The Dark Horse encounters a strange planet full of some fantastic technology. Naturally, Maddy wants to get her paws on it. But how the heck does it even work?

I know I called "First Impressions" part of the second season of Madison May of the Star Patrol serial Tales of the Dark Horse, but I guess it's actually a standalone episode. "The Machine Stops" is actually the first episode of the new season, which has been renewed for five episodes thanks to Viewers Like You. This episode is clean; the next one will not be :P

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Tales of the Dark Horse by Rob Baird
S2E1, "The Machine Stops"
Stardate 66432

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First Officer's Log, Stardate 66432.6
We have exited hyperspace to investigate a planet that our science officer tells us may very well be inhabited. It remains to be seen what we will find, but after three weeks in transit the crew are looking forward to a change of scenery…

Lieutenant Commander David Bradley used “change of scenery" in place of what their captain, Madison May, had said: hyperspace is really fucking boring, Dave. In point of fact they both believed this, but the retriever didn't require a life of constant excitement in the same way May did.

Commander May wouldn't have used “change of scenery" because it wasn't exactly the problem. The problem, so far as the akita was concerned, was that their mission was one of exploration. All the time in hyperspace was just so much of an obstacle. A change of scenery needed to mean more than pretty pictures: it needed to give them something to do.

“What are we looking at?" she asked.

“A rocky planet, slightly larger than Clearwater." Mitch Alexander, the sensor operator, brought an image up on the starship's viewscreen so they could have a look. Strictly speaking “a look" didn't tell them much other than that the planet was rather striking; the real work took more analysis than Madison May cared to hear about until it was finished.

“How big is Clearwater?"

“Roughly 96% Terran mass," Alexander replied.

Madison May took two steps back through the conversation. “So you could've said that it was about the size of Earth?"

“Yes, ma'am." Mitch was from Clearwater, though, and the Abyssinian felt Terrans had a nasty habit of assuming Earth was the only planet anyone cared about. “This planet is approximately 1.002 Earths, if that helps."

May blinked. “So, then, you really could've said that it was — you know what? Actually, it doesn't matter. Anything good?"

“Oxygen, nitrogen, liquid water… it's a solid Type A planet," Mitch said, as the readouts from her sensor suite filtered in. “If there aren't any pathogens, we could breathe pretty happily down there."

Madison stepped closer to the viewscreen, straining her eyes at the cloud-veiled surface of the planet. “What about those green patches? Vegetation? It definitely looks green."

Spaceman Alexander had tried to explain how surface-level visual inspection was enough times that the Abyssinian skipped doing so again. “It's a possibility, yes, ma'am."

At the rear of the bridge, her colleague Barry decided to skip the preamble and jump to conclusions. “Highly likely, in fact. Looking at the thermal emissions and the narrow-band spectral analysis, the chemical and infrared signs would tend to correspond to photosynthetic lifeforms."

Their science officer didn't really notice when people didn't understand him, and May coped by picking out the words and phrases she was most excited by. Highly likely, in context, did the trick. “It kind of looks like Earth, too. More green towards the coasts, less at the poles… I mean, just looking at it…"

Unfortunately for Alexander's faith in the computer's analytics over the Mark One Eyeball, Commander May had a good point. “Yes," the Abby confirmed. “It does."

“More than that," Barry said.

Commanders May and Bradley turned to the Border Collie at the same time, for the same reasons, and with the same goal in mind. “Ensign, please explain in clear, concise terms what you mean," Dave said. If brevity was the soul of wit, Barry had sold his to the excitable devils of untreated ADHD many years before — and more than that was a worrying phrase.

Their science officer meant well, so he took the advice in stride before ignoring it. “I'm looking at the reflections from sideband laser — specifically, the interference patterns of —"

“Answers," May interrupted him. “You don't need to show your work."

He licked his muzzle nervously. I can't win, he thought. If I tell them what I'm seeing, they're going to ask why, and then I'm going to have to explain how if you take the sideband lasers and subtract the data from the forward sensor array, what you wind up with…

“Ensign Schatz?" Dave prompted. “What did you mean by 'more than that'? More than plants?"

… and then they'll want to know why the crystals attenuate at — plants? What? “Ah — well — I mean, yes, sir. But no. But — well. Dianium!"

