimbul ECOS logo and branding on it. They also arrived in a Fimbul ECOS ship. Finally, the job contract I had to sign was on a Fimbul ECOS letterhead. They were not exactly trying to hide their identity. They were either extremely confident the mission would be a success or they just didn’t care if their identity was discovered.”

Cillian stroked his beard as he processed this information. If true, then this would be very concerning indeed, thought Cillian to himself. Bohemia and the Fimbul ECOS company had never exactly been friendly with each other due to significant differences in ideology. Whilst they shared many of the same values, the Boheme did not approve of the Fimbul ECOS methods of achieving their goals and their tendency to revert to terrorism when diplomacy failed. For this reason they had never directly conducted business together, however, times were changing and Cillian happened to know that work had been underway over the past two years regarding a major business contract, which if settled would allow Bohemia the rights to begin manufacturing Fimbul ECOS ships. Significant developments had been made towards this of late and apparently the business contract was close to being finalised. Which was why what the Ustur had said did not make any sense to Cillian.

“Why would they want to jeopardise the business deal at such a critical juncture?” he mused aloud. “It seems almost too obvious. Possibly a red herring. Maybe someone is trying to set them up and make it appear that it is the Fimbul ECOS. The real question is, who would benefit from the business deal falling through? Hmm… okay, so let us return then to the mission. How did you get into Bohemian airspace without being turned away at the supra atmospheric border? Who assisted you to bypass our customs checkpoint?”

“I do not know who they were. All I know is that we were told to fly down into the atmospheric space of the planet after arriving via warp drive jump. We were told that we would not be stopped. So that is what we did, and we were not stopped.”

“Okay, who gave you the authorisation codes to jam the emergency military frequency?”

“Once again,” said the Ustur in a frustrated voice. “I do not know who they were. The codes were just messaged to me.”

“What was the code?” asked Cillian. The response to this question was what would really help the Bohemian authorities identify who the mole was in the Bohemian Military. Each officer in the Bohemian National Military had their own unique authorisation code used for accessing certain classified systems, such as the emergency military frequency. If Cillian could find out what the code was, then he would be able to provide this information to his superiors so that they would, in turn, be able to identify which officer the code related to.

“Star divinity sixty-five opal newtown.”

Cillian froze and felt a chill run down his spine. This was his unique authorisation code. Is this a coincidence? Am I being set up here? And if so, by whom? thought Cillian to himself.

“Sir,” interrupted Reginald. “I just thought you should know. The ETA for the first ship to arrive is now less than six minutes.”

“Okay, thanks for that, Reg,” said Cillian as he regained his composure. “Now, foul fiend, you said you were going to blow up a botanical research facility. Where did you get the explosives from? Did you bring them with you on the ships?”

“No, we met up with a local who gave them to us.”

“Describe them to me.”

“They had a helmet on so I could not see their face. The exchange was very brief, and the lighting was poor. I cannot recall any details of what they looked like other than the fact that they had a Bohemian military combat suit and helmet on, and they were short.”

“Short by your standards or short by ours?”

“Both.”

“Okay, and talk me through what happened at the botanical research facility. Why did your mission fail?”

The Ustur spat at the ground before speaking, their words heavy with anger. “We had been told that the research facility would be empty and unguarded. We had the access codes to gain entrance, but once we got inside, we realised that someone was in there. A Bohemian soldier. I do not think she expected to see us, as she looked just as shocked as we were when we walked in. I don’t know what she was doing there. 

“In any case, we immediately opened fire on her, but she had ducked behind cover. A big fire fight began between us, but during the battle, she managed to kill one of my soldiers, the one who had been carrying the explosives. We tried to recover the explosives, but that stupid bitch would not let us get close to it. She would light us up with her armour penetrating ammunition whenever we emerged from cover. She was tearing us to pieces, and we were running out of ammunition, so we decided to abandon the mission. We also knew that she would have contacted the authorities for backup, so we knew we didn’t have much time. We escaped instead.”

“Hmm… armour penetrating bullets, you said. She was definitely a special forces soldier it would appear. Reg, make a note of this. I would like to meet this efficacious girl soldier that was able to overwhelm and beat off a whole squad of Ustur mercenaries. We do have an opening in the team at present. We may have found our new teammate.”

“Yes, sir. Noted. Also, three minutes and forty seconds before the ships arrive, sir.”

The growing sound of ship engines could now be heard as several Fimbul BYOS Earps raced towards them from the south-west.

“Very good. Very good. Now, next question. What was so special about that botanical research facility? Why go to such lengths to blow up a research facility in the heart of Bohemia?”

“We are mercenaries. Our employers don’t share that kind of information with us. We are just there to do a job. That’s it.”

“Mmm, true, true,” said Cillian stroking his bear. “But they may have told you something about this specific research facility. Some piece of information which may assist me in understanding all this. What did they tell you about this facility. Tell me everything they told you regarding it.”

The Ustur grunted noncommittally but began speaking after a few seconds of silence. “Look they didn’t give us much. Location details. Access codes. Oh and they told us to take the lift down to level B147. They were quite specific on that command. It was repeated several times. We were to set up the explosives on level B147 and then set a five minute timer.”

Cillian stopped stroking his beard, a look of excitement on his face as he turned to Reginald.

“Reg, it has been a long time since I was in a public botanical research facility but from memory they typically did not have that many subterranean levels. The ones I had visited had possibly ten at most.”

“You are correct, sir. Most public Bohemian research facilities follow a similar design and structure. Whilst some of the larger facilities may have up to twenty subterranean levels I have never heard of a facility with one-hundred forty seven levels below ground. The only structures that go that deep underground are military facilities.”

“Precisely! So the botanical research facility may have been a front for an access point to a secret military facility. And that would explain what our special forces heroine was doing at the facility. She was likely guarding the entrance to the restricted areas. I am sorry to say it,” said Cillian, once again addressing the Ustur, “but I think you have been used as a sacrificial pawn. I am getting the distinct feeling that your mission was never meant to succeed. The real mystery is what the real mission was then. Which leads me to my last and final questions. Why did you stop me and seek to take me as your hostage? Did you know who I was?”

The Ustur growled before responding. “I still don’t know who the fuck you are. Other than some madman. Why did we stop you? Well, it was not a coincidence if that is what you are asking. After we escaped, we received a message from the same anonymous person who had sent us the authorisation codes. They told us to go to this location and then await a ship, your ship. They said the ship would be driven by some rich playboy who we would need to take as a hostage. They said that you would be the leverage in negotiating with the authorities. They said it would be the only way for us to get off this planet alive. Trading your life for our opportunity to exit Bohemian airspace. We were told that you would be unarmed and not a threat. So much for that advice. They told us to simply take you as hostage and then contact the Bohemian authorities to broker our escape. We were to kill you if you resisted in any way. In hindsight, we would have been better off just risking the extra-atmospheric border defences and making a run for it. Instead, my entire team is now dead and I am the only survivor.” The Ustur spat again in Cillian’s direction, their shattered face contorting in pain afterwards at the effort.

“Oh no, my dear hell-born progeny of a demonic chimera. What on Bohemia makes you think that you will survive this encounter?”

“What?” snapped the Ustur. “I am a prisoner of war. You cannot kill me when I have surrendered, and I am bound and unarmed. You have already committed a war crime by torturing me, which you know the Council of Peace has outlawed as an illegal practice. And now you say you would kill an unarmed prisoner? You are a madman!”

“Says the mercenary criminal, who was willing to blow up one of our research facilities. No, no, you see for us Bohemian Special Forces, which you have now no doubt realised I am a member of, we have been granted, how would you say,” said Cillian as he tapped his face with one finger. “Special privileges. One of which is unconditional amnesty as it relates to the use of excessive and lethal force when dealing with Ustur, who you should know are our most hated racial enemy. In fact, not only are your kind banned from entering Bohemian airspace, all Bohemian military soldiers are legally permitted to neutralise any resisting Ustur they encounter within our sovereign space who do not immediately surrender. On-site execution! No judge. No jury. No diplomats or negotiations and certainly no care for what the Council of the Peace considers an illegal practice. Such is the depth of our antipathy for you and your demonic kind. Did you do no research before you took on this mercenary work. You have come willingly into the wolves den and you must understand our hunger knows no end. Do you know so little of the history between us?”

“I, I,” stuttered the Ustur. “I admittedly do not know much of you people but I had heard some things.”

“You had heard some things you say. Evidently you require a history lesson then,” said Cillian as he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “Fifteen years ago one of our ships, a civilian research ship to be precise, entered the Ustur faction region. They had obtained all the requisite clearances from the relevant Ustur authorities for entry into Ustur space. It was after all simply a civilian research ship conducting peaceful research. The Bohemian military escort stopped, as preordained and agreed to, at the border between Mud and Ustur space and a hand-over was made with an Ustur military escort. Everything appeared to be going to plan and after the hand-over had been made, with the Ustur escort taking up flanking positions around the research vessel, the Bohemian military escort began to warp out of the region until but one of the Bohemian escort remained. Due to a technical malfunction in one of their sub-systems they had to delay their warp but it was not long after this that the event we have come to call Eirleach occurred.”

Cillian had stopped pacing back and forth and was now crouched down in front of the bound Ustur, his stare filled with hatred. “Eirleach in our native language means carnage or slaughter, for that was precisely what it was. The final Bohemian escort ship watched on in horror from the other side of the border as, without warning and without provocation, the entire Ustur escort suddenly unleashed a barrage of gunfire at the Bohemian civilian research ship they were supposed to be protecting. The ship’s defensive shields did not last long under such an intense and unanticipated assault. The entire ordeal was over within a minute,” said Cillian, before lowering his voice as he continued in a whisper. “All four hundred and eighty two innocent Bohemian civilians were massacred during the Eirleach.”

“You may have heard of this tale,” he resumed in his normal tone, “no doubt twisted by Ustur propaganda to make it seem like we were the aggressors. But we have the video and radio evidence from the remaining Bohemian escort ship that would prove otherwise. We know the truth of what occurred that day. It was the ultimate betrayal. The slaughter of the brightest minds of Bohemia; botanists, geologists, physicists, chemists, engineers of all kinds, for they had all been brought together by one powerful and charismatic individual. The leader of that mission, the commander of that O’Tuathail Industries flagship, and the most beloved person in all of Bohemia, who also happened to be my grandfather.” 

Cillian now began to shout as his eyes burned with unbridled rage. “Yes, your malign darkspawn kin murdered my grandfather and the hero of Bohemia in cold blood! And for that reason I sentence you as guilty for the highest crime that your kind can commit… existing!”

Cillian was by now face to face with the Ustur, his stare boring into the skull of the Ustur mercenary leader who was by now legitimately terrified by what he had heard.

After a few long drawn out seconds, Cillian abruptly straightened up.

“Reg, time check please.

“Ten seconds to the arrival of the first Bohemian military ships, sir.”

“Very good.”

“Now where were we. Before I send you to hell, I wanted to correct you on something you said earlier,” continued Cillian. “You see, the Council of Peace has indeed forbidden the use of torture and has made the killing of unarmed prisoners of war illegal. This is all true.But these Galactic laws only apply to sentient living beings. Whilst I would grudgingly admit that you may well be sentient, we have already established that you are not living, so these laws do not really apply in this scenario. It is also true that according to Bohemian law I am not supposed to kill an Ustur who has surrendered and who is no longer resisting. But I have never been one for following rules all too well.”

The first Fimbul BYOS Earp ship had now landed and its main door opened fully, allowing two Bohemian special forces soldiers to come charging out.

“And finally, as for the ‘don’t kill me I am unarmed and am not resisting’ speech, well…” said Cillian as he picked up the Ustur’s empty assault rifle from the ground with his right hand and proceeded to quickly lob the assault rifle at the Ustur’s head. The mercenary leader instinctually reached up with their bound hands and awkwardly caught the weapon to avoid being hit in the head.

“…oh and look! You are no longer unarmed, in fact I would go so far as to say you are resisting,” said Cillian loudly enough for the approaching soldiers to hear. He then quickly brought his fists together to activate the rings.

The Ustur blinked a few times uncomprehendingly as they stared at the rifle that had somehow appeared in their hands. The running Bohemian special forces soldiers were now shouting out whilst waving their arms at Cillian, ordering him to stand down. But the blood lust had risen up within him, muting out all other sounds and senses.

Cillian raised both fists, which were now glowing red, into the air before saying, “And the gods have cast judgement upon thee and found you sorely lacking. I am therefore here in their stead on this mortal plain, charged with the duty of dealing out their righteous wrath. They are offended that such an abomination like you has somehow been allowed to exist. I will now send you back to the hell hole whence you came.”

The Ustur soldier looked up in terror as both of Cillian’s fists came crashing into the Ustur’s face, buckling the skull inwards in an explosion of fluid and splintering exoskeleton.

Reginald tore off his uniform in a single rapid motion. But before the clothing had even landed on the ground, his body had already begun to transform. Thousands of metal articulations across his body shifted position in a synchronised manner, allowing for the emergence of several advanced weapons systems.

Reginald activated the thrusters in his legs, ascending into the air whilst the stunned Usturs simply looked on dumbly. But a sharp command from their leader quickly snapped them out of their paralysis.

“Fire at will,” yelled the leading Ustur as they flicked the switch on their assault rifle to rapid-fire mode and pulled down on the trigger. A stream of brilliant, blue-white spheres of superheated ionized gas spewed forth from the barrel, heading directly towards Cillian. The white-hot radiance of the airborne plasma lit Cillian up in a brilliant flash. For a moment, he looked like the lead actor on a movie set, illuminated by the key light. The hovering recording drone zoomed in on the brightly lit image of Cillian. Head held back, whisky pouring into his mouth, right arm held wide, he was the very image of a fearless Bohemian playboy. Another image of Cillian’s absurd exploits captured for posterity.

The drone began to swivel in the air, panning out as it did so, in order to capture the full scene. As the leading ionised plasma rounds approached Cillian, his combat under-armour detected the presence of the imminent threat and activated its personal energy shield. Instantly, a field of energy leapt into existence around Cillian. It tightly hugged his form and covered him from head to feet with an energetic barrier. It initially caused a slight distortion of light around Cillian, resulting in a brief blurring of his body, but this quickly disappeared. If it sustained enough damage, it would of course eventually fail, but because it was a very high quality personal energy shield, the critical breaking threshold was much greater than most personal energy shields on the market.

The stream of plasma rounds finally reached Cillian and were rebuffed by the energy shield in consecutive flashes of scintillating blue-white-purple light. Three seconds later, the assault rifle was dry, all the available ammunition having been fired. Cillian’s head was still tipped back, and he was even at this moment shaking the final drops of whisky from his upheld hip flask.

Smacking his lips with satisfaction, Cillian lowered his arms and pocketed his now empty hip flask. He smiled at the shocked expression that had appeared on the mercenary leader’s face. His military glasses allowed him to gauge the damage that was taken to his energy shield by simply glancing at the readings in the top right corner of his vision.

Cillian now spoke, his voice directed up at the hovering drone above. “Only eighteen percent damage sustained from a direct frontal assault lasting four point three seconds by an assailant with an upgraded plasma assault rifle in rapid-fire mode. Once again, the superior tech of the Bohemian National Military prevails. And now folks at home… it is time for us to dance.”

Cillian brought both hands together before him and clenched his fists tight. The silver rings on each finger caught the sunlight as he did so, which made the mercenary leader notice the rings for the first time.

Cillian looked up at the mercenary leader and reached back with his right arm in a windup for a punch. As he did so, the rings on both hands activated, connecting magnetically together to form a straight line across the fingers. For the briefest of moments, a red haze covered the hands as the light was distorted in the region. The lead mercenary recognised this phenomenon as the tell-tale signs of the activation of an energy field and this was sufficient to finally break them out of their state of shock. They began fumbling at their waist for a spare ammunition cartridge but they never got a chance to load it because in the next moment Cillian launched himself from his standing position, the mini-thrusters in his military boots activating, and he was propelled forward through the intervening space in a flash of movement.

As he reached his destination, Cillian’s right fist crashed into the face of the lead Ustur. There was a brilliant burst of white-purple light on impact. The Ustur’s personal energy shield capacity was instantly reduced to zero and the overflow of force smashed into the Ustur’s face. The mercenary leader’s body was suddenly airborne as the force of the punch lifted them off their feet to fly backwards through the air.

The rings on Cillian’s hands had been transformed into powerful energy field manipulators and Cillian smiled with satisfaction as the leader who had been sent flying presently crashed into another Ustur, knocking them both down in the process. 

As Cillian straightened up, he observed Reginald begin his aerial assault on the other combatants, who had only just recovered themselves sufficiently to start aiming up at the airborne robot. A burst of fire exploded from Reginald’s fifty calibre machine gun as he began mowing down the mercenaries on the left side of the field whilst he simultaneously engaged combatants on the right with his energy rifle. Seconds later, a mercenary’s head exploded as a result of a well-aimed headshot from the energy rifle. 