“I need more from you. More than one word," May said. Over the course of their mission she'd become less frustrated with the Border Collie, and begun taking her first officer's advice in making concrete suggestions to him. “Two words? Six, maybe? Not more than ten."

“I'm detecting substantial quantities of it."

May counted the words in the sentence on her fingers. “Okay."

“The sensors indicate large amounts of tetradianium and rassurite ore."

May looked at her first officer, who was not a mineralogist and could only shrug. Spaceman Alexander, reviewing the data on her own console, knew a little more. She was also of the opinion that the Border Collie was mistaken. “At this range, it's impossible to see that. Sir."

Barry didn't notice the perfunctory way she added the 'sir,' and even if he had noticed he wouldn't have cared. He tapped at his console to show the data on the cruiser's viewscreen. “No, no. Look. See?" The beautiful jewel of a planet had vanished, replaced by scrolling numeric readouts, flashing icons and a set of graphs that appeared to be in a contest for the most spikey.

Realization dawned first on Mitch, whose love of old electronics explained what she was seeing. “You tied the ranging lasers into our main sensor grid. But that's…"

Dave pounced on the Abyssinian as a useful ally. “Spaceman. Explain."

“Yes, sir." Her brain didn't work at Barry's clock speed, and she figured she was only picking up half of it or so. “These old lasers work on the same frequencies as our sensor package. Think of it like… shining a bright flashlight on what we're looking at."

“Reflections," Barry added quickly.

“It looks like it. But for those reflections to show up, there would have to be huge quantities of it — thousands of tons of dianium. That's just impossible, commander."

Bradley didn't know why, or what any of it meant. “I've never heard of it."

“Dianium is used for all sorts of precision electronics. Tetradianium crystals can be used as a powerful, stable energy amplifier. But the entire output of the Confederation is only a few thousands of kilograms per year, with the best refining processes we have. This is…" Mitch looked up at the viewscreen, and down at her console, looking for any inconsistencies. “If it's true, it's incredible."

May's ears perked up at the last word. “Does it mean intelligent life?"

“I don't know. The atmosphere doesn't reflect industrial activity, and I'm not detecting any radio signals or anything of the sort."

Well, then! Only one way to find out. “Take us in closer," the akita ordered, and sat down to wait. New planets were one of the best parts of her job, particularly when they seemed friendly or full of shiny things to look at.

And this one didn't disappoint. The closer they got, the more Mitch Alexander started to feel like she might've underestimated their twitchy science officer. “Mr. Schatz was right. Tetradianium, diamond, rassurite — this planet is a treasure chest with a breathable atmosphere."

“How breathable?" Madison May asked. “'Scouting party' breathable?"

“Definitely." The Abyssinian had started to clarify when her console lit up with a chipper buzz. “Uh. Uh… hold on." Alexander's tail started to lash at a building apprehension. “Captain, I think we're being hailed."

Although many of their encounters had ended inauspiciously, May herself felt no concern. She relished the chance to meet new people. Irrepressible friendliness was her specialty. The akita tapped her communicator. “Dr. Beltran, report to the bridge."

“Where are we being hailed from?" Lieutenant Commander Bradley suggested the practical question, while they waited for their diplomatic specialist to show up. “The planet?"

“A point source on it, yes. Some transmitter on the surface; it dawned a few minutes ago."

“Anything else? Weapons?"

Nothing but the radio transmission. Spaceman Alexander shook her head. “No, sir. The transmission's source is a mountain, roughly six thousand meters above sea level. I don't see anything else about it."

“Well, then. I'd say this just got interesting."

Felicia Beltran knew they'd been planning on investigating a new planet; she also knew the only reason May had to summon her to the bridge was signs of intelligent life. May liked intelligent life, even if it had a tendency to be slightly hostile. Beltran, like many of the crew, understood that her task was in building a protective wall between reality and the akita's instincts.

She took a few deep breaths, and tapped the access panel by the bridge door to gain entry. “What do we have?"

Alexander stepped to the side to make room for the leopard at her station. “This signal. It's a twelve-second burst, repeating every minute or so. It seems to be encoding audio by way of frequency modulation. Shall I play it, doctor?"

The leopard nodded, and the unmistakable sounds of an alien language filled the bridge. Alien was as far as it went for most of them. Dr. Beltran listened for any clue in the cadence, and the tone, and the transcription being printed on Spaceman Alexander's computer screen.