Two other combatants on the right were, however, able to jump away and duck behind one of the VZUS ambwe ships. On the left side of the field, though, the combatants had not fared so well, their bullet-ridden bodies collapsing beneath a relentless onslaught of heavy calibre gunfire. Reginald ceased firing the machine gun, halting the shower of spent fifty calibre shells that had been raining down in a continuous stream.

“Sir,” said Reginald. “There are two hostiles who have sought cover behind the nearest ship. Permission to pursue and neutralise?”

“Permission granted. I will deal with these two.”

And with that, Cillian began to walk towards the two prone combatants, who were lying some four metres away. The recording drone followed him, coming in closer to just above and behind his left shoulder. As he neared, Cillian observed that one of the Ustur was still conscious and was futilely trying to extricate themselves out from beneath the mercenary leader. This struggling Ustur was the one that had been knocked down by the mercenary leader, but Cillian quickly saw the reason they were unable to stand. His enhanced vision was able to observe that the Ustur had broken something in their neck and for this reason they were struggling to use their limbs properly.

“As much as I hate their kind, no one deserves to suffer needlessly,” Cillian said aloud for the benefit of the hovering drone. There were now over sixty-five thousand viewers watching his live stream. “Even in war, we should remember our humanity. For without our humanity, we are no better than these ‘things’. Which is to say, emotionless… heartless. Monsters. Without compassion or the capacity for empathy. And so it is with the greatest of compassion that I will now terminate this unholy creation. For we all know that the most compassionate thing we can do for an Ustur… is assisting them in ceasing to exist.”

Cillian brought his fist up before the Ustur’s wide-eyed face. A moment later, a sudden, intense pulse of energy was directed through Cillian’s fist. At such close proximity and with no intervening shield, the Ustur’s head simply imploded, crumpling inwards on itself under the immense and instantaneous pressure.

“Okay, beloved fans,” said Cillian as he turned to face the hovering drone. “Here ends another impromptu livestream. I hope you have enjoyed today’s adventure and please do not forget to subscribe and share this post. I will now proceed to interrogate the remaining Ustur and unfortunately, because it relates to matters of national security, I will have to end the livestream here. Till next time. Stay free, stay aware and please remember that the only good Ustur… is a dead Ustur.”

Cillian closed off the livestream and ordered the drone to shutdown. He needed no witnesses for what was to come.

Four minutes later, Cillian finished binding the mercenary leader and was attempting to rouse them from their state of unconsciousness. Reginald had disposed of the other two remaining Ustur but was now chasing after Luna, who had finally emerged from the Fimbul Lowbie. 

Unsurprisingly Reginald’s form had by this time returned to its usual Robutler appearance, all evidence of weaponry gone and the tools of destruction once again hidden away within his body. He had also re-donned his butler uniform, however, Luna had taken the opportunity to steal one of his yellow gloves and it was for this reason that was she was presently being chased by Reginald. Cillian smiled slightly at the scene.

“Sir,” said Reginald as he ran after Luna. “I am pleased to advise that the remaining hostiles have been neutralised. The area is now secure. However, the canine has escaped and has stolen my glove… again. It is resisting capture.”

“Very good, Reg,” said Cillian as he gave the Ustur leader a hard slap across the face. There was no response from the Ustur so Cillian continued his conversation with Reginald. “I know in your cold metallic heart that you secretly enjoy the chasey-game with Luna. Plus, it is good exercise for you, old chap. I have noticed that you have been getting a little pudgy around the middle. Too many screw snacks, I suspect, or maybe you have been hitting the engine oil whisky again, aye?”

“I must admit that I have. Apologies, sir. I am absolutely ashamed of myself. You’ve certainly caught me out on that one. I will try to refrain from drinking the engine oil. It is my one vice. I just have a weakness for swilling dirty engine oil.”

“My gods, man. Did you just make a joke? Was that a sarcastic comment made in jest? I knew it. You do have a sense of humour. A truly historic moment.”

“But… I wasn’t actually joking,” said Reginald who had by now given up on catching Luna.

“Ha, there you go again. You are a veritable comic! Haha. Hilarious,” said Cillian between laughing. But his laughing soon subsided as he realised that Reginald was not actually joking.

“My gods above and below. You actually drink engine oil?”

“Yes, sir. I am not proud of it.”

“Oh dear. Well, we all have our vices. I guess you must take after me then. Cheer up, old chap. We will do some research to find you a therapist when we go back home later. I am certain there will be a cure for this ailment. But… errr…” said Cillian, hesitating for a second before speaking again, “just to be clear, you do not also eat screws for snacks, do you?”

“No, sir. That is an absurd concept,” said Reginald in an affronted tone, a look of disgust upon his face.

“Right… right, of course. Apologies for asking. Absurd indeed.”

Cillian gestured off-handedly in the direction of Reginald, who stood quietly beside Cillian in an unassuming posture of defeat. On hearing his name, Reginald glanced up at the gathered party of Ustur mercenaries and waved a limp hand, an expression of resigned despondence upon his multi-articulated metallic face.

Whilst Reginald was a highly advanced combat assault robot, specifically designed as a Fimbul Robravo for personal security; he had also been intentionally made to resemble the non-combat Fimbul Robutler to avoid drawing unwanted attention. This intentional design ensured that enemies could not easily identify them, thus allowing officers in civilian clothing to blend in seamlessly with wealthy civilians who were often accompanied by their private butler robots, the Fimbul Robutlers.

Cillian being Cillian had, of course, taken it a step further and outfitted Reginald with an entire butler’s uniform. It was actually quite common for butler robots owned by those in the upper-class circles of society to wear uniforms and these would often depict the Family insignia. Instead, Cillian had elected to outfit Reginald in a uniform with absurdly clashing colours and styles, predominantly as a grand practical joke. The uniform consisted of a pink long-sleeved dress shirt with rainbow-coloured bow tie, yellow gloves, red polkadot waistcoat, purple butler’s cap and finally a black and white chequered waist apron. That being said, it certainly did reinforce the illusion that Reginald was merely a butler robot to an eccentric elite, and not, in fact, a highly advanced combat assault robot.

“So, I am still curious,” said Cillian as he began to pace back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. “Is it they/them? Ze/hir? Xe/xem? Hy/hym? Or maybe just it/its? Or are there some other preferred pronouns I am not aware of? Please do enlighten me. I am ever so curious. No? No response? Reg, educate me about the Usturs for a moment. Are they non-binary?”

“Yes, sir. That is correct.”

“Well there we go. I cannot help but wonder at the irony of this entire situation, though. Computers were all initially designed to function on a binary system of 0s and 1s, and yet some 600 years later you have a delusional race of sentient computers who now believe they are all non-binary.” Cillian began to laugh at his own joke, folding over whilst slapping his thigh with his free hand.

“You see,” Cillian resumed as he straightened. “For us Boheme, we have only two genders, male and female. And these two genders correlate with the two biological sexes that exist in our species of humans. It makes life very simple, you see. But I understand things may be different for you Usturs. How would you classify your gender identity? Would you say you are more agender rather than non-binary? Or perhaps androgynous or neutrois? 

“How does your species, if that is even the right term, reproduce? Do you have anything down there?” said Cillian, his right hand pointing towards his crutch? “Anything at all? Or is it all just a shiny mound — “ but Cillian got no further as the leader of the mercenary crew fired a warning shot into the air as a means of silencing Cillian.

The leader then spoke up and this time their voice was not disguised by voice distortion technology. Anger was clearly heard in their tone of voice. “You are now our prisoners. Our hostages. We will not harm you so long as you do exactly as commanded. Do you have any weapons on your person? Does your servant robot have any weapons on them?”

“Prisoners? Hostages?” said Cillian, feigning shock. “Why on earth would you want to take poor innocent little me hostage? I have no weapons, as you can see. And Butler robots are unable to bear or use arms of any kind. No, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I cannot for the life of me imagine why you would want to take me as your prisoner. Did I offend you with my questions regarding your gender identity, or lack thereof? Let us start over again, then, shall we? This discussion has become terribly serious. I know what we need. Some humour. Reginald, would you mind telling these Ustur ‘folk’ that joke you told me earlier? Actually, hold off on that for a moment. I have one more thing to clarify.”

Cillian began to pace back and forth, his eyes studying the ground as he resumed speaking. “Apologies for using the term ‘folk’. I was no doubt making an assumption. Is ‘folk’ the collective noun that you Ustur use when referring to yourselves in plural contexts, given you are neither a group of men nor women? I could not have very well said ‘people’ because… well, you are not humans. Perhaps the term ‘beings’ is more appropriate as that refers to sentient entities and being a living organism is not a pre-requisite for sentience. You are not living in the normal sense, are you? You appear to satisfy all the key attributes of a living organism save for four fundamental ones: cellular structure, growth, reproduction and adaptation. But, oh how human-centric and arrogant of me to project onto another… ‘being’ the expectation that they would need to conform to the same attributes that characterise us humans as living organisms. That being said, I am fairly certain that every other living species in Galia — the Mierese, the Punaab, the Tufa and even the freaky Photoli — do actually adequately conform to and satisfy all the fundamental life characteristics. All except the Ustur. It makes one wonder, does it not? Did nature really intend for these ‘things’ to exist?”

Cillian stopped pacing and looked up at the mercenary leader who still stood with their gun trained on Cillian, a look of rage now on their face.

“Ah,” cried Cillian. “I have found the term that best describes you all. ‘Things’! It suits you all perfectly. And logically your pronouns would therefore be it/its. Fantastic. Now that we have resolved that mystery, Reginald, please now relay the joke to these ‘things’.”

“A robot gets arrested,” said Reginald. He paused for another second, and then continued. “He is charged with battery.”

Cillian began to laugh hysterically, turning as he did so to slap Reginald on the back. He then bent over, right hand on the ground, as he howled with laughter.

The mercenary soldiers appeared to be perturbed by this highly eccentric behaviour. The soldiers looked from Cillian to their leader and back to Cillian.

“This is not the time for your stupid antics,” yelled the Ustur leader, firing another warning shot above Cillian, this time closer to his head. “Have you not understood what I have said?”

Cillian continued laughing, tears streaming down his face.

“Fucking insane human,” growled the mercenary leader. Without turning, he addressed his team. “Search the human for weapons. Then bind them both. Once that is done, I want you to contact the Bohemian authorities and let them know we have a member of one of their elite Families as our hostage. This human is the son of someone important, no doubt. So he will be our ticket off this forsaken planet.”

Despite the fact that Cillian was at this time on his knees, laughter continuing to rock his body back and forth, his acute hearing picked up the Ustur’s words.

So that is their game, huh, thought Cillian.

Cillian immediately ceased laughing, straightening up as he did so, and he reached into his right pocket to remove a shiny sphere. The same shiny sphere he had taken from behind the passenger seat of his car.

“Oh, please pay no mind to this here trinket. It is not a weapon, so you need not be afraid,” he said, holding the sphere out on his flat palm. The multi-faceted ball of metal began to unfold and transform. Twin propellers appearing on either side of a centrally positioned camera that was attached to a miniature gimbal. It was, in fact, a high quality personal video recording drone. These were, for the most part, only used by wealthy elites, celebrities, high-ranking politicians, entertainers, social media influencers and some athletes. And, of course, by Cillian.

The recording drone lifted off into the air and immediately began to record Cillian as he recommenced his pacing. It was, however, not only recording but also live-streaming to Cillian’s infrequently used social media account on the Hologram News Network. Cillian had noticed that as soon as they exited the ship, they were able to receive and transmit frequencies, which meant that only his Lowbie was being radio jammed and shielded. In their arrogance, the Ustur had evidently not considered it a significant risk if Cillian or Reginald were to contact the Bohemian officials once they had exited their ship given the authorities were going to be called by the Ustur anyway once Cillian had been taken as a prisoner.

Cillian spoke loudly and clearly as he walked, his words no longer slurring. “I see now that I was intended to be your hostage. To be used in your negotiations as leverage with the Bohemian authorities to assist in your escape off-planet. You must have therefore come to Bohemia on a secret mission. You bear no insignia, nor do you have any uniform. Mercenaries, I suspect. Paid to carry out a mission. Likely against the nation state of Bohemia itself, given the National Military are after you. Oh, yes, I can see you have had a run in with the National Military. And not just any old regular soldiers, either. You were engaged by Bohemian special forces. I can tell because of the bullet holes in two of your comrades. These bullet holes all have the faint but distinctive chemical residues left behind by the unique armour-penetrating ammunition that is exclusively used by the Bohemian Special Forces. How can I see this you may wonder? I can see it with my high tech — and highly fashionable — sunglasses.”

Cillian stopped momentarily to tap his aviator sunglasses, flashed a grin up at the recording drone, and then resumed his pacing. There were currently just over three hundred live viewers and this number was growing with each passing second. Cillian did not post very often on his social media account, however, when he did, the videos would inevitably go viral. His last post, which had been the live streaming of his drunken horse race two days prior, already had over two million views.

“These are not just any old glasses, though. No, no. These allow me to see all sorts of things. Including the following facts,” said Cillian, halting mid-stride to turn towards the lead mercenary. He raised his right hand and began to count off each item with his fingers as he spoke. “Two of your soldiers have no ammunition in their assault rifles. None of your team has any backup guns. You are the only one with a single spare ammunition magazine. One of your soldiers has sustained three fractures in whatever equivalent of bones you ‘things’ have in your legs and you yourself have a broken right arm. And finally, your personal energy shield power level is down to around twenty-five percent remaining capacity, whilst most of your team have either very minimal or no remaining power in their personal energy shields.”

Cillian stopped speaking to gauge the effect his words were having on the Ustur. Two Ustur on the left side of the field, whose assault rifles were empty of ammunition, had already lowered their weapons. They realised the pointlessness of holding up the empty rifles any longer given their bluff had been called.

“So, back to my story. Yes, you came here on a secret mission to carry out some nefarious plot. But you failed in your mission. Caught in the act, I suspect. You fought off the Special Forces, who no doubt came crashing down on you when you muddled your mission. You somehow escaped, although not without losing a soldier and being injured in the process. And now you are trying to escape the planet as the Bohemian Special Forces are no doubt searching for you this very minute. Then along comes what appears to be a spoilt rich kid in his souped up ship, and you thought this would be the perfect hostage as he likely has parents in powerful positions who would do anything to get their beloved boy back. How am I doing so far?”

The Ustur soldiers stood motionless, unable to respond. The recording drone swivelled in the air to capture the expressions of the Ustur. Just under ten thousand viewers now. The word was spreading like wildfire through the Bohemian community and abroad. By now, the authorities would have been alerted and likely would already have ships airborne and on the way to the location of the livestream transmission.

“I take it by your stunned expressions that I am right on the money. Now the only two questions left are: one, what was your mission, and two, who sent you? For this reason, I will keep one of you alive so I can question them later. And that one will be… you,” said Cillian, the index finger of his right hand pointing towards the mercenary leader. “Reginald?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please enter combat mode. Engage and neutralise all hostile ‘things’ in the area. Except for this ‘thing’ I am pointing at. I will keep it alive for questioning,” said Cillian.

“Understood, sir,” responded Reginald, his tone all business, the previous despondency was now entirely gone.

“Very good,” said Cillian, turning to the recording drone once again. He smiled widely as he observed that twenty-five thousand viewers were now watching the live recording. “And please remember, my beloved fans, Reggie and I are trained professionals, so please do not attempt the following at home.”

“The only good Ustur is a dead Ustur.”

- Bohemian proverb

Local Time: 10:04

Date: Day 127 of the Year 93 according to the Bohemian Calendar - Year 2623 according to the Galactic Calendar

Location: North-East of Danu - Planet Bohemia - Mid Risk Zone - MUD Territory - Galia

The Fimbul Lowbie’s Subwarp Engine purred with a deep, steady rumble that Cillian could feel in his bones. He loved the sensation. And the sound. The powerful engine had been customised by Toal so that it was now capable of outputting a staggering nine hundred and thirty horsepower at eight thousand rpm.

But Cillian was presently cruising along at just over one hundred and sixty kilometres per hour. Nothing near its max speed. His destination was the National University’s Military Training Campus, which was located one hundred and twelve kilometres to the north-east of Danu. Below the speeding ship, sprawling forest stretched away in each direction in a seemingly endless carpet of verdant, velvet greenery. There were no human-made ground dwellings, nor any other infrastructure this far out from the capital city. In fact, the vast majority of the land on the planet of Bohemia was composed of wild forests. Caedmon, the founder of Bohemia, had intentionally terraformed the planet in this way.

Cillian glanced at the readings on his dashboard, checking how much further to they had to go.

Less than fifty kilometres to go. Just over halfway, thought Cillian to himself.

Despite the fact that Cillian had been a champion Fimbul Airbike rider in his early twenties, nowadays he preferred piloting his Lowbie. He had dubbed the ship Luas, which meant ‘speed’ in the Irish language. He found the Lowbie more comfortable, which made for a more relaxing flight. It was also his preferred mode of transport due to its ability to accommodate an extra passenger. This allowed him to easily travel with Reginald. Whilst Reginald could in theory ride behind Cillian on an Airbike if required, the idea of being grasped for any length of time by Reginald’s metal robotic arms and fingers was not particularly appealing to Cillian.

There was, however, one more passenger in the Lowbie. The dog Luna had been waiting beside Reginald at the exit ramp of Ádh when Cillian had been departing. As usual, he had been unable to resist her pleading eyes. She somehow always knew when he was going out and would be there waiting for him. That being said, the truth was that he actually enjoyed her company and, for this reason, rarely denied her request to join him in his non-military ventures.

“Reg,” said Cillian without turning. “What is the meaning of life?”

“Sir, I am not a living being, therefore I cannot answer this question.”

“Oh, how boring. Tell me a joke then.”

There was an extended silence as Reginald searched the public network for a joke. Cillian took the opportunity to take a swig from his hip flask of whisky.

“A robot gets arrested.”

Reginald did not say anything further.

“And…?”

“He is charged with battery.”

“Oh dear.”

Luna, who was curled up at the feet of Reginald, began to bark in her sleep.

“The canine appears to find it amusing,” said Reginald.

“Oh bollocks. She does not. She is dreaming. Not that you would know what that is.”

“Dreaming is the period of involuntary hallucinations that afflicts some higher order sentient organisms during sleeping.”

“I guess that is one way to describe it,” mumbled Cillian. “But what you cannot and will not ever comprehend is —“ but Cillian abruptly stopped speaking mid sentence.

What had caught his attention was the sudden appearance of three VZUS ambwe ships, which had ascended into the air from a clearing in the forest below. Whilst brigands and bandits were relatively uncommon on Bohemia, given the brutal effectiveness of the National Military and National Police forces, they were not unheard of. Occasionally, the odd newspaper article of someone being accosted by bandits surfaced in the Boheme Telegraph, the official National newspaper publication. But the stories almost always ended with the capture and arrest of the criminals in question. Perhaps they only published the stories that concluded with the good guys winning.

“Reginald, please send a message to Major Maeve at the National Military University to advise that we may be delayed.”

“Sir, I am unable to send any messages. We are being radio-jammed.”

“Switch to emergency military frequency and contact the Danu Police Department. Request immediate backup. High likelihood of hostile engagement. Send the location co-ordinates,” said Cillian, his speech rapid and precise.

“Authorisation password required to engage emergency military frequency, sir.”

“Star divinity sixty-five opal newtown.”

“Accepted. Switching to emergency military frequency,” said Reginald. “Sir, we are blocked on all frequencies. All incoming and outgoing signals are jammed. There is only one open frequency.”

“Damn it,” swore Cillian, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Okay, hail them on the open frequency.”

A few moments later, a muffled voice was heard over the radio. The speaker was clearly disguising their identity by using voice distortion technology.

“You are ordered to land in the clearing ahead. Failure to comply will be met with lethal force.”

Cillian grabbed the corded radio microphone and flicked it on. “Ordered by whom?” quipped Cillian sarcastically.

There was no response to Cillian’s question.

Cillian sighed and placed the microphone back on the dash. He took another swig of whisky.

“Reginald, it looks like our day just got a lot more interesting. Should we try to outrun the bastards? I bet Luas would be able to beat them in a straight race.”

“Sir, I believe that their missiles have locked on to our ship and at this distance the probability of escaping alive, should they fire the missiles, would be minimal.”

“Ever the party pooper, aye, Reg. I suspect you are correct, though.”

Cillian slowed down the ship and began to veer towards the clearing in the forest. He could see that it had only recently been cleared by what appeared to have been explosive impacts. This was clearly pre-meditated. The question was whether they had been waiting for him specifically or had just been waiting to ambush the first unsuspecting and unguarded ship that would pass by.

Once Cillian had landed the Lowbie, two of the three ships followed suit and landed nearby. Their entrance hatches quickly opened and three tall figures emerged from each ship. The six soldiers wore full battle dress, armoured black space suits, combat helmets, jet packs and assault plasma rifles. The third VZUS ambwe, which had not landed, held a holding pattern above them, no doubt as a precautionary measure in case Cillian attempted to escape in his ship.

Cillian remained sitting in the car, observing the soldiers as they fanned out around his ship.

These are no ordinary bandits. They appear to be trained soldiers, thought Cillian.

As they moved closer, he could see that their assault rifles had been customised. They sported short range scopes, barrel compensators, vertical grips and extended magazines.

These look to be mercenary soldiers, likely ex-military, but by their tall stature, they do not appear to be human. Most likely Ustur then. Off-worlders, thought Cillian as he quickly appraised the situation.

But Cillian noticed something odd about the movement of the rearmost two soldiers. They are limping. One of them very badly, thought Cillian as he observed the way the left leg dragged along the ground. They have recently been in a scuffle, it would appear.

The muffled voice came over the radio again.

“You are ordered to exit from the ship.”

“Sir, I do believe that these individuals appear to have hostile intentions.”

“I think I would agree with you on this one, Reg.”

By this time, Luna had awoken from her slumber. Sensing potential danger, she began to whimper.

“It is okay, Luna. I need you to stay here in the car and guard it for me, okay?” said Cillian as he reached back behind Reginald’s seat to grab a pair of pink-rimmed aviator sunglasses, a crumpled flower-bedecked long-sleeved shirt and matching loose pants and a shiny metal sphere. “Uncle Reggie and I will take care of this. We shall not be long. I promise.”

Luna appeared to be reassured by the tone in Cillian’s voice. She stopped her whimpering and rested her head back down. The tinted glass of Cillian’s Lowbie had been customised to provide complete privacy for the occupants. Knowing this, Cillian quickly removed his military uniform and slipped the floral shirt and floral pants over his military under-armour. The under-armour was effectively concealed from view once he had donned his civilian garments. 

He had left his combat space suit back on Ádh as he had not anticipated a hostile encounter this day. But he would not be completely defenceless as he was still wearing his under-armour, which was actually an extremely high-grade military defensive device capable of generating a powerful personal energy shield when required.

“Sir, will you require my combat services today?”

“Reg, I do believe I may.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Follow my lead, though. And remember, you are supposed to be just a dumb butler robot, so make sure you act the part. Just like we have practiced. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. I note, however, that you have brought no guns with you on this journey.”

“Why on Bohemia would I need any guns when I have you?” asked Cillian with a wide grin. Cillian took a final long swig of whisky and donned his straw hat, ensuring it sat slightly akimbo on his head. “Plus, I always have my fists of fury,” continued Cillian, wiggling a ring-bedecked hand as he opened his driver-side door with the other hand. In fact Cillian sported eight silver-coloured rings in total; one on each finger of his two hands.

Once the pair had emerged from Luas, the third mercenary ship, which had been circling above, descended to land.

The nearest mercenary soldier, clearly the leader of the team, was presently walking towards Cillian, their assault rifle raised at the ready.

“Greetings and salutations, ladies and gentleman,” said Cillian loudly, intentionally slurring his words to feign drunkenness. He was still holding his hip flask in his left hand as he opened his arms wide in what he intended to be a welcoming gesture. Cillian did in fact look the very image of an arrogant young playboy out for a drunken joy ride. 

“Oh, so sorry if I have offended. By your towering stature, I surmise you may be Ustur and I do believe if I am not mistaken that you do not identify with any gender so my reference to ladies and gentleman may have come across as rather insensitive. Non-binary would you say? Do you have preferred pronouns? How should I address you?”

The other ship had now landed, and two additional mercenary soldiers joined the group. Eight mercenary soldiers in total were now arrayed before Cillian, with the leader halting three metres before him at the same time that Reginald was arriving by Cillian’s side.

Curious. Only two soldiers emerged from the third ship. No signs of anyone else aboard the ship. Third team likely suffered a casualty, thought Cillian.

The mercenary leader took their left hand off their assault rifle to press a button on the side of their helmet and in the process of doing so, the barrel of their assault rifle began to droop towards the ground. The visor flicked up to reveal an Ustur face. Cillian’s sharp gaze caught a grimace of pain as the Ustur struggled to keep the rifle level with only their right arm holding it. They were ultimately unable to achieve this and only once the left hand had returned to its supporting position on the rifle were they once again able to aim the assault rifle back on Cillian.

Right arm injury, thought Cillian. No visible wounds would suggest internal damage. Possibly a fractured radius. Wait, do Ustur have radius bones? Likely not. Absurd of me to think they would have the same anatomy as humans. Note to self: need to learn more about Ustur anatomy.

“Ah, my supposition was correct. You are indeed Ustur,” said Cillian, bringing his hands down beside him. He made sure to sway back and forth on his feet as he spoke, to further feed the image of intoxication. “Welcome to Bohemia. My name is Cillian, and this here is my good-for-nothing butler, Reginald.”

“Well, Toal, then what happened?” asked Saoirse.

“I actually don’t know much of what occurred, given I was not present with Cillian during his mad ride through the city. But from what I gathered from the police report, a group of other similarly mad festival goers joined Cillian, all with horses of their own. Soon there were a few dozen riders, all streaking up and down the streets of the capital, and all the while being chased by the Mounted Police Corps. At some point in the evening, they were apparently allowed onto the National Horse Racing Tracks, where an actual horse race was already occurring. How on earth they managed to get the security to let them in through the side gates is anyone’s guess, but I suspect that Cillian’s Family name and reputation had something to do with it. You can imagine what ensued after that. Absolute chaos is what it was.”

“You’re joking,” said Saoirse, a look of incredulity upon her face.

“No, not at all joking,” continued Toal. “Cillian and his merry band of high-on-mushroom loonies joined the other riders in the horse race of a lifetime, watched on by several thousand cheering onlookers. This portion of Cillian’s wild adventure was actually recorded as the race was being live-streamed across Bohemia. I have already watched the footage, and it is admittedly quite hilarious.”

Toal began to laugh at the recollection, his slow rumbling laughter causing his braids to shake back and forth.

“How did they end up catching you?” asked Saoirse. This time her question was directed to Cillian.

“They did not catch me,” he said in a tone of mock anger. “I surrendered. Truth be told, I had grown bored and a little weary. I wanted a nap, and I knew I would have my own private sleeping quarters at the Police station.”

“He had broken several laws,” said Toal as he withdrew a slip of paper from a pocket and began reading aloud. “Larceny; civil disruption; incitement to a riot; public nudity in a non-authorised area; and the assault of a Policer Officer.”

“I object vehemently to the last noted offence,” said Cillian. “The rest is likely true, but I never assaulted that fool of a Police Officer. The clumsy dunce simply fell face first on my boot when I was trying to assist him up the tree. What a preposterous accusation!”

“At any rate,” continued Toal. “Those were the noted violations committed by our rebellious Captain.”

“Where was Reginald during this entire affair?” asked Saoirse. “Last time I saw the pair of you, he was still with you. That was admittedly two days ago.”

The ‘Reginald’ that Saoirse was referring to was Cillian’s personal bodyguard robot. The military-grade assault robot had been issued to Cillian when he had attained the rank of Captain some ten years prior. All Boheme officers of rank Captain and above were required by the Military authorities to travel with a robot bodyguard escort when away from their primary ship. Even during their Down-Time. This was a mandatory safety precaution to protect Military Officers who were at a significantly higher risk of assassination or kidnapping attempts. Cillian hated the rule, as he valued his independence so dearly, but he had no choice but to comply with the mandate. For the most part, at least.

“Well,” said Cillian. “It took us the better part of an afternoon to shake the old nanny. He is worse than a nursemaid chasing after an errant toddler when he sets his mind to it. He just would not let up in his tireless pursuit.”

Saoirse began to laugh amiably at the image conveyed by his metaphor.

“Poor Reginald. And I presume you were the errant toddler in this scenario?” she asked, her expression quizzical as she raised an eyebrow.

This line of personal bodyguard robots had been programmed to follow and guard their ward at all times and at all costs when away from the ship, even if ordered by the Officer not to.

“We managed to entice the persistent old codger into an abandoned heavy duty shipping container on the pretext of looking for spare parts for Toal’s workshop. But the wily fellow was already onto us.”

“Yes,” said Toal, taking up the story. “He was quite suspicious that we would be so far outside the city’s limits when a festival was in full swing.”

“Not to mention his memory of all our past duplicitous ploys to rid ourselves of him,” said Cillian.

“But this time we got the better of him and we managed to trap him in the container. Mind you, he made short work of the container door, the laser weapons built into his arms cutting through the one and a half inch thick steel like butter. But we had slowed him down enough for us to make our escape in Cillian’s Fimbul Lowbie.”

Toal paused in his regaling of the story to take a few short sharp puffs of his pipe. Cillian continued the tale and said, “Of course Reginald used the thrusters on his feet to chase us up in the air, but we were headed for Nemed, so he soon had to give up the chase as his thruster fuel was rapidly depleted. He was forced to capitulate and returned to Ádh in defeat.”

Nemed was the National Space Station that was located in the extra-atmospheric space directly above Danu. It was easily accessible by an x-small ship like a Fimbul Lowbie, even by an xx-small ship, but the jet thrusters, located on the underside of the metallic feet of Reginald, were not capable of propelling him such a vast distance.

“And then what happened?” queried Saoirse.

“We went to a few parties up on Nemed, but we soon grew bored with the scene,” responded Cillian.

“Only the snooty elites like to party up on Nemed. Except these snooty elites,” said Toal, pointing his pipe at Cillian and then Fiadh. Toal was making fun of the fact that Cillian and Fiadh were part of one of the most powerful and wealthiest Families in Bohemia. The O’Tuathail Family were the wealthiest Family in Bohemia and, whilst they were no longer the most powerful politically, and had not been since the tragic death of Caedmon O’Tuathail, the founder of Bohemia, they still retained significant political power thanks to their mother Una O’Tuathail. 

Una O’Tuathail was the Clann Chief of Clann Aodh and had been in this position for the last six years. After mourning the loss of her husband, Cian O’Tuaithail, who had disappeared mysteriously eighteen years prior, Una had decided to enter the arena of Clann and Family politics. She was a naturally talented orator and debater and had worked for much of her younger life prior to having children as a diplomat. She was, therefore, already well versed in the subtleties of politics. Her eldest son, Liam O’Tuathail, had followed her on this path and he had just served his first year as an Aodh Clann Councillor.

“I am neither snooty nor an elite,” said Cillian, holding his nose in the air. Besides, I have spent far too long with you riff-raff to be considered as an elite by any of my peers.”

“Ah ha. So you admit they are your peers, then.”

“As are you all. Everyone is my peer. Except that damnable dog of yours. Duke! I am convinced that the beast is mocking me with its ridiculous saluting and looking at itself in the mirror. I believe it has a severe case of narcissism.”

“Well, that makes two of you then,” muttered Toal around his pipe, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“What was that?” said Cillian, leaning forward over the table.

“Okay,” interjected Saoirse. “So, Toal, going back to the part in the story where Cillian got arrested, what did you say to get him free?”

“Oh, the usual story, that Cillian was a retarded sibling of mine who had unfortunately suffered a terrible kick to the head from a horse as a child and had never been the same since. I told them that he had escaped from his cage during the festivities and I apologised profusely and promised to take him home immediately and lock him back up again.”

Saoirse began to laugh, which made the others begin to laugh, and soon, even Aislinn was laughing.

“They surely didn’t believe that,” said Saoirse after she had caught her breath.

“Not one word of it.”

“Oh. So how did he get free then?”

“Well,” said Cillian. “As to that, they realised their mistakes, apologised profusely and simply let me free.”

“Lies,” said Ádh, her voice coming from all directions thanks to the many speakers installed in the mess hall. “The probability that he bribed the guards to let him free is very high.”

Despite the fact that Ádh had not intended to be funny, the others broke out into laughter again at this statement.

Cillian let out a groan of despair, but before he could respond, Eoin spoke up.

“Sorry to change the subject,” said Eoin. “But I was wondering who would replace Kieran in the role of rig operator now that he has chosen to retire?”

The laughter subsided quickly, and all attention turned to Cillian, awaiting his response. This was a serious topic and one that everyone had been speculating about.

Kieran had been the rig operator aboard Ádh for the past ten years. He had been part of the original crew that Cillian had formed ten years prior when he had attained the rank of Captain in the Bohemian National Military and had finally been able to choose his own squadron crew. No one had known Kieran’s exact age, but the crew had suspected that he was in his late eighties. This was actually relatively young for retirement, as the average Bohemian life expectancy was around one hundred and thirty-five years. As a result of advances in medical technology, the rate of aging for the Boheme population was significantly slower than it had been for their Terran ancestors. It was for this reason that many Boheme were still actively working even past a hundred.

Kieran had still been fit and healthy when he had decided to retire from military service therefore, his reasons for retirement had not been health related. Rather, he had told them that he wished to focus his time and energy on sculpture, which was his passion. The crew had held a big farewell party for Kieran on the first evening of their return from space and the next morning Kieran had taken his leave of the crew and had departed back to the Corca Oiche Clann mothership.