“It's the same sequence, but it's not an automated transmission," Beltran decided. “Subtle variations in the sounds. I don't recognize the language, captain, and the translator isn't giving any hints." She added the last part to preempt May's inevitable question.

“None at all?" the akita asked. “Should we answer?"

Obviously the answer May was looking for was yes, of course. Both the leopardess and the akita knew she was going to be disappointed. “We should be careful. We do not know if this species is interstellar — we do not know anything about them. The non-interference principle may apply."

“On the other hand, they did hail us," Lieutenant Commander Bradley said. “We presume so, at least. And if our science officer is right about those crystals, they have to be technologically advanced. Mr. Schatz, what are the odds?"

Barry shut his eyes, and drifted into a momentary trance to let his impulse for oversharing pass. “Refining tetradianium requires incredible sophistication, sir. We don't seem to be detecting anything in orbit, or any signs of habitation on other planets, but that could mean many things. They could be like the Moya or the Lirrag, both of whom gave up interstellar travel to focus on their homeworlds — now, certain indications in the biosphere would imply that — you're going to interrupt me, aren't you? Your mouth is open, commander."

Briefly, the retriever closed his muzzle. “I… was going to, yes. Thank you, Mr. Schatz. Dr. Beltran?"

“He is right. The Confederation delayed contact with the Moya for thirty years — it was only when we heard about them from Taurans carrying Moyani trade goods that we sent our first diplomatic mission."

“What's your instinct?" May asked. The akita lived by instinct, and naturally assumed everyone else did also. “What does your gut say?"

“They probably want to make contact. I would guess."

“Then do it."

Beltran cued up the standard diplomatic protocol, and hit the 'transmit' key. The alien chatter came back at once, far more intensely. May assumed this meant they were having a conversation.

Really, it was a bad sign. The standard diplomatic protocol included a translation matrix, a simple set of instructions for establishing the building blocks of communication. It began with universal constants that a smart recipient would be able to identify as constants, and used them to set the foundations for phonology, and syntax, and grammar.

The basic idea was so simple that almost all spacefaring civilizations had invented something like it, and it allowed something like a 'universal translator' — Dr. Beltran had long ago given up fighting that semantic battle. “I don't think they understand us, captain."

“Do we understand them?" May, raised with the ubiquity of automatic translation, did not have sufficient respect for how the process worked. So far as the akita was concerned, it simply did.

“No. We are going to have to do this the hard way." Dr. Beltran switched the computer over into 'manual' mode. “Greetings. This is the Star Patrol cruiser Dark Horse. We come in peace."

A lot of thinking went into what she'd said. Whoever was on the planet had chosen to hail them, which meant they were probably friendly. When they picked up a reply, their voice became more agitated, which meant they probably modulated tone the same way as Terrans did. So Beltran spoke calmly and slowly in turn, and waited to see the answer that came back.

The translation computer was busy processing it, breaking it down into individual sounds and comparing them against ones had had come before. The leopardess repeated herself, and kept herself from looking at Madison May, who was very skeptical of the 'come in peace' phrasing.

Spaceman Alexander was skeptical, too, but she at least knew to trust their diplomatic expert where diplomacy was concerned. Signals, though — that was different. “Hey, doc? We're getting something."

“Another reply?" Beltran asked.

Ensign Schatz was noticing the same thing as Alexander. “It's a signal on a slightly different frequency, and with a slightly different modulation."

“They're coming from the same area," Alexander went on. “But it's not a voice transmission. At least, it's not the same kind of voice. Right, doc?"

The Abyssinian was clearly right — it was only a question of what to do with it. The new transmission was much weaker, and also far more complex. Felicia locked the 'universal' translator into it and waited.

“Link confirmed. Welcome. Please enter your authentication," the transmission said.

That got everyone's attention. “Authentication? Like a password?" May asked it rhetorically. What she really meant was: what kind of password could they want from us?

“Whatever it is, it uses some kind of translation matrix and we have a good sense of the language now. With any luck it might be the same one used in the first transmission. Let me switch back to the other signal."

“— orbit. If you are peaceful, please reply. We have waited so long…"

Felicia put the bridge microphone on 'mute' before anyone could do anything rash. She wanted to understand what had happened. What was the secondary transmission about? Why did it seem like an automatic system? Who had automated it?