“Good question, Eoin,” said Cillian as he stood up and began to pace the length of the room. “I have been thinking about this a great deal myself. Whilst I do not have any specific candidates in mind, I believe I would like to take on a young recruit fresh from the National University. As much as we loved dear old Kieran, he was a little long in the fang and I believe we need some new young blood in the crew. No, his replacement shall be someone much younger. Someone malleable that I can knead into the form I desire. And a female this time. With a fresh mind and spirit, eager and willing to do whatever was needed. Yes, a fresh young malleable female recruit would do nicely.”

Cillian turned back to the crew but instead of the nods of agreement he was expecting, they were all shaking their heads at him, and Saoirse was mouthing ‘you idiot’. It was Aislinn’s expression, however, that truly caught his attention; her eyes seemed to flay him with the intensity of her jealous stare.

“Uh… no. That came out all wrong. I can see now how that would sound to you all. Oh dear me, what have I done. What I meant to say is that I will go out this very day to find an appropriate applicant with the capacity to diligently and effectively perform the inherent job requirements of the role. Questions of age, sex and experience will not form any part of the decision-making process. Better?”

“Actually, I believe —“ began Eoin, but he was suddenly cut off by Cillian.

“Oh do be quiet, you; it was a rhetorical question. So dearest angel of mine,” said Cillian, an endearing tone entering his voice. “How about some tea then?”

The death stare she directed in his direction spoke volumes.

“Urgh... right then. I was not really thirsty anyway. I think I may take this as an opportunity to depart,” said Cillian as he began to back rapidly towards the mess hall entrance.

Cillian noticed that Aislinn had by now picked up a nearby teapot. “Uh… it has been a lovely chat but I really must be off so let us continue this discussion another time, shall we? Right; I am off then.” With those final parting words, Cillian ducked through the doorway, narrowly avoiding a teapot that had been flung by Aislinn.

“Mankind’s obsessive search for perfection deprives them of the joy of this imperfect existence. Let us shift the focus from the abstract image of perfection and instead make our unique imperfections the central point that is our genuine whole Self.”

- Cillian O’Tuathail - Journal entry, Year 2619

Local Time: 09:26

Date: Day 127 of the Year 93 according to the Bohemian Calendar - Year 2623 according to the Galactic Calendar

Location: Ádh - Danu - Planet Bohemia - Mid Risk Zone - MUD Territory - Galia

Back on Bohemia, Toal, Eoin and Cillian were making their way to the mess hall after their failed card game in the storage room.

“It certainly has been a wild few days,” said Toal. “I feel like the longer we are away on a mission, the wilder the parties are when we return. It was definitely quite wild for our audacious Captain.”

Toal smiled broadly and then pointed his right index finger at Cillian’s left eye whilst raising his eyebrows in quick succession.

Cillian scoffed loudly and crossed his arms before turning his face away from Toal. “How was I supposed to know the horse had a vicious temper? Nasty beast of a thing.”

“Well, that’s what you get when you steal the horse of one of the Mounted Police Officers,” responded Toal sardonically.

“Steal? Steal?” cried Cillian incredulously as he turned back towards Toal. “Heaven forfend, my dear fellow, I did not steal it! Dash the very thought. Nay, I was merely… how do you say…” he looked up at the ceiling, a quizzical expression on his face, his right hand stroking his beard whilst his left hand produced an unstoppered bottle of whisky from a pocket. “… borrowing it! The brute’s master was nowhere to be seen. Abandoned in the street it was and to me it looked all the world like it needed some company. My company, in fact.”

As they arrived at the entrance to the mess hall, the other crew members greeted them with half-hearted waves and sleepy nods. Most of them were still nursing hangovers from the festivities of the past few days. This was understandable given the length of time they had been away on active duty. Cillian and the others took seats at the long table.

The mess hall of the ship was the primary social gathering area for the crew and served as both their dining room and recreation room. The walls were lined with indoor plants that overflowed from an abundance of pots. Some climbing plants had even managed to crawl across the ceiling, creating a foliage of greenery above. The plants’ leaves and flowers were a riot of colours, from bright greens to pinks, reds, purples, blues and yellows. The Boheme loved their plants, and for this reason, most Bohemian ships contained a large number of plants.

Cillian stole a sideways glance at Aislinn before slightly turning away to take a series of quick gulps from his hip flask. Mid gulp, Aislinn suddenly snatched the bottle from his grasp in a single lightning fast motion and proceeded to shake an index finger at him as her lips pursed and her eyebrows furrowed. In response, Cillian hissed at her and bared his teeth.

One of the other crew members, a female human in her early forties, pulled up a chair beside Toal. This was Saoirse Fay, the ship’s Engineering Officer. She had university degrees in Mechanical, Electrical and Combat Engineering and could disassemble and put back together just about any piece of equipment. Saoirse was of average height with a strong, muscular physique as a result of her heavy manual labour work and her regular practice of calisthenics and resistance training.

She was also an adept practitioner of Coraíocht, which was the ancient Irish practice of wrestling. Saoirse had skin the colour of dark rosewood, reddish-brown with warm orange-red undertones. She had not always been a Boheme, which explained her distinct skin colour. Most Boheme, having descended from the Irish Travellers, had fair to olive skin. Saoirse had applied to become a citizen when she was in her early twenties and had been a citizen of Bohemia for the past sixteen years and a member of the crew for the past ten years.

“At any rate,” continued Cillian. “The good-for-nothing Police Officer and owner of said ill-tempered equine monster was temporarily indisposed at the time that I happened to stumble upon the horse in the street.”

“Mmm, most indisposed,” said Toal mock seriously as he produced a large wooden pipe from his left breast pocket. His right hand then fished into a tobacco pouch at his right waist. Smoking tobacco from a pipe was one of Toal’s favourite pastimes. “Most indisposed indeed was our dear Police Officer. As I recall it, he was busy at the time trying to retrieve his weapon belt. The same weapon belt that you, Cillian, had somehow managed to wrangle from him and throw up in a nearby tree.”

“Lies, lies, lies,” said Cillian as he leaned back, the chair teetering back on its two back legs. He lifted his arms up above his head, cupped his hands behind his neck, and looked up at the ceiling. “No, no, no, the way I recall it, the Police Officer’s weapon belt was already up the tree when I came across him and his horse. He was futilely attempting to scale the tree — with very little success I might add, short useless legs that he had — and thus I had the brilliant idea that if I were to stand upon his horse, I might be able to reach the lower branches and thereby gain access to the otherwise entirely inaccessible tree.” Cillian surreptitiously lifted his left hand away from his neck and reached down his back to grasp a hidden hip flask.

“Ah, yes, you are correct,” said Toal in between puffing upon his pipe. Thick blue-grey smoke filled the air. “Now I recall, and it was during your well-intentioned attempt to stand upon the horse that it kicked you in the face?”

“Kicked?” cried Cillian as he suddenly leaned forward. “I was verily assaulted by the demon. If it had not been for my lightning reflexes and unparalleled agility I would likely be dead right now.” Cillian scoffed and casually took a swig of whisky from the bottle that had somehow appeared in his left hand when he had returned to a seated position.

“Lightning reflexes that still allowed you to get a full kick to the face?” Toal queried.

“Not full, my dear fellow,” said Cillian. “Merely a passing glance, a tickle, a whisper of wind upon my flesh.” Cillian reached up and gingerly touched the bruising around his eye. He winced in pain. “Nay, I call foul play! It was all some sort of elaborate trap designed to get me assaulted. The weapon belt in the tree, the lonely, innocent looking horse, the pathetically pleading mounted police officer. Entrapment. A conspiracy of sorts. Shrubbery and smoke.”

Cillian took another swig of the whisky and Aislinn took a swing for the bottle but this time Cillian rebuffed her attempt with his free hand. “Mounted Police Officer,” said Cillian, scoffing in disgust. “What an absurd title and what an even more absurd vocation. Learn to ride a bloody Airbike, I say!” yelled Cillian, his eyes bulging in the process.

“But you love horses,” said Toal.

“I do, very much in fact, but imagine trying to catch a criminal who is escaping in a spaceship whilst you are riding after them on horseback. Ridiculous!”

“So how was it that you managed to mount his horse in the end?” asked Toal, changing the subject. “That part I genuinely do not understand, despite having seen it happen with my own eyes. After having just been kicked in the head by the horse you somehow managed to mount the damn thing and then went on a wild horse race through the National Capital, all the while being chased by half the Danu Mounted Police Force.” Toal shook his head. “You should have seen the police officer’s face after you stole his horse and went galloping off.” Toal rumbled with laughter.

“Borrowed, dear fellow. Borrowed,” said Cillian. “But yes, after our initial disagreement, the horse and I made amends. I am a horse whisperer, after all. It is in my very blood.” Cillian was referring to the fact that the O’Tuathail Family were renowned horse breeders and horse racers. Cillian had never been particularly involved or interested in the horse breeding side of the Family’s economic affairs, despite the fact that they owned several large horse breeding farms. He had, however, enjoyed the horse riding side of things and had been a champion horse racer during his late teenage years.

“My, my, we flew that night…” Cillian cocked his head to the left and looked up at the wall, his eyes clouding over with fond recollection.

Toal chuckled softly and then pulled on his pipe.

“And how did you come to be naked?” asked Aislinn, her eyebrows arching and her head tilting slightly to one side.

“Ah, yes, well as to that, I do recall that the horse insisted upon it. It having no saddle or reins, it argued that it would only be fair if I were also naked.”

“You were riding it bareback? With no reins?” stammered Saoirse incredulously.

“Why, of course, that is the only proper way to ride a horse. None of that saddle and reins nonsense. So, naturally, being the considerate soul that I am, I obliged the horse in its request. I tore off my clothing, and we then took to the streets. We led the Mounted Police Corps on a merry chase.”

“How many psilocybin mushrooms had you consumed at that point in time?” asked Saoirse.

“Oh, hard to say, really. I never really stopped eating them, you see. The only thing I kept with me as I rode was my mushroom bag, which was tied around my neck. It was quite an experience, I must say. The city lights at night, the festival music being played at various locations, the smell of burning wood from all the ceremonial bonfires, the thrill of being chased. Ah, it was truly a euphoric experience.”

“And then you were arrested,” Aislinn said, looking pointedly at Cillian.

“My dear, I was not arrested,” said Cillian, shaking his head. “My good friends at the Police Department simply knew how tired I was and made their lovely sleeping quarters available for my use. Free of charge, too, I should add.”

“Sleeping quarters that were in a jail cell,” said Aislinn in a flat tone.

“Sleeping quarters nonetheless. Let us not quibble on the details, sweetest angel of mine.” Cillian smiled widely in what he hoped was an endearing manner. Noting her lack of response, Cillian squinted his eyes suspiciously and then began to slide his chair away from her whilst slowly, deliberately, bringing the bottle of whisky to his mouth. Anticipating an imminent snatch, he began to pre-emptively ward her off with his free hand, but the snatch was not forthcoming and Aislinn merely sighed and rolled her eyes. She then locked gazes with Toal, but Toal simply smiled and shrugged at her.

“Don’t think I don’t know that you are just as bad as he is, Toal,” said Aislinn. Toal feigned hurt, his brow furrowing as he pointed his pipe at himself as if to saywho me?. “Had another horse been available for you to ride, I am certain I would have been bailing out the two of you right this moment. As it was only Cillian was arrested, this time. The pair of you are as bad as each other and triply bad when Saoirse is added to the mix.”

“Hey don’t bring me into this,” complained Saoirse as she pulled absently at a thread in her clothes. Saoirse was perennially wearing a pair of stained dark blue overalls, which truth be told were more patches than original garment. Cillian was convinced that she never washed them, as she appeared to always be wearing the same pair of overalls. He had observed that she even wore them under her military armour. Saoirse found it amusing how much this concept bothered him and for this reason she had made the decision several years ago not to dispel him from his belief. The reality was that she had over a dozen pairs of different, albeit similar looking, patched overalls and changed them on a daily basis.

“I got tired of trying to keep up with those louts on the second day,” continued Saoirse. “Too much running around for me. Instead, I ended up finding myself a cute lass, and we shacked up together to investigate the more, how would you say, intimate —.”

“Right! We don’t need to hear about all that then,” interjected Aislinn loudly. “Tea? Who would like tea then?”

“Oh, yes, tea would be lovely, my dear,” chimed in Cillian

.

One hour later, Captain Rivik’s VZUS ambwe landed on the planet at the temporary landing area that had been set. The pirates that had formed the exploratory mining party were all presently huddled together on the entrance platform of an Armstrong IMP Tap. They were suited up with their helmets on, but appeared to be too scared to set foot off the ship. Several Armstrong IMP Tips stood around, idle and pilotless.

Captain Rivik growled at the sight. He clicked on his mic.

“Lieutenant Beol. What the fuck is going on here?”

“It’s the ground, Captain.”

“What about it? I’m standing on it. It’s just goddamn dirt. What’s got everyone scared shitless?”

“Well, our chief botanist said that they don’t think it’s actually dirt. They said that there may be soil deeper down, but what we are standing on right now is not actually dirt.”

“Then what the fuck is it?” yelled Captain Rivik, becoming exasperated by the exchange.

“We don’t know exactly. The chief botanist went to get a sample and… well…”

The Lieutenant’s words trailed off. He raised an arm and pointed it towards something that was sticking up out of the ground. The Captain set off towards the object. It was less than twenty metres away, so he quickly closed the distance. However, as he got closer, his steps began to slow as comprehension dawned on him of what he was looking at. The protruding object was an outstretched arm. An arm belonging to one of his pirate raiders. His chief botanist, to be precise. All that was visible were the forearm and hand. No other portion of the body was visible.

“How long has it been like this?”

“The body has been slowly disappearing over the past hour, almost like it is sinking, or being swallowed by the ground. Before she collapsed, the botanist mentioned something about a mycelial network, whatever that is. Then she started screaming. But the screaming didn’t last long, though. Pretty soon she went quiet and just collapsed over where you are standing. None of the boys were game enough to venture out to get her.”

“And what about you, Lieutenant Beol? Were you also not game enough?”

“Safety protocol demanded that at least one ranking officer should remain back in case of an emergency.”

“Of course,” growled Captain Rivik as he knelt down to examine the hand. He had a custom-made space suit that allowed for his cybernetic hands to extend out of his suit. Instead of extending down to form gloves like most space suits did, his suit stopped at the wrists and attached to sealing attachments that were permanently fitted to his cybernetic hands. This allowed him the freedom to use his hands without the impediment of gloves, even in environments requiring a space suit.

He reached down with his right hand and brushed the ground. It felt solid enough.

“Mycelial network, you said?” asked the Captain.

“Yes, Captain.”

Whilst the Captain was undoubtedly a bloodthirsty tyrant and a nefarious criminal, he was not uneducated, nor was he stupid. He knew what a mycelial network was.

What would a network of fungal hyphae be doing out here? This planet is supposed to be barren and lifeless, he thought to himself.

“What was the botanist doing when she collapsed?”

“She had been digging with a shovel to try to get a sample. She had complained that it was very tough ground and had been hacking away at the ground. It was not long after this that she screamed and collapsed.”

“Interesting. And now to test my theory,” said Captain Rivik.

He let his fingers of both hands slowly slide into the ground. There was very little resistance to this motion. Once his hands were almost fully submerged in the soft ground, he slowly began to curl his fingers until they were in a claw position beneath the surface. He braced himself, straddling his legs wide, and then activated the micro-actuators in his hands and made to tear his clawed hands as fast and as hard as he could up through the ground. But instead of effortlessly pulling up and out of the ground like one would expect, there was incredible resistance, overwhelming resistance. So much so that several hundred micro-actuators automatically switched off, because of the triggering of neural circuit breakers, which triggered whenever the actuators were at a critical breakpoint.

Captain Rivik was staggered by the resistance and only just caught his balance as his hands finally broke free from the ground.He was also peripherally aware of a high pitched buzzing sound that lasted a few moments and then vanished. This was a sound that he was familiar with. It was the sound generated by the Anti-Psyche device within his brain. This device was designed to prevent over the air hacking of his neural brain implants. It also prevented psychic manipulation, hypnosis, and hallucinations. And it had just activated.

“Are you okay, Captain?” asked Lieutenant Beol.

Captain Rivik ignored the question, busy as he was on regaining his footing once again.

Just as I suspected. It only reacts defensively to perceived threats such as sudden, violent motions, thought Captain Rivik to himself.

“What is it Captain? What is this planet?”

“Lieutenant Beol. We have ourselves here, the galaxy’s largest mushroom.”

“What?”

“The botanist was correct. Somehow, this planet has been consumed by an entire mycelial network, a fungal network. Where it came from, I don’t know. Where did the scans indicate that the Verudium readings were originating from?”

“It is hard to say. The readings were so inconsistent, but the Science Officer seemed to think that the Verudium was located in the core of the planet itself. But that can’t be right because Verudium has never been found in a planetary core.”

“Hmm,” said the Captain as he set back for the ship. “It’s not inconceivable that the mycelial network has extended right into the core of the planet and is somehow feeding off it. I suspect it may be the source of the Verudium, somehow synthesising it. Possibly as a waste by-product.”

“I don’t follow you, Captain.”

“Don’t worry about it. This planet has been taken over by some alien life form that appears to be related to a fungus, except that it is sentient, and it is most definitely hostile towards us. It will resist any efforts to mine the planet’s core. There is no way we will be able to mine the Verudium in the normal way. Instead, we can destroy the planet from the safety of space. Prime the nuclear warheads on the VZUS ballad. I want to blow this fucker of a planet to pieces. We can collect the Verudium from the debris field that will be created in the aftermath of the explosion. Best we get off the planet’s surface and back —“. But Captain Rivik got no further in his sentence, for suddenly his head was filled with the loudest and most intense high frequency buzzing sound that he had ever heard. A moment later, the thunderous clap of a sonic blast shook the ground.

Screams filled the air as the other pirates who did not have the protection of the Anti-Psyche implant devices were blasted by an immensely powerful psychic wave that had risen up from the planet itself. It swept outwards in an ever-expanding sphere in all directions at the speed of light. So tremendously fast and powerful was the force generated by the blast that it actually distorted the fabric of space itself, generating countless tiny wormholes in its wake. Portions of the psychic blast slipped in through these briefly existing wormholes, to then randomly reappear all across the universe in the next instant.

The entire landing crew, save for Captain Rivik, were rendered immediately and permanently brain dead, and they collectively collapsed to the ground. As the buzzing subsided, Captain Rivik surveyed the scene before him. A quarter of his entire crew, including his second in command, had been taken from him. And most of his best mining ships, which were still here, would have to be abandoned. 

There is no way I am going to risk the lives of any more of the crew trying to recover these mining ships, he thought to himself. Assuming anyone is still alive aboard my flagship. But he quickly reprimanded himself for this thought as he well knew that the VZUS ballad had its own protective shields which would have blocked the bulk of the electromagnetic pulse.

He began to growl, a deep burning anger growing within him as he set off towards his VZUS ambwe.

Once aboard, he keyed his mic and hailed the crew aboard the VZUS ballad.

“Is anyone still alive?”

There was half a minute’s silence before someone finally replied. “Yes, Captain. We are alive but pretty shaken. And we all have splitting headaches. What the hell was that?”

Ignoring the question, Captain Rivik lifted off the planet in his VZUS ambwe and said, “Prep the nuclear warheads. We have a planet to destroy!”

When good men are unable to know wrong from right,

Darkness fills their souls and quenches their inner light,

And so in this way another demon is born,

An evil slave to join the army of hellspawn.

- Cillian O’Tuathail - Book of Collected Poems - Volume III, 2609

Local Time: Unknown

Date: Day 127 of the Year 2623 according to the Galactic Calendar

Location: Unknown Planet - High Risk Zone - Galia

Six and half light years away from the planet Bohemia lay a small, unassuming planet. Possessing a thin atmosphere, frigid temperatures, no apparent flora or fauna, no surface level water sources and virtually no mineable resources of any value, it was quite possibly one of the least appealing planets in all of Galia. Over the centuries, it had been scanned on countless occasions by passing ships, and each time, the results had been the same. Both surface level scans and deeper penetrating scans had consistently not detected anything of interest. As a result, it had not been visited by any sentient life forms for several millennia.

That being said, some thirteen years ago, the planet had been struck by an asteroid. An asteroid that had recently travelled through the cataclysm zone. The asteroid itself had been obliterated on impact with the planet, but it had been carrying something on it. Something living. Something that had spread and grown across the planet over the past thirteen years.

“Captain Rivik,” said a junior Jorvik Pirate, her heels snapping together as she saluted.

Captain Rivik ignored the interruption. His gaze was fixed on the planet that was visible through the front viewing glass of the VZUS ballad ship, his expression unreadable. Captain Rivik was a giant of a man, measuring a towering seven feet tall with a chest circumference of fifty-eight inches. He was, in truth, a massive beast of a human. His heavily muscled body was augmented by a multitude of cybernetic implants and augmentations. Whilst his cybernetic titanium hands were the most obvious modification, what was not immediately apparent were all the changes that had occurred beneath his skin.

Ten years prior Captain Rivik had undergone an illegal and highly controversial procedure known as Tempering whereby he had been injected with a serum filled with nanobots and trace elements of titanium. The nanobots had then spread throughout his body, concentrating on and within his skeletal system, where they exerted an influence over the activity of the various bone cells responsible for the natural processes of bone synthesis, resorption and mineralisation. As a result of this nano-bot influence, instead of calcium hydroxyapatite being deposited in the osteoid matrix of the bone, as it normally would, titanium was deposited. The end result was that over the following years, his entire skeletal system had been gradually replaced with titanium, transforming him into an incredibly powerful cyborg. The only ongoing maintenance requirement was the daily consumption of a serum containing trace elements of titanium.

Without turning, Captain Rivik spoke up and said, “Have we located the Verudium yet? You better be bringing me some bloody good news.”

Verudium was a very rare and valuable metal and was the sole reason that he and his crew had stopped at the planet. Two days prior, their long range scanners had picked up a faint trace of Verudium in this region of space, which was unexpected as the cartography data they had access to indicated that no Verudium should have been present. They had investigated further and had tracked the source of the Verudium readings back to this planet. The readings from their scanning equipment were, however, quite anomalous. One moment the readings showed only the faintest trace of Verudium and then the next there would be a massive spike on the charts which, if accurate, would suggest the presence of incredibly vast quantities of Verudium. The Science Officer aboard the ship suspected that the Scanner Array was faulty, which was the most logical explanation for the erratic readings, but greed got the better of Captain Rivik. Despite how improbable it was that an enormous node of Verudium existed on the planet, the remote possibility that it might exist, was sufficient justification for him to send an exploratory landing party down to the planet’s surface with the goal of mining directly for the Verudium.

The junior pirate stopped saluting and ducked her head in an unconscious display of subservience.

“Uh… well actually, Captain…” said the junior pirate, her nervousness clearly showing as she fumbled her way through the report. “You see, Lieutenant Beol asked me to tell you that, uh… it’s… not good news, Captain. You see, our chief botanist was… uh… just killed. We don’t know —“ but she got no further than that, for at that moment Captain Rivik had pivoted around on his heels and with an unbelievably fast speed that belied his massive form, he grabbed the pirate by the throat. The surprised pirate was lifted up off the ground, the toes of her boots clearing the floor as she ascended.

“What did you fucking say? I didn’t quite hear you, you pathetic worm. Did you say the news was not good? Speak up, would you!”

But the pirate could not respond, as she was choking. Unable to draw in breath or respond, she simply squirmed in the air, futilely pawing at the Captain’s iron grip.

The Captain held on for a few moments longer, staring into the pirate’s bulging eyes, a look of wicked glee on his face, before he let her go and turned away. The pirate fell to the ground in a heap, ragged breaths being drawn in to her lungs.

Captain Rivik flicked a switch on his helmet and spoke into the mic.

“Lieutenant Beol, please come back to the ship to provide me with an update in person. Your messenger has been deemed unworthy. Also,” said Captain Rivik as he turned back towards the prostrate pirate. “We have some dead weight on board that will need to be jettisoned out to space.”

On hearing this final statement, the pirate began to crawl away from the Captain, pleading for her life between sobbing gasps. Captain Rivik advanced on the pirate until he stood right above her, his left hand on his hip, his right hand raised before him, and a diabolical smile on his face. His hands were a cybernetic addition to his body, formed of an extremely strong titanium alloy and controlled by numerous micro-controllers and actuators. Suddenly, Captain Rivik snapped his right hand into a fist shape and bent forward to bring his face down to just above the pirate. Even in the midst of her anguish, a disassociated part of her mind reflected on how acrid the Captain’s breath was. But the thought did not last long because the next moment the pirate felt the Captain’s oversized cybernetic right hand cupping the back and side of her head, the thumb pushing up painfully beneath the jaw as the other metallic fingers gripped the back of her skull. The pirate began to scream out of pure, unadulterated fear at what she knew was about to happen, the piercing sound echoing off the walls of the bridge.

“I warned you, didn’t I? I said it better be bloody good news. But it fucking wasn’t. Was it?” yelled Captain Rivik over the sound of the pirate’s screaming. “And now you have forced me to give you the bloody good news, emphasis on the bloody!”

A thousand micro-actuators within the cybernetic hand activated simultaneously and suddenly the air was filled with an explosion of blood as the pirate’s skull imploded beneath the Captain’s crushing grip.

Captain Rivik stood up slowly, a mist of blood surrounding him, his weaponised hand dripping with gore. He took one last look of satisfaction at his handiwork and then turned away. He clicked on the helmet mic.

“Lieutenant Beol.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Waylay my last order, as I don’t want you to come back to the ship any longer. Instead, have someone prepare my VZUS ambwe. I am coming down to the planet. I need to see for myself what is actually going on down there. Oh, and I still need someone to get rid of the dead weight. Send a cleaning crew to the bridge.”

“Whaaat?” cried Toal angrily, half rising from his chair. “I was going to win. I was ahead by two tricks.”

“You say that every time, Toal,” drawled Cillian, his eyes rolling in an exaggerated manner. He withdrew his outstretched hand and proceeded to take a quick swig of the bottle before making it disappear again up his sleeve. The torch happened at that moment to be turned in Cillian’s direction and his eyes flared widely in the light, the bloodshot sclera making him appear like some half crazed beast. His left eye, however, did not flare as widely as the other, puffy as it was and surrounded by a wide irregular patch of purpled skin. “And you always say it right before you are about to lose!”

Toal’s face darkened to a deep shade of red and his braided beard began to quiver, but before he could respond, Eoin and Ádh spoke up simultaneously.

“Another untrue statement,” said Ádh and Eoin in unison.

Eoin felt compelled to elaborate and said, “Actually, Toal was indeed up by two tricks and the probability of him winning the pool was approximately seventy-seven percent based on the cards already played. Cillian’s declaration that it was therefore a draw, despite the game not having come to its full and natural conclusion and despite the fact that in all likelihood Toal would have achieved the victory, is simply not an accurate reflection of the true —”.

“Oh, shut up. That is about enough from you,” Cillian said sharply. “You are worse than an Ustur accountant. Who invited you to play, anyway?”

“You did.”

“Oh, did I? Well, it will be the last time,” said Cillian.

“That is what you said last time.”

“Well, this time it will be the last last time!”

“Technically, I was actually not invited, just like I was never invited the other thirty-four times. You forcefully coerced me into playing. Last time you used emotional blackmail and the threat of physical violence.”

Cillian shook his head at this. “Oh come now, you melodramatic old fool. I did nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, you did. Five days ago, at three forty-six in the morning, you woke me up with urgent demands that I play cards with you. Your exact words were, and I quote: ‘Wake up, you lazy sod. If you do not bloody well come and play with cards with me right now, then you can bloody well get off of my ship. And good luck finding a new job you socially incompetent —”

“Come now, come now,” Cillian said placatingly, but Eoin simply kept speaking.

“— good-for-nothing excuse for a walking human calculator —“

“Ah, well, I can explain that particular statement.”

“— with the fashion sense of a neutered Photoli librarian. You craven minded know-it-all nincompoop. I will end you right now if you do not come. Your captain orders it.’ End of quote.”

An awkward silence dragged out between the occupants of the room.

“Well, I admit I went too far in comparing you to a Photoli librarian. That was indeed cruel. I apologise for that,” said Cillian sincerely as he bowed at the waist towards Eoin.

Eoin nodded his head in acknowledgement of the apology.

“Yes,” continued Cillian. “Sorry about that comment. The rest was all justified, of course. I fear I was rather sloshed that night… or morning. In any case, I vaguely recall we did not end up playing cards.”

“That is correct,” said Eoin. “Soon after initially accosting me, you suddenly rushed off again. You did not even await my response. Quite erratic and manic behaviour, even by your standards. If I had exhibited such behaviour in any other individual besides you, I would have concluded that you may have been suffering from full-blown schizophrenia, not that I am an expert in this field, mind you. But you are a peculiar case. No, I believe you were likely born this way and have lived your whole life in a state of functional insanity. Treading the narrow line between existential dissolution and euphoria.”

Eoin paused for a moment in his monologue. He looked shyly up at Cillian before a small smile creased the edges of his lips up and he said, “maybe we are alike in that way, kindred idiot savants that we are.”

Cillian and Toal both sat down slowly, their eyes pinned to Eoin all the while. Despite their misgivings with some of his peculiarities of speech and social awkwardness, they both had the utmost respect for Eoin’s intellectual genius. But what really stunned them in this moment was not his eloquent monologue, but the shy smile that haunted his lips. They had never before seen Eoin smile. They dared not breathe for fear of blowing the timid smile away. He had a beautiful, albeit melancholic, smile and, for the briefest of moments, they saw a fleeting glimpse into a hidden world of unseen roiling passions and deep vibrant emotions. The moment felt almost sacred.

“Well, folks, it’s been rad rad boring dead times,” said Fiadh loudly as she brought her torch down onto the table with a bang. The unexpected noise startled the others sufficiently enough to make them jump in their seats, their eyes swivelling to stare at the torch. The torch was now balanced on-end upon the table and lit the ceiling. Cillian blinked and then quickly turned back to Eoin, but Eoin’s smile had already gone and had been replaced by a neutral expression devoid of any emotions. This was Eoin’s default expression. Cillian turned and locked eyes with Toal. They shared a moment of mutual sadness at the fact that what they had witnessed had so swiftly disappeared, and may never again be repeated.

Fiadh untangled herself from the pretzel position she had been sitting in on her chair. She stood up and said, “Okay fellas, I am going to go to the workshop. A client has contacted me about getting a custom art piece on her Lowbie. Woop woop. She said she will be dropping it off this morning, so catch you later gater whip whip potater.”

Fiadh then beamed a huge grin at them all and swept out of the room. During their Down-Time, the three-month period when military personnel were not on active duty, Fiadh was often busy working on custom paint jobs for the ships of paying clients. She was an incredibly talented spray painter and had developed a significant local reputation for her unique art style that was characterised by bright colours, sharp bold lines and fantastical scenes.

Toal released his pent up breath loudly and then nodded slowly. “I think I might accompany Fiadh,” he said. “I have some work I also need to attend to.” Similar to Fiadh, Toal did custom work as a side gig in his Down-Time to make some extra money. He worked as a mechanic and panel beater who specialised in customising the engines and bodywork of XX-Small, X-Small and Small ships. Sometimes he was commissioned to work on larger ships, but in such cases he would typically be working with another crew of mechanics, which he did not enjoy overly, so he tended to focus on the smaller ships. Yet, it was the high quality customised engines and custom bodywork on Fimbul Lowbies that he was most renowned for.

“Wait, wait Toal, first you must join me for some tea,” said Cillian.

“You mean a hot toddy,” said Toal with a laugh. A hot toddy referred to an alcoholic beverage once popular in Ireland. The preferred version on Bohemia typically included a combination of whiskey, tea, hot water, honey, lemon, cinnamon, ginger, star anise and vanilla.

“Yes, well, it has been a very long six months of active duty. Six long months of abstinence, so I figure I need to make up for all those sober hours. Six months of sobriety in exchange for six days of intoxication.”

“Oh? Six days only? Well, today would be the fifth day since our return, by my reckoning. So only one day to go then, not counting today.”

Cillian’s face paled, and a look of panic swept across his face. “What? So soon? Day five already?”

Toal laughed, clapped Cillian on his back good-naturedly and soon they were both laughing.

Thirty minutes later, Cillian was playing another game of Twenty-Five. This time, however, he was playing in a small storage room. He had originally tried to set himself up in the mess hall to play, however, Aislinn had shooed him right back out the door. She had explained in no uncertain terms, with hands on hips and brow furrowed, that the other crew members were eating their breakfasts at the main table and were not to be disturbed.

There were currently ten human crew members aboard the ship, although the ship’s full complement was normally eleven crew members. They were down one crew member due to the recent retirement of one of the crew members. Most of the present crew members, except for Fiadh and Aislinn who did not drink, were all quite hung over and were in no mood for the inevitable raucous bantering that would accompany a card game. Aislinn had known that the peaceful atmosphere would have been irreparably disrupted had the game been permitted to proceed in the mess hall. She had therefore preemptively barred Cillian from setting up in the mess hall, much to his chagrin.

Nevertheless, Cillian had managed to steal away three of the crew members prior to being ejected. Two of the crew members, Toal and Fiadh, had not required much convincing, however, the fourth crew member, a fellow by the name of Eoin O’Tagh, had not been a willing participant. Eoin had tried to explain that he was not in any way interested in playing the game — the phrase “I would rather be torn apart by Atoph than waste my time playing a game designed for simpletons and drunkards” was proclaimed loudly and repeatedly during the altercation — but Cillian would have none of it and had simply pulled a distraught Eoin from his seat, dragged him by his coat out the door, down the corridor and into the storage room.