“Open hailing frequencies, Dr. Beltran," May said. She lived in a simpler world, where the answers to questions like that could come later or be ignored altogether. The akita waited a few seconds for Dr. Beltran to resign herself to the inevitability and unmute the transmission. “I am Commander Madison May, of the Star Patrol. To who am I speaking? Er — wait, that's 'whom,' isn't it?"

“This is Zama, Junior Overseer of the 4th City. Are you… from space, Star Patrol?"

“That's right. The cruiser Dark Horse is on a mission of peaceful exploration. We come from the Terran Confederation, many light years from here."

“I detected the entry of your vessel into this system. All of the city alarms went off. We have been waiting for this signal for twelve hundred years. We wish to…" The Junior Overseer's voice crackled, faded, and dropped out altogether.

“What happened? Did we lose the connection?"

Spaceman Alexander checked her computer to see what might've gone wrong. The answer was so surprising that she needed a moment to confirm the report. “Ah. Yes, captain. Their transmitter is out of our line of sight."

“Patch into the orbital network?"

“Ah. That's the thing, captain. They don't have one. It's strict LOS."

Lieutenant Commander Bradley, who knew just enough about their communications hardware to be dangerous, called up the logs from the console to the side of his chair. “Good God. She's right. The transmitter was physically moving to track us. That must be why they put it on the mountain…"

“Vintage chic, eh? Helm, put us into a stationary orbit, then."

Their helmsman, Lieutenant Parnell, started plotting numbers for the course correction. From the corner of her eye, the wolfess saw her friend Mitch Alexander raise a paw and shake her head. “There might be a problem there, too, captain. Based on the signal attenuation, that dish won't reach geostationary altitude."

“What the…" It was genuine surprise, and not any sense of decorum, keeping May from actually swearing. “Very well. Keep us above that transmitter at six hundred kilometers."

It was the kind of order that made Eli Parnell happy she didn't have to pay for fuel. The Dark Horse, with her powerful sublight thrusters, was more than capable of the maneuver, and in the end that was the only thing that really mattered.

“We thought you had left us!" Overseer Zama said, as soon as they were back in transmission range. “It has been so long — so long since we began listening…"

Two decks down, Ensign Bader watched the planet through the windows of an observation lounge. Objectively, he knew it was a good sign he hadn't been summoned to the bridge. “They must be peaceful."

Sabel Thorsen had become the German Shepherd's best friend. They shared a similar outlook on the world; Leon Bader was a consummate tactical officer, and Sabel was a genetically engineered soldier accidentally awoken from several centuries of deep cryosleep. “You don't know that," Sabel said.

“Our captain must believe so."

“She does not know, either. It's like the foolish Earth proverb says: the fifth eye of ja'ani beast always looks inward."

Leon Bader tilted his head. “I'm fairly certain that isn't an Earth proverb, Sabel."

“Not from Earth, no," the spitz agreed. “But I thought all such trite sayings were simply called 'foolish Earth proverbs' — isn't that what you said? You said the devil finds work for idle hands and I pointed out there were no actual devils on Terra, and you said it was just a 'foolish Earth proverb.'"

“Well. Terrans do generate a lot of them. Fine: what does it mean, about the ja'ani beasts?"

“I believe that early hunters who slaughtered them discovered a gland in their brain behind the eye sockets and assumed it was a fifth eye. It is not, of course. I believe the proverb implies decisions based on inadequate intelligence might be gravely mistaken, not merely from a xenobiological point of view but also generally from a tactical one." 

“And that you should consult a doctor when you're not certain whether something is an eye?"

Sabel nodded. “Always a wise choice. Of course, we don't have a doctor. My enhanced constitution reduces the need for medical attention, fortunately. It does mean I'm at a loss when it comes to questions of anatomy."

“Anatomy? Are you consulting a doctor or playing doctor, Sabel?" Leon asked, chuckling. He had no reason to assume the spitz knew what he meant.

But Sabel was nothing if not attentive: he believed strongly in situational awareness, no matter the situation. “You're referring to copulation, I imagine. There are many proverbs about that, too. Like ja'ani beasts, I have no direct experience."

“One of these days, I'm sure." Although his personality required some getting used to, the stocky spitz cut a handsome figure; Leon knew he could hardly be the only one to appreciate it. “All you have to do is —"

His communicator chimed, demanding attention. “Ensign Bader, report to the shuttlebay and prepare for an away mission."