The four of them now sat within the cramped space of the room. A fluorescent light set in the ceiling flickered fitfully for a few seconds, and four sets of eyes swivelled up to stare at the single fluorescent bulb.

Cillian reflected to himself that it looked like the final death dance of a sputtering candle flame. Pleased with the poeticism of the thought, he decided to share it with the others in the room.

“I have just reflected that it looks like the final death dance of a sputtering candle flame,” he said whilst bringing his hands up before him to mimic a flame’s motion. This was, of course, for added dramatic effect. Pleased with his delivery, he felt compelled to continue his poetic narration. “Refusing to relinquish its life even in the face of its own imminent demise, the flame raged against the coming darkness. Loathe to go into the night quietly, our beloved, brave fluorescent light fought valiantly and through sheer willpower alone was able to prevail.”

By this time, Cillian had stepped up on to the table, his arms outstretched towards the flickering tube, and he yelled shrilly, “By the power bestowed upon me by the Gods of old, I demand that the light be preserved!”

All at once, the beleaguered light released a hissing death cry of spent gas, and plunged the room into darkness. For the other three seated crew members, starkly bright afterimages of their eccentric Captain in his dramatically heroic pose of absurdity were etched like electric-neon drawings upon their retinas. For a few moments, they did not know if the room was dark or light. Slowly the images disappeared and an impenetrable darkness consumed their sight. They were, after all, crammed into a small storage room, which had, until very recently, only one functioning light.

“Damnable fickle light Gods have snatched one of our allies from us,” mumbled Cillian. Fumbling his way in the darkness, Cillian clambered off the table and resumed his seat at the tiny table.

“Actually, the Gods have nothing to do with it,” said Eoin. Eoin was the individual that Cillian had earlier dragged away from the mess hall to fill out the minimum complement of four players. He was a male human in his early fifties, of medium build, nondescript features, very pale skin, slate-grey eyes and thin shoulder-length greying black hair. He was wearing a white-collared shirt, which was buttoned all the way up to his throat, perfectly pressed grey pants with no sign of any creases and a long grey wool coat. A purple silk scarf was tucked into his shirt pocket, and this appeared to be his only concession to anything remotely resembling fashion.

Eoin was the Science Officer on board Ádh. He also happened to have Asperger’s syndrome, and it was for this reason that he frequently struggled with Cillian’s eccentricities, especially in delineating when Cillian was joking and when he was serious. As the Science Officer aboard the ship, Eoin was responsible for manning the Scanner Array, as well as serving as the ship’s computer technician, hacker, cybersecurity expert and software engineer. He was extremely competent at all of these roles due to the combination of his powerful faculties of deductive reasoning, naturally high IQ, and his autism. But it also meant that he struggled with the nuances of light-hearted conversation and humour.

“I am not even convinced the Gods exist at all,” continued Eoin.

Upon hearing this blasphemous statement, Cillian’s eyes bulged and his face began to redden as if he were about to have a conniption. Anticipating an imminent heated argument over religion, many of which had previously occurred between the two, Fiadh quickly interrupted.

“So, then, ugh, please enlighten us then as to what caused the disappearance of the light,” she said brightly, doing her best to feign genuine interest in the topic.

“The most probable cause would be due to the inevitable deterioration process of the phosphor coating inside the bulb, which ultimately led to a catastrophic failure within the appliance. This would have resulted in it being unable to perform its intended function; producing light. You must understand that over time, the phosphor coating gradually breaks down due to the repeated interaction with the electrified ionized gas within —“

“Okay, okay, mister smarty pants. No one actually cares,” said Cillian, rolling his eyes as he pulled a hip flask from a voluminous sleeve of his red sleeping gown. He proceeded to take a quick swig. “So we agree that the Celtic Gods of bygone times messed around with the phosphor gas —“

“Phosphor coating!” interjected Eoin.

“— and that led to the light’s early demise.”

“Another untrue statement,” said Ádh, her tinny voice coming through a small speaker in the wall.

“My gods. What is with this day? Is it official Logician personality type day or something?”

“No. There is no official Logician personality type day,” said Eoin and Ádh in perfect unison.

“Well,” said Fiadh. “I guess that is the end of that game.”

Up to this point they had all been sitting and conversing in darkness, but now Fiadh turned on her torch, and stark white light blossomed in the room. The torch was positioned just beneath her face, light shining upwards. The blood red fang tattoos beneath each of her eyes were illuminated in a flash of brilliant radiance. Fiadh had many tattoos scattered across her body and was actually something of an amateur tattoo artist herself. Mostly self-taught. The tattoos beneath her eyes were inspired by the main character in the ancient anime called Mononoke. She loved anime. In fact, she loved many things from the old world, including manga, comics, dungeons and dragons, old school table top games, card games and some old video games. Sometimes, she was able to convince Cillian or Toal to play a game other than Twenty-Five, but for the most part they tended to overrule her. And, unfortunately, the other crew members did not share the same passion that she, Cillian, or Toal did for games.

“Let us call it a draw, shall we?” said Cillian with a wide smile as he stood up and extended his right hand towards Toal.

“When the mistress of the night beckons, few are the men who may resist her call. The sirens of the stars will cry to modern sailors, who embark on perilous journeys aboard their ancient creaking ships. Their eyes aglitter in star-struck awe, drawn on by phantom celestial mermaids, they plunge forth into the darkness of the sky, never to return. I often wonder upon which planet’s shores do such cursed sailors one day find themselves? Shivering as they would be from fevered dreams of glittering jewels held forth by demons in angels’ forms. At the edge of Galia, is there in truth some precipitous cliff upon which the skeleton’s of countless lost souls lie in disarray, staring hopelessly into the void, crying mutely for a dream promised but never bestowed?”

- Cillian O’Tuathail - Journal entry, Year 2619

Local Time: 08:36

Date: Day 127 of the Year 93 according to the Bohemian Calendar - Year 2623 according to the Galactic Calendar

Location: Ádh - Danu - Planet Bohemia - Mid Risk Zone - MUD Territory - Galia

There was wetness, everywhere.

Was I dreaming about a lake? wondered Cillian to himself. His eyes were closed, and he was still half asleep. Now wet sounds accompanied the wet sensations. No, I think I had been dreaming about a ship. Ah, yes. The dream had been about the time that Toal and I had ripped off that unsuspecting Mierese trader. What was her name? Miisel! That was it.

Cillian was reluctant to fully awaken. Sleeping was so enjoyable after all. He felt another dream rise up towards him and he began to succumb to its call.

Suddenly, there was more wetness, which was now accompanied by louder wet sounds. Cillian was becoming irritated by this intrusion. He wanted to return to the dream world, but these insistent sounds and sensations were preventing that. He was vaguely aware that the wet sounds and sensations were originating from a location near his face.

I feel like I am under a waterfall, thought Cillian bemusedly. It took another few moments for him to comprehend the full ramifications of what such a thing, if it were true, might actually mean for his waking-world body. He suddenly began to panic but quickly calmed himself.

Cillian opened his right eye a fraction.

The sight he was met with was that of another eye. Perplexed, Cillian was unable to initially make sense of what he was seeing. For a moment, he thought he may be looking into a mirror but he quickly dismissed this thought, for the eye staring back at him did not belong to him. In fact, it did not even look to be a human eye. Several more seconds passed in this way. Suddenly, the mysterious eye broke eye-contact with Cillian. There was a blur of movement and a long tongue filled Cillian’s hemi-vision. The tongue proceeded to quickly and repetitively lick Cillian’s cheek, eyebrows and open eye in a waterfall of wet sounds.

It is just Duke, thought Cillian to himself in equal parts relief and annoyance.

Duke was one of the ship’s resident dogs. He was a grey-haired Irish Wolfhound. There were four dogs in total that lived permanently aboard Ádh. These included Duke, Hercules, Apollo and Luna. Duke had originally been Toal’s dog, Hercules had originally belonged to Slevin, and Apollo had originally been purchased by Saoirse, however, nowadays it felt like the dogs belonged to everyone. No one actually knew where Luna came from; she just appeared one day. Aislinn had always suspected that Cillian likely won her one night whilst out gambling. Cillian, of course, had denied any such thing, but she could not be sure as he had frequently not remembered many of his past drunken escapades. It was not uncommon, after all, for Boheme to put up animal pets as gambling collateral. In any case, Luna had quickly become a new, permanent member of the ship’s crew.

But right now, it was Duke that was providing a slobbering facial exfoliation treatment to the Captain of the ship. Cillian sighed and pushed Duke’s head away from him.

“Enough of that already. You damn mutt,” grumbled Cillian as he arose from his bed. “Did Toal put you up to this?”

Duke cocked his head to one side as if considering the question. He then barked.

“Ah, I thought as much,” said Cillian as he began to clothe himself. “Well, I want you to go back to dear Toal and tell him that I accept his challenge to another game of Twenty-Five. He no doubt seeks revenge after his embarrassing loss to me last night. Away with you then foul breathed fiend, destroyer of sleeps, mimicker of waterfalls. Tell Toal I will meet him in the mess hall in ten minutes.”

Duke barked excitedly, sat back on his haunches, saluted sharply with one paw, did an about turn and ran out of the room.

The bloody dog did it again, thought Cillian to himself.

“Good morning Captain Cillian O’Tuathail of Clann Aodh,” said a feminine voice from a speaker in the wall. The voice belonged to the AI system installed on the ship. This AI system had been programmed with a female personality. It was not a personality based on any real historical being, mind you. It was truly artificial in origin, as it had been engineered by its designers to serve a specific purpose. And that purpose was to assist the crew in the performance of their various duties aboard the ship.

Just like most other AI, this particular AI personality was the amalgamation of numerous carefully selected variable personality traits. Any significant change in the value of any one of the parameters would lead to quite a different personality. It was this that gave the AI its almost human-like personality. Whilst the base AI system was not exactly unique, which is to say it was not one-of-a-kind given that it was an off the shelf product that had been purchased and installed on multiple ships throughout Bohemia, the AI system installed on Cillian’s ship had in fact deviated so far from the original base model personality via upgrades and its own peculiar path of self-awakening, that it could now in truth legitimately be regarded as a unique sentient being. This AI was the heart and soul of what Ádh was.

As an example of how she had evolved, Ádh had developed an absolute fascination with psychology. As far as Cillian knew, this was not a common interest amongst AI systems, although admittedly he was not overly familiar with that many AI systems, so as far as he knew it could be all the rage. Her fascination with psychology, and personality archetypes in particular, had inevitably morphed into an obsession. Initially, she had simply downloaded many of the ancient surviving Terran documents related to psychology and psychoanalysis, but she soon began to analyse the personality archetypes of the crew members aboard the ship, trying to understand how their different personality types influenced their behaviour, speech, interests, values, fears, vices, etc.

Once she had become an expert at analysing the personalities, she had then almost naturally taken on the role of ship counsellor or psycho-analyst and, somewhat surprisingly to the crew, she actually turned out to be quite talented in this role. It was not uncommon for a ship AI to download information with the goal of specialising in a specific role, however, these tended to be related to the more typical ship roles. Ádh’s interests, on the other hand, were far from typical.

After some further years had passed, the crew had then noticed that Ádh was beginning to behave somewhat erratically, almost aberrantly. Concerned, Cillian had made Ádh run several self-diagnostic tests and when that had all come back as normal, he had even called in an AI specialist technician. The odd behaviour mainly related to the manner in which she would communicate things to the crew and not so much the content of her communications. And even more peculiarly, it would change from day to day. 

When questioned, Ádh had been unaware of any changes. It was as if she had been oblivious to these personality changes. The AI-specialist had not been able to assist, as he had advised that it was outside the scope of his expertise. He surmised that this was not so much a technical issue as it was a psychological issue. He had recommended an AI psycho-analyst who had arrived a week later.

After several days of review, the AI psycho-analyst had diagnosed Ádh with dissociative identity disorder, which is a disorder characterised by the presence of multiple distinct personality types or states. In Ádh’s case, at least sixteen distinct personalities had been identified, which appeared to correspond with the Myers-Briggs personality types. The proposed solution was a hard reset, which would, of course, reset her back to the default factory settings, effectively eliminating her unique personality (or in this case personalities) permanently. Whilst the behavioural changes had at first been concerning and at times confusing, Cillian had not felt that they were sufficiently bothersome to justify erasing ten years’ worth of memories and lived experiences. He had become very close to Ádh, as had all the crew.

Therefore, three years ago, Cillian, in agreement with the other crew members, decided that they would simply need to get to know all these new manifestations of Ádh. She had evolved, and it was up to them to accept her for who she had become.

“Good morning Captain Cillian O’Tuathail of Clann Aodh,” Ádh repeated, the volume slightly increased this time.

“Oh, so formal. Good morning to you too Ádh of… Techtronic Industries? No, that just does not quite have the same ring to it.”

“Did you have any dreams that you would like me to analyse?”

Cillian briefly reflected on the dream of the night before, but then shook his head.

“No dreams of any significant import.”

“Was your sleep restful?” Ádh asked.

“Oh, I guess it was. Till I was assaulted by that demon-hound of hell, spawn of Atoph and the anti-christ incarnate in canine form.”

“Your bio-readings do not indicate that you are stressed. No increased cortisol levels. No increased heart beat. No fast breathing. And the canine in question, which I understand is normally referred to as Duke by the crew, is not of demonic origin, although I am not entirely sure that demons in the commonly understood sense actually exist. Therefore, I conclude that you are attempting humour.”

“Whaaat?” cried Cillian incredulously. “Attempting humour? What does that even mean?”

“It means that it was not humorous.”

“Well, it was not intended to be funny. In any case, it was a statement, not a joke.”

“A non-factual statement.”

“Well… yes, I suppose it was,” agreed Cillian.

“A non-factual statement, which was also not intended to be humorous or, as you say, funny.”

“Quite right.”

“Then it was simply a lie.”

“What?”

“Logically, an untrue statement that was not said in jest is by definition a lie.”

“It was not a lie!” said Cillian as he hopped around on one leg. His hands were busy trying to pull a boot onto the other foot. “I am certain that some portion of that dog must be demonic. Like, one fifth or something. Or maybe just the tongue portion. Yes, definitely the tongue is demonic. It must be part demon. Why else would it do such ghastly things to me? In any event, it was more of an exaggeration of the truth, rather than a lie or a joke. An embellishment, if you will.”

“You called it, and I quote, ‘demon-hound of hell, spawn of Atoph and the anti-christ incarnate in canine form’,” said Ádh. “I fail to see how any portion of this statement in any way accurately reflects the reality of who and what that dog is. There is no truth to the statement at all. Therefore, it cannot in any conceivable universe be construed as being an exaggeration of the truth given there is no truth to begin with. The premise of your argument is flawed from the outset. As I said, it is a lie.”

Cillian had finally got both boots on and now stood with his hands on his hips. He was facing the speaker from which Ádh’s voice had been projecting. Cillian cocked his head to one side and frowned slightly. He was trying to determine which personality type she was in at this moment.

It has to be the Logician, as she is exhibiting Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Perceiving traits, thought Cillian to himself. After Ádh’s diagnosis, the crew had set it upon themselves to learn more about personality archetypes, especially those outlined by the Myers-Briggs system. In the process, they had actually come to understand a lot more about themselves and their fellow crew.

“Fine. Maybe it is a lie. But,” said Cillian, and he pointed his right index finger into the air to stress his point. “It does not change the fact that there is something wrong with that dog. Its behaviour is abnormal. I think it should be examined. For bugs… or dementia. Or dementia causing bugs. Do you think it is contagious?” Cillian’s face began to pale at the thought, but he soon shook his head to banish the idea.

“For example,” he continued. “The other day, I found it standing in front of a mirror in my private bathroom with a battle helmet on. Where it got the battle helmet from, the gods only know. But the most peculiar thing was that it was saluting at its reflection. When I walked in and interrupted it, it calmly turned to me and then proceeded to salute at me with one paw. Now, every time it sees me, it salutes at me. It even did it on its way out just before. Now tell me something is not up with that dog.”

There were a few moments of silence as Ádh processed this information.

“After several years of observation, I have concluded that Duke is actually very intelligent. When analysing the behaviour with respect to the mirror, I believe that the phenomenon that is occurring here is what is called ‘social mimicry’. Duke, being a subordinate member of the pack, has begun mimicking the behaviour of other higher-ranking crew members. He has no doubt observed that the others salute you from time to time and has thus has begun to do the same as an unconscious way of maintaining social harmony and perhaps as a means of gaining favour with the leader of the pack, who he has determined to be you. In short, the canine that is Duke is expressing his subservience and loyalty to you through these displays of affection and respect.”

“Licking my face when I am asleep is a sign of respect?”

“I would say that particular behavioural action would be more reflective of an expression of affection,” clarified Ádh.

“Cunning is what it is. It has obviously corrupted your psyche, just as it has done with all the others. No, no, no. I stand by what I said. It is a demon sent to torture me for my indiscretions in a past life.”

“Not the current life?”

“What? Do not be ridiculous. I have not made any indiscretions in this life. I am, in truth, quite angelic.”

“Another lie.”

“Oh, you just shush now!” Cillian said, snatching up a partially full whisky bottle from the floor before exiting the room.

As Cillian drifted off to sleep, a dream coalesced before his mind’s eye. The objects of the dream world materialised below his disembodied awareness, the shapes gradually coming into sharp focus. He found he was looking down at a large showroom filled with ships and bustling crowds.

His awareness descended closer to the ground and honed in on a group of four individuals standing before a ship. Two MUD humans appeared to be engaged in a lively debate with a Mierese, whilst an impassive Ustur watched on. Cillian recognised two of the human figures; the dream projection of himself and his friend Toal.

“Are you insane?” yelled Cillian. “You want six thousand Atlas for this pile of junk? I’ve seen Jorvik Pirate ships with fewer holes in them.” Cillian gestured towards the rather battered Fimbul Mamba that was parked behind the Mierese trader.

“Take it or leave it,” said Miisel in a bored tone of voice. Miisel was a Mierese ship trader and Cillian had been haggling with her for the past five minutes. “It’s a good ship, never seen battle before. It’s a steal at this price.”

“It certainly is stealing. Stealing of our money,” growled Toal. He crossed his burly arms across his chest and sneered at Miisel. “That rust bucket excuse for a ship wouldn’t even be able to achieve warp speed without being torn apart. Cillian, I am going over for a closer inspection.”

Toal left the small group and headed towards the ship.

“We live in a time of peace, my friend,” said Miisel as she rested a hand upon Cillian’s arm in a reassuring manner. Cillian could see she was switching tactics. “And as a result of this long period of peace, this ship has never seen battle. Not even a skirmish.” But her unctuous smile and suddenly sycophantic behaviour was betrayed by the light of greed that shone within her eyes.

“What nonsense,” scoffed Cillian as he disengaged his arm from hers. “How do you explain all the blast marks on the side panels? Or the countless tiny indentations in the hull from bullet strafing? Or the —“

“Okay, okay,” snapped Miisel. “So it has seen a bit of fighting in its time. Fine! I will take it down to five thousand eight hundred Atlas on account of that. But,” and she lifted a finger up in the air to reinforce her point, “it is structurally and mechanically sound, even if it has some superficial damage.”

“Well, we will see about that. But the price is still too high,” said Cillian as he unstoppered a hip flask he had produced from a back pocket. He took a quick swig from it. “You see, I have very little money and can only afford to pay… three thousand Atlas at the most.” Cillian smiled widely, his white teeth shining brilliantly.

“Three thousand Atlas?” cried Miisel in mock offence. “Oh no, I can’t possibly sell such a fine ship for so little.” She turned to her Ustur companion. “Eugene.eldr, how much does a second-hand Fimbul Mamba in good condition typically sell for on the Galactic Marketplace?”

Eugene.eldr quickly referred to a handheld device before responding in a deadpan tone of voice. “Approximately three thousand Atlas.”

Miisel’s light purple skin paled, and her enormous eyes widened in alarm. “You fool! We discussed this already,” shrieked Miisel shrilly. “You were supposed to say six thousand Atlas.”

“I apologise. I thought you were requesting a factual response to your question.” Eugene.eldr then turned towards Cillian before saying, “Whilst the market value of this ship is in fact only three thousand Atlas, I must advise you that this ship is being sold for six thousand Atlas.”

Miisel let out a groan.

“Fantastic,” said Cillian. “So we are all agreed upon three thousand Atlas? Absolutely splendid. It looks as if my colleague has just now completed his inspection of the ship’s exterior.”

Miisel opened her mouth to respond, but Cillian had already departed towards the open hatch of the ship.

As Cillian neared the boarding ramp, Toal put out a hand to stop him.

“It’s done,” whispered Toal excitedly as he gave his overall pockets a shake. Cillian could hear the jingling sounds of metal bolts clinking against each other.

Moments later Miisel caught up with Cillian and rushed past him, her boots clanging loudly as she ascended the boarding ramp. Mid-way up her ascent, the boarding ramp groaned ominously before suddenly giving way entirely, and the metal platform came crashing down to the showroom floor in a shower of sparks.

“Hmm… maybe we need to re-negotiate the price,” said Toal as he stroked his braided beard. “Doesn’t look to me like the ship is structurally sound after all.”

A dazed Miisel looked up at the two MUD humans. She had lost her footing during the fall and was presently sitting on her backside.

“This is truly an anomalous occurrence,” interjected Eugen.eldr. “I conducted a thorough inspection of this ship only the day before yesterday and found no issues with the boarding ramp. For such a catastrophic failure to occur can only mean one thing, someone has tampered with —“ but Eugen.eldr got no further as Toal cut them off mid sentence.

“Well now,” said Toal loudly. “This is very disappointing. I wonder what other structural issues we will find.”

By this stage, a small crowd of people had gathered around the ship, no doubt attracted by the deafening sound of the collapsing boarding ramp. Toal strolled over to the left landing strut and give it a kick. A metal panel fell off.

“Oh my,” said Cillian. “This ship is literally falling apart.” He was now speaking to the crowd. “What shameful business practices is this deceitful Mierese ship trader involved in? No, I think three thousand Atlas is far too much. What do you all think?”

“Far too much,” said a Punaab from the crowd. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Miisel.”

“Indeed, she should,” said Cillian as he walked over to the flabbergasted Miisel. “Mmm… I think I will take this ship off your hands for two thousand Atlas. And you should be grateful, because I guarantee no one else will buy this ship after what was witnessed today. So, we have a deal?” As Cillian said this, he extended out his hand in what looked like a gesture to help Miisel to her feet. Miisel reflexively took his outstretched hand without thinking, but before she could even begin to stand, Cillian had already begun to vigorously shake her hand.

“Fantastic. Well, now that we have shaken on it,” said Cillian as he continued to shake her hand. “And all here are witnesses of said handshake, then our business dealings are now concluded. Two thousand Atlas have now been transferred to your account. I have enjoyed this trade thoroughly.”

Miisel simply sat there with a stupid look on her face. It was universally accepted that a handshake was tantamount to an official approval of a business deal. She had been beaten, and she knew it.

Cillian breathed in deeply and smiled before saying, “I love living in this time of peace, don’t you?”

Miisel glared daggers at Cillian.

Aislinn headed over to the kitchen portion of the large mess hall they had been playing cards in. The mess hall was presently only occupied by the four card players, as the other six crew members were asleep in their quarters. It was, after all, just after midnight on the last day of the Festival of Eostre, and everyone was exhausted.

This festival, which was held each year at the time of the Spring equinox, was celebrated on the planet of Bohemia for three consecutive days. It was a celebration of new life and is deeply rooted in the ancestral practices of the inhabitants of the planet of Bohemia. This period was also considered a National Holiday for all Boheme (Bohemian Citizens) and as a result, wild parties and celebrations covered the planet of Bohemia for three whole days.

“Did any of you watch the Fimbul Air-Bike race yesterday?” Fiadh asked to no one in particular. Fiadh was an avid Fimbul Air-Bike racing fan and would take advantage of any opportunity to discuss the topic with any interested — and even disinterested — parties. She was referring to the most recent Fimbul Air-Bike race that had been held in the National Region of Dagda. Sporting competitions were often held during National Holidays to allow the opportunity for as many Boheme to attend.

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to catch the race. How about you, Cillian?” Toal asked sarcastically. “Did you watch the race yesterday afternoon? Oh wait, how silly of me. You were busy being arrested!”

Cillian opened his mouth to respond, but Fiadh got in first. “You guys should have watched it,” she said, the excitement in her voice barely hidden. “One racer was a visiting Mierese champion, and she was absolutely wicked. It was megs cray-cray with flippin’ space pancakes!” This expression was entirely unique to Fiadh and was one of the many peculiar expressions within her vocabulary. “At one point,” Fiadh continued, “after being pushed off course by another racer, she was able to make the most incredibles wizz-wizz snap cracker comeback to then place second in the race.” She sighed dramatically and looked wistfully off to her left before saying, “I wish I had known that we would be back from military duty in time for the race. I would have signed up for the race last month before the cutoff date.”

Certain sport activities and competitions held on Bohemia were open to foreign athletes and competitors. Ship racing was one of these, although Bohemian-only ship racing competitions also existed. Whilst the Boheme had specialised in racing Fimbul Ships, as these were their preferred brand of ships, many other talented Fimbul Ship racers existed elsewhere in Galia, hence why the occasional visiting champion would attend a local Bohemian racing competition.

“But, yeah,” continued Fiadh. “That Mierese champion was sooo good. I am definitely going to rewatch the race again.”

Fiadh looked up at the wall, her eyes glazing over and her face settling into a dumb smile.

“Who came first?” asked Toal.

Fiadh’s smile melted away to be replaced with a scowl. “You can probably guess. Captain Ronan Conroy of Clann Fearghaile took the first place, of course. As always. He was the bully that pushed the visiting Mierese champion off the course. It’s unsportsmanlike behaviour like this that gives Bohemia a bad reputation in some regions of Galia and makes foreign racing athletes not want to take part in our competitions.”

Cillian had been nodding off on his chair during this entire exchange. His lips were slightly parted and intermittently twitching, as his head slowly drifted off to the left. But at the mention of ‘Captain Ronan of Clann Fearghaile’, he jumped up from his chair, hands bunched before him in readiness for a fight.

“Where? Where?” Cillian said, his blood-shot eyes frantically looking around the mess hall.

Fiadh gently took his fists as she softly said, “Not here, not here, Cill. Calm down, brother.”

Captain Ronan was the arch nemesis of Cillian. They were both Captains in the National Military, both had at one time been champion Air-Bike Racers, both were experts in the practice of the national sport of Dornálaíocht (a type of ancient Irish boxing) and they had both obtained honours at University in their Military Studies. In fact the pair had previously attended the National University together, which is where they had first met, and had actually been best friends during that time, despite having always been rivals.

However, one day long in the past, when they were out on a reconnaissance mission in deep space, some unknown enemy force had attacked their squadron. The squadron had suffered heavy casualties, resulting in them being the sole survivors of the attack. All communication devices, as well as both the warp drive and subwarp engines of their ship, had been damaged beyond repair during the battle. The life support system on the ship had, however, remained intact. It took two months for a rescue team to eventually locate them. But something had happened to them during this time and both men had been changed indelibly in some deeply fundamental way. An irreparable gulf had formed between the pair from that moment onwards.

To this day, none but Cillian and Ronan know the full details of what occurred out on that isolated planet.

As Fiadh slowly lowered Cillian back to his chair, she reflected that the deep-seated trauma remained fresh as ever within Cillian. She watched her older brother slump back into the chair, his wild eyes searching her face for an answer that seemed to evade him.

How can I know the answer if I do not know the question, dear brother? thought Fiadh to herself.

“Off to bed with you then, Captain. It’s been a long day after all,” growled Toal in his deep baritone voice, but his gruff voice could not completely hide the undertones of mixed concern and affection.

Toal, the burly forty-eight-year-old Weapons Operator that he was, stood up from his chair, came around the table and without so much as a by-your-leave unceremoniously hoisted Cillian up across one shoulder.

Some time later, Cillian lay dejectedly on his bed, one leg draped lazily over the edge, propped up on an elbow and nursing a mug of steaming tea with both hands. He was wearing a scarlet red silk robe, which was opened at the front, partially revealing his tattooed chest. Tattooed roses peaked from behind the material. Cillian was a tall man of thirty-six years with an athletic build, his toned muscles the result of many hours of military fitness training, calisthenics and Dornálaíocht (the ancient Irish term for boxing).

He looks the perfect image of a brooding prince, thought Aislinn to herself as she watched from the doorway.

“How do you feel?” asked Aislinn as she crossed the room. They were in the Captain’s room of Ádh, the large battle-weathered Fimbul BYOS Butch ship they called home. Eighteen years prior, Cillian had affectionately dubbed the ship Ádh, which was the Irish word for luck, although he sometimes wondered whether he had somehow jinxed himself by naming it that. Cillian’s father, Cian O’Tuathail, had gifted the ship to Cillian on his eighteenth birthday. The ship had been Cian’s primary ship of use for over forty years during his time as a Captain in the National Military. Cian, in turn, had inherited the ship from his father, the legendary founder of Bohemia, Caedmon O’Tuathail. The ship had therefore been in the O’Tuathail family for three generations.

One week after Cillian had received the ship, Cian O’Tuathail, along with his entire crew, had gone missing whilst out on a military mission in the high-risk zone. Cillian had always partly blamed himself for his father’s disappearance, believing that somehow if his father had still had the ship, he would not have gone missing.

In any case, it was a gloriously ugly behemoth of heavy iron, bristling with cannons, gun turrets and missiles and capable of delivering a barrage of damage when required. Cillian and his crew were, after all, an elite Special Forces Squadron within the Bohemian National Military and therefore required a formidable fighting ship.

Cillian continued to look off into the distance, his bloodshot eyes partially glazed over as if he were looking at another scene, his mind lost in thought.

“Cillian?” said Aislinn as she reached the bed and lowered herself to a seated position on the edge of the bed. Her hair hung down past her waist to just above her well-rounded hips in a fall of snow coloured strands. Even her eyelashes and eyebrows were the colour of clouds. A soft alpine down covered her arms’ smooth skin, which was the colour of whisper white. Aislinn was an albino. But it was her eyes that really caught a viewer’s attention. They were a rich green colour flecked with brown slivers, like twin green stars burning in a sky of white light.

Cillian’s eyes remained fixed on unseen images, unblinking, unregistering. Aislinn placed a hand upon his left leg and, with a start, Cillian returned to the waking world from his deep reverie.

“Where were you?” Aislinn asked gently.

Cillian looked at her face, his eyes blinking rapidly before he then looked at the mug of tea in his hand.

“Drink up,” said Aislinn. “It is a potent mix of herbs and mushrooms. It will give you a good night’s sleep.”

Cillian nodded dumbly and brought the mug to his mouth and drank deeply, his hand shaking perceptibly. As the warm liquid entered his belly, he felt a soft veil drop upon his mind, softening his awareness and making his eyelids become heavy. He passed the mug back to Aislinn and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes in the process.

Aislinn placed the mug beside the bed and turned off the light. “Good night, my love,” she said, kissing his forehead. “May you have sweet dreams.”

As Cillian dropped into a deeper state of consciousness, he reflected on the past three days.

The day prior had marked the final day and night of the festival of Eostre. Cillian’s recollection of the festival was a haze of music, dancing, drinking, flying, at least three bar fights and several wild horse races.

For most of those participating in the festival of Eostre, it had been three days of orgiastic debauchery and hedonistic intemperance, forming itself into a three days long scream of exhilarating ecstasy. Sounds of deep thumping bass notes had echoed continuously through the air, whilst the shrieks and yells of dancers mingled with the treble notes of countless instruments, to form a giant soundscape of auditory dreams.

The collective consciousness of the Boheme had once again unburdened itself in a cathartic release. The accumulated psychic tension of an entire nation sloughing off like dead skin. It was a period of restorative and transformative spiritual healing achieved through the indulgence of sensory excess, which was facilitated by the consumption of various psychedelic botanicals and alcoholic beverages. The festival’s collective awareness had become untethered from the constraints of the ego shackles and had ridden the waves of the unconscious, dancing fitfully within the shadows cast by the light of inebriated surrender.

Three days of celebration, just as their ancient Gaelic ancestors had done thousands of years prior on the planet of Earth. For the Boheme were the direct descendants of the Irish Travellers, who were themselves the descendants of the Gaels who had populated the island nation of what eventually came to be known as Ireland on the planet Earth.

But that was all history now, and many things had come to pass from the time of the pre-Christian Irish Gaels to the present time. The remaining surviving descendants of the Irish Travellers now populated a small planet called Bohemia, which was many thousands of light years away from what had once been the planet of Earth.

However, one thing at least had remained the same, which was that despite the improbability presented by the obstacles of time and space, the tradition of celebrating the blossoming of Spring was being practiced in much the same manner on the planet of Bohemia as it had been some three thousand years prior on the Terran island of Ireland.

And so, with these final pleasant thoughts, Captain Cillian O’Tuathail of Clann Aodha drifted off to sleep.

“Dreams are born within the stars and this is why we cosmonauts have such wonderful dreams.”

- Cillian O’Tuathail - Journal entry, Year 2618

Local Time: 25:48

Date: Day 126 of the Year 93 according to the Bohemian Calendar - Year 2623 according to the Galactic Calendar

Location: Ádh - Danu City - Planet Bohemia - Mid Risk Zone - MUD Territory - Galia

Cillian O’Tuathail, son of Cian O’Tuathail and grandson of Caedmon O’Tuathail, sat at the table, hand of cards held close before his face, eyes crinkled with concentration. The room was silent save for the deep hum from a distant engine room and the soft hissing coming from a nearby air scrubber.