It was the captain's voice he was hearing. “Yes, ma'am. On my way."

“Maybe they're not so peaceful, after all," Sabel suggested. “You'll arm yourself, right?"

“Of course," he said. “We have to be prepared."

Madison May had a healthy love of firearms, but she vetoed the heavy weapons Leon brought with him, and in the end the shepherd had to be content with a standard pulse rifle. We want to give the right impression, she said. He surmised that he was only going on the away mission at all because David had demanded she go with some kind of escort.

He was right, even if the akita felt she could handle herself. She said as much, dismissing Leon's attempt at a tactical briefing, and went back to focusing on their descent into the planet's atmosphere. Although she remained seated, and harnessed, Madison May looked rather like a child with its nose pressed to the glass of a window. She was taking in every bit of the alien landscape beneath them. “It's beautiful," she said. “Mr. Schatz, have you learned anything more about their technology?"

“No, captain," the Border Collie said. Without Lieutenant Commander Bradley to bail him out, Barry did what he could to constrain himself to 'yes' or 'no' answers lest he incur the akita's frustration.

“What about the people themselves?"

He had no answers for that, either. Eli Parnell guided the shuttle on the path they'd been given, which ended in a deep valley. A clear, swift river cut between two sharp cliffs; the cliffs had obviously been carved out for habitation, and windows looked out on the valley floor like so many keen eyes.

There was no landing pad, as such, so Eli picked an open area near the center of the valley. They touched down gently, and by the time Barry finished his scan of known pathogens in the atmosphere the shuttlecraft's hull had cooled enough for some of the natives to approach.

They stood a little over a meter tall; with their long snouts and the overlapping bony plates that shielded their limbs, the Star Patrol crew's first thought was of armadillos. A group of a dozen had drawn near; their leader was made plainly apparent by an ornate tiara. “Senior Overseer Patal welcomes you to the 4th District. Junior Overseer Zama" — the creature pointed to someone standing next to him — “told me he saw your ship far up in the heavens. You've come to talk to us."

“Yes. I'm Commander Madison May, of the Star Patrol — explorers from a civilization quite far from here. We're always interested in meeting new people. I should introduce the others — Mr. Schatz is our science officer, and Dr. Felicia Beltran is our diplomat. She'll tell me when I say something offensive. I don't mean to." The noise of the shuttle's engines powering down caught the akita's attention before Patal or Zama could answer. “Right, and that's Lieutenant Eli Parnell and Ensign Leon Bader; they're crew. Eli flies our ship, and Leon keeps people from shooting at me."

One of the other armadillos crept nervously forward. “Your ship," it murmured, pointing tremulously. “It comes from the 9th District? The 15th?"

“No," Patal corrected. “No, Gana. It comes from beyond. It comes from the stars."

“You came from the stars in that?" Gana trod a few steps closer to the shuttle, his head bobbing as he looked all around. “But how…"

“My ship, the cruiser Dark Horse, is currently in orbit. It's an interstellar vessel, with a hyperdrive capable of nearly forty megajärvi. That's over three light years every day," Madison May said. She didn't bother to qualify the boast by adding in that the ship was prone to self-destruction at those speeds and, of course, Gana wouldn't have known any better.

“And the tall one," Zama asked, gesturing towards Leon Bader. The shepherd straightened to attention. “He is your hunter?"

“Of sorts? Ensign Bader is our tactical officer. He protects us."

“From the stars?"

“After a fashion, yes."

Zama leaned over, whispering to Patal.

He's plotting something, Leon guessed.

What's he saying? Madison and Eli wondered.

So they have ears. The little bony protrusion at the side of their heads must be ears, Barry Schatz and Felicia Beltran concluded, although Barry went quite a bit further. I wonder if that means they're related to Zafali — probably not, because… His thoughts, in rambling high gear, meant he missed it when Patal spoke up.

“Zama asks if you are a mythical hero. With a… hm. In our language, we refer to it as a lance." The universal translator removed some of the mystique from what had likely been, in their language, a term with greater and more honored implications.

“Not really. I mostly use an XR-22 pulse rifle — the Star Patrol taught us some melee combat, but if you're interested in lances you really ought to talk to Sabel Thorsen. He's our security specialist." Leon remained oblivious to the blank stares that greeted him.