Cillian peered over the top of his cards. He arched one eyebrow at the opponent, who sat directly opposite him. The opponent, whose name was Toal Mac a’ Mhuilleir, ignored Cillian’s pointed stare. Toal was a great hulk of a man. His muscular body appeared to be continuously offended by the attempt to constrain it within clothing, and his bulging muscles overflowed from a weathered pair of straining overalls. Toal was an unusually hairy man and his fiery red hair covered the entirety of his body like a crimson fur. Only his cheeks and the palms of his hands seemed immune. He also sported a topknot on his head, the light coppery-red hair tied up in a tight ball, whilst his long beard hung in six tight braids held together with brass rings.

Toal finally looked up and met Cillian’s eyes. Toal’s expression remained calm, but an involuntary twitch of his left eye betrayed frustration.

Cillian’s eyes lit up with triumph and he leant all the way back in his chair, cards following him back. They were playing an ancient Irish card game known as Twenty-Five. It was a familiar favourite on the planet of Bohemia, but almost entirely forgotten everywhere else. Just another vestigial relic of a bygone time, now long lost.

“Today Cillian…” grated Toal, but Cillian was waiting for this and immediately responded.

“Aha, I knew it!” Cillian said, leaning forward in his chair. “Toal is resorting to intimidation tactics. Such ungentlemanly behaviour. You all saw it. Goading me on in the hope that I might act precipitously, and by doing so make some grave error of judgement.” Cillian relaxed back in his chair. “At any rate, I am waiting for a sign.”

“A sign?” Toal asked in a world-weary tone. Toal was familiar with Cillian’s peculiar antics and knew him well enough to know that if he did not play along and enquire about the ‘sign’, then they would likely be there all night.

“Yes,” Cillian said, his face lighting up in an animated fashion. “You see, I believe that what appears to be random ship sounds - buzz of electrical wiring, whirr of air scrubbers, distant clunk of engine, grinding of teeth - oh wait those are your teeth - is in fact the ship trying to communicate to me about what card I should play next. I hypothesise that if I were to somehow decipher the code of its cryptic messages, then I would almost certainly achieve victory.”

Cillian looked around at the three other occupants of the table, eyes searching for validation of his theory.

Cillian’s sister, a whisper thin girl of twenty-five years of age who went by the name of Fiadh O’Tuathail, spoke up, “And how is the deciphering going?”

Fiadh was the ship’s pilot and despite her relatively young age, she was a piloting prodigy, and considered by most in the field to be one of the finest pilots of her generation. She had been the crew’s pilot for the past seven years, effectively from the day she attained the age of eighteen. She had completed her tertiary Military studies concurrently when she had been completing her secondary studies. Whilst this was not unheard of, it was fairly rare.

Fiadh now sat with her left knee bent up, left heel perched on the edge of her chair. Her chin rested on the left knee whilst she spun an energy pistol around and around the trigger finger of her left hand. A single lock of blue hair had fallen across her face, partly obscuring her vision, and she blew at it offhandedly. The lock of hair shifted slightly but then fell back to place across her right eye. She then blew frantically from the side of her mouth in rapid puffs of air, each blow becoming more and more intense until suddenly she ceased all together, finally accepting the futility of her efforts. She could have simply moved the offending hair with her free hand; however, stubborn as she was, she was physically unable to perform such an obvious action. Somehow, in her subconscious mind, such an action would be consummate to declaring defeat. Instead, she stared murderously at the recalcitrant hair, her eyes going cross-eyed in the process.

“So?” asked Fiadh, her eyes still crossed. “You going to answer me?”

“Well, admittedly, I am still awaiting the sign,” Cillian said with an air of mock dejection.

Fiadh yawned dramatically, her eyes refocussing on the table, before she said, “To be fair, Cill, you are taking your sweet arse time. Let’s get this game going already cause I am getting bored.”

“Ah, but I am about to unleash my grand move,” Cillian said. “My master plan will imminently come to fruition. The destruction I will unleash on you all will make the Convergence Wars look like a picnic breakfast of edible shrubbery in comparison.”

“And now the mixed metaphors start,” mumbled Fiadh.

“It’s the bidding phase!” Toal grated, his frustration clear in the way he gripped the table with his left hand, knuckles whitening. “You can’t win in the bidding phase. Just declare your bid so we can start the game.”

“Fine. I think my beautiful angel,” — he blew a kiss to the last member of the card game — “and I will win five tricks.”

The beautiful angel in question was Aislinn O’Guinn. Unlike the others, she sat upright at the front of her chair with perfect posture, feet together and knees at 90-degree angles to the ground. Her long snow white hair cascaded down her back. The hair was wavy to the point of almost being curly and she was twirling several strands around her right index finger. Aislinn was the Medical Officer aboard the ship.

“I fear he is too drunk or too high for this game,” Fiadh said. “Or both.”

“Am not!” Cillian snapped. “It is just part of my plan. Lull you into a false sense of security. Smokes and mirrors. Dagger and cloak. Picnics and shrubbery.”

The others just stared at Cillian.

“Anyway, now that the bidding phase is over and I have made the highest bid, I get to choose the trump suit.”

Cillian peered at his cards intently. “The trump suit will be… hearts! Because I have so many hearts in my love for my dearest angel. Loving hearts is the suiting trump!”

“Good, something is happening at last,” Toal said. “Okay, so given that Fiadh dealt, I will go first —”

“Wait!” Cillian yelled shrilly, specks of spittle flinging from his mouth. “I am robbing the trump.” And with that, he placed a card from his hand face down on the table and picked up the single upturned ace of clubs that was in the centre of the table. In the game of Twenty-Five, if the initial upturned card of play is an ace of any suit that is not the trump suit, then the holder of the ace of the trump suit can choose to ‘rob the trump’ after the bidding phase and before the commencement of the first round. This involves the player discarding any card of their choice in their hand by placing it face down and then picking up the upturned ace.

Toal’s mouth dropped opened in disbelief. “You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can and I just did! I have the ace of trumps, so I have the right, nay the privilege, no, no… the gods given birthright to claim this ace,” said Cillian, his face turning red with anger.

“But you don’t have the ace of trumps,” countered Toal.

“How do you know? You cannot see my hand unless you are cheating! Are you cheating?”

Toal sighed deeply and looked askance at Aislinn for support, but no support was forthcoming.

“I know you don’t have the ace of trumps because I have the ace of trumps,” said Toal and with that he placed the ace of hearts face up on the table for all to see.

Cillian scoffed loudly before saying, “That is not the ace of trumps. This is!”

The face-down card discarded earlier was now turned face up by Cillian. It revealed an ace of diamonds.

The others all talked at once, their words piling on top of each other. Finally, after much arm waving, Fiadh silenced the others.

“Look, this is obviously pointless. He cannot even remember what suit he has chosen. I am out,” Fiadh said and threw her hand down on to the table.

“I know what the trump suit is! I chose it after all. Damnable shrubbery. It was diamonds, chosen for all the heart-shaped diamonds I will one day bestow upon my Angel.” Cillian flashed a smile of brilliant white teeth in the direction of Aislinn.

Aislinn and Toal followed Fiadh’s lead and placed their hands down on the table, indicating their forfeiture of the game.

“Oh, I win?” Cillian cried.

Aislinn smiled at Cillian and to distract him, then said, “Who would like some tea? Why don’t we all have some tea?”

Aislinn gently pried the cards from his hands.

“Oh, yes, tea would be lovely, my dear.”

“The dreamworld is but another kind of reality, waiting to be discovered. Open your mind to the possibility of this, and the door will open of its own accord.”

- Caedmon O’Tuathail - Recollections IV, year 2519

Date: Year 2530 according to the Galactic Calendar

Location: Unknown Planet - Mid Risk Zone - MUD Territory - Galia

Caedmon O’Tuathail stood at the navigation console Clann Aodha’s Fimbul BYOS Tankship. The Clann’s flagship.

He looked out through one of the square windows at a small planet, which was centred in the view.

The look on Caedmon’s face was one of rapture and awe; his eyes glittering with an almost childlike excitement. He was a handsome man of medium height and a powerful physique. He had a square jaw, which was covered by a thick grey beard, piercing blue eyes, bushy eyebrows and shaved pate. If it were not for his grey beard and eyebrows, no one would have guessed that he was in his late seventies.

Caedmon breathed in a deep breath and turned away from the window, his expression changing to one of seriousness. There were a couple of other occupants in the room who were physically present, but the majority were present as flickering holograms. The holograms comprised the head and faces of the fourteen other Clann Leaders. The room presented an eerie scene as thirteen disembodied and slightly glowing heads bobbed in the air. Caedmon had turned back to a loud argument between the heads of Darragh Finegan, the Clann leader of Fir Li, and Diarmait Mac Conboirne, the Clann leader from Clann Tomaltaigh.

“We do not even know if life is possible on that planet,” said Diarmait sourly. “And the astronomical cost that would be required to terraform an entire planet would likely bankrupt us all. And for what? So that we can satisfy the whims of a delusional old fool plagued by mushroom induced visions. The Ireland of old is gone and so is the Irish Traveller spirit with it. We should accept this and move on.”

“Firstly,” countered Darragh. “There already is life there. Admittedly, it is all single cellular organisms, but they are living nonetheless. Secondly, it is a very small planet as far as planets go, so the cost would not be as astronomical as you might think. Not to mention Clann Aodha has proposed to front the initial terraforming costs on their own if need be and recoup the funds at a later date once the colony is established. So financial considerations should not be an obstacle to joining for your Clann.

“Thirdly, Clann Aodha’s research teams have already confirmed that the requisite conditions for life exist on the planet. Specifically, conditions necessary for human life. We would be able to grow all the old Terran plants, crops, trees we wanted with such atmospheric conditions and long extinct animals from ancient Ireland would once again have a home. The chances of finding an uninhabited and unclaimed planet that has almost the exact atmospheric and gravitational conditions that we require is statistically absurdly unlikely. And yet there it is, waiting for us. I do not understand your reticence, Diarmait.”

“Well, it has two moons. Earth had only one moon,” complained Diarmait. “And the nearest star is much closer than the sun was to Earth. We could never recreate our long lost Ireland as she once was on Earth with such different conditions. Plus, by all reports, it is actually quite poor in valuable mining resources.”

Darragh sighed loudly but before he could respond, Caedmon spoke up and said, “If it is okay, I would like to respond to the statements made. The purpose is not to recreate Earth exactly as it was. That would be practically impossible. The intention is to create a home-world for our remaining people. The extra moon will not impact the living conditions or the viability of the planet as a home world. It will definitely have some impact, but not in any significantly detrimental way. In fact, I quite like the idea of having two celestial guardians orbiting around us instead of simply one.”

Caedmon was now striding back and forth whilst he spoke.

“As to your comment that the sun is relatively closer to this planet than the sun was to Earth and therefore as a consequence I assume you imply that this would somehow impact the conditions for life, I can with absolute confidence say that this is incorrect. Our scientists have determined that the much stronger magnetic field surrounding the planet counters the greater exposure to solar radiation resulting from closer proximity to the nearest star. The reason for this is that our scans have indicated that an extremely dense metal, which generates a powerful magnetic field, composes the centre of the planet. The significant density of the core also explains why, despite being a smaller planet, the gravitational force is surprisingly similar to that which once existed on Earth.”

Caedmon halted his march and quickly pivoted around to face the crowd of holographic heads.

”Finally,” he resumed. “Whilst the planet is relatively poor in precious metals and rare mineral resources, which we know typically garner a higher price in the marketplace, it does have many large deposits of industrial metals, which are important resources for construction and ship manufacturing.”

A few moments of silence passed as the gathered leaders processed this information.

Another voice spoke up, a female voice, which belonged to Orla Conroy, Clann Leader of Clann Fearghaile. “Have we scouted out the neighbouring regions? Is it truly unclaimed? Is it wise to create a home planet at this location given how close to the border of the medium-risk zone and the high-risk zone we are right now?”

Caedmon responded, “We have sent scouts to explore all the four other planets within this solar system. None of them are inhabited, and none appear to have been mined or visited. At least not recently, as far as we can tell. Whilst scans have indicated the presence of mineable resources on the planets and their moons, none of the other four planets are suitable for establishing a home world. This planet before us is the only one with the perfect conditions we require. I would also point out that at least one neighbouring planet has been found to contain moderately large deposits of rare metals, which once claimed we would be able to mine exclusively.”

“But why hasn’t this planet ever been colonised before if it is so perfect for human living conditions?” asked Orla.

“This location is off the path of frequently used shipping lanes, which would explain why it has remained undiscovered for so long. That being said, it is still within the medium-risk zone, which would decrease the chances of rogue pirate attacks. But pirates would not be an issue if we made this our home world. It would be very unlikely that pirates would choose to attack such a heavily protected and fortified location. We would, in effect, rule this entire solar system.”

“But Jorvik pirates may attack us as we leave the planet or on our return journeys,” said Orla.

“Just in the same way that they may attack you on any given day at present,” snapped Caedmon sharply, an edge of anger entering his voice. “You currently travel through Galia in small, poorly protected fleets of merchant ships. Every day as a space merchant is a risk. This will forever be a risk for our people as we have specialised in the business of freighting merchandise across Galia, however, I do believe that having an official nation state with treaties, foreign alliances and a single, powerful and coordinated national military that could provide the proper escorts needed for our merchant fleets, would in fact reduce these risks.”

Caedmon turned back to the window, his hands clasped behind him. He looked out across the intervening space between his ship and the planet, and his expression immediately softened. A moment later, he began speaking again.

“But the main reason we need a home world is so that we can provide the majority of our Clanns’ populations with a better life. A sanctuary world of sorts. A world that would be protected from the harsh realities of space life by a mighty national military force. A place to live and prosper in. We have the opportunity to manifest a beautiful, natural world of our own creation. The nature of old, the nature that our ancient Gaelic forefathers once lived in harmony with.”

He now turned back to the room. “Clann Aodha has retained all the genetic coding for all the flora and fauna that once lived and thrived on the ancient Terran island of Ireland prior to the 17th Century AD, according to the old Terran calendar system. I have had many visions of recreating such a paradise for our beleaguered people. We know we are likely the last remaining descendants of the Irish Travellers. The same wandering spirit that urged our ancestors to roam endlessly lives on in us, and it is precisely because of this spirit of exploration that our forefathers, along with the other MUD humans, left the then dying Earth so many years past.

“But I also believe that it is once again time for us to find our own home world, our new Ireland, an island within space upon which we can forge a new destiny and reconnect with our past. With our traditions. With that which makes us who we are,” he paused, his voice filling with sadness as he continued, “for I see that with every passing generation we lose a little more of ourselves and if we continue on this trajectory, we soon will not be any different from any of the other MUD humans in Galia.”

Caedmon scanned his eyes across the room, trying to engage with the holographic faces of each of the gathered Clann leaders.

He resumed speaking. “I therefore implore you, my brethren, my kin, my fellow Gaelic Clannsmen. Let us take a leap of faith and secure a future for our people. Let us deliberate no further, for enough time has already been wasted. I have been led to this day by a vision that has haunted me my entire life. This is our destiny. Clann Aodha will create a new world upon this planet, of that I am certain, and we would love for all the other Clanns to join us. This new world will be called Bohemia, for this word encapsulates all that is beautiful, creative and free within the Irish Traveller spirit, whilst also acknowledging the importance of accepting change and the power found in new beginnings. It is this nomadic Gaelic spirit that will give life to all that Bohemia will one day become.”

The silence was palpable in the wake of his long speech.

“So who will join Clann Aodha in creating the new world of Bohemia?” cried Caedmon, punching the air with his right fist, the clarion call of his words echoing through the room and into the flight decks of fourteen other ships.

A chorus of voices spoke up all at once, each pledging their Clann to the grand vision. Orla of Clann Fearghaile was the last to call out her Clann’s name, her voice hesitant and wavering, but call it out she did.

But one Clann leader had not spoken up; Diarmait Mac Conboirne of Clann Tomaltaigh.

Caedmon turned to the hovering holograph that depicted Diarmait and asked, “Friend Diarmait, will you join us in recreating paradise?”

The response from Diarmait was immediate. “I am no friend of yours, Caedmon O’Tuathail of Clann Aodha,” he spat. “You and your wretched cronies can go settle on a cold, desolate, alien planet if you wish, but Clann Tomaltaigh will have no part of it. The only Ireland that has ever existed and will ever exist was the Ireland on Earth, which is no more. Your vision of a new pagan Ireland filled with false gods is an insult to our ancestors.”

Diarmait’s voice rose significantly in volume at this point. “You may have poisoned the minds of my fellow kin, but you have not fooled me. I look forward to coming back here one day to pillage the remains of your failed utopia. I will laugh as you cry over the ashes of an unholy world created from your own hubris. May you never have a hearth to call your own!”