Felicia Beltran did not. “He is not a hero. He is just one of us. Very good at his job, yes, but only one of us."

Patal bobbed his head in an erratic figure-eight pattern. “Yes, yes. You come from the stars. It must be different. Understand that we… we do not have lances. We're a peaceful people. We have no weapons."

“No weapons?" May asked, even before Leon could. “That's rather striking."

“We have heard of them. Maybe we can show you? I would love to show you our city, commander."

The akita nodded. “Of course. Lieutenant Parnell, Ensign Bader — stay with the ship. Maintain communication with the Dark Horse. Dave will be worried about us."

“I should come with you," Leon Bader said. “In case something happens."

Madison May tried not to look too scornful. On the other hand, their guests were diminutive, soft-spoken and, evidently, unarmed. What would Dave do? she tried to ask herself. “I need you to complete a tactical scan of the valley," she tried saying. There were too many pauses between the words; it was obvious to both of them she was trying to soften the blow.

Leon was too obedient to protest, though. “Yes, captain."

Patal and Zama led their party to the cliff wall, and up the steep switchback that climbed towards its rim. They stopped halfway, at a metal door that slid to the side with a creak. “This is our office," Patal said. “The administrative building of the 4th District."

It was a nicely furnished office, with high ceilings that gave the Dark Horse crew a few centimeters of clearance, although everyone had to duck in order to make their way through the door itself. The floor looked to be of polished sandstone, smoothed over centuries of use. Patal and Zama took the three Terrans in further, leaving the rest of the retinue behind, until they found themselves in a spacious room with a low table surrounded by thick carpet.

Patal and Zama took seats around the table, folding their armored legs under them. Their legs seemed to be double-jointed, which made accurate emulation difficult. The three settled for sitting cross-legged; it put them closer at eye level with the two administrators. “Would you like a drink? Perhaps… water?"

“That would be fine. Right?" May glanced to Barry and Felicia, at either side. They didn't object. “Water, yes, please."

Patal reached his hand out, and placed it on the center of the table. “Five waters," he instructed.

The table hummed and whirred. Ten seconds later, a hatch in the center opened, and a platform arose, bearing five clear cups. Patal and Zama reached out immediately. Madison and Felicia went second. Barry was last, taking the cup in his paw and tilting his head to examine the flawless, turquoise-hued crystal.

“Well?" May asked. Their hosts started to drink without any hesitation, and the akita was thirsty from the walk, anyway. “It's water?"

The Border Collie remembered his place enough to take a handheld scanner from his belt and direct it at the contents of the glass. “Yes, captain. It's water." Water with no impurities whatsoever, as near as the collie could discern. They must take it very seriously. I guess living in close quarters such as this, they must've learned to be very fastidious with their purification technology.

“We've been waiting for you for twelve hundred years," Patal began, without ceremony.

“For us?"

“Zama, tell them," Patal said.

“We have never seen anyone from the stars, but you saw we were not surprised in the slightest. Our oldest prophecies say we once traveled amongst them. There are, indeed, those who believe that life here began out there, far across the universe. We don't go there now, of course, but we feel a deep spiritual connection."

“Why don't you?"

Zama and Patal exchanged a knowing look. “It is quite dangerous for us. The prophecies make that clear as well: if we leave the Districts, we will become ill. And we are happy, in the valleys. Still, we have known you were coming."

“Zama was taught this as a child, the way I was before him."

Felicia Beltran coughed quietly; Commander May nodded, indicating that the leopardess could speak for her. “What does the prophecy say about us?"

“It says you will come in peace. That you will wish to trade with us. That you will be very tall."

“Zama," Patal chided. “He bends the prophecy. It actually says only you will be imposing. 'Imposing' could mean many things."

“We are interested in trade," Commander May said. “It was one of the reasons we stopped by here. It would, of course, depend on what you had to offer. Our sensors seemed to show that you had a lot of… what did you call it, Mr. Schatz?"

“Crystalline tetradianium, as well as quantities of rassurite and szarellian ore."

The two aliens stared at each other, lost even despite the uncharacteristic simplicity of the Border Collie's statement. “We do not know this. I am an administrator. Zama is a historian."

Barry looked at the water glass in his paw. It was every bit as pure as the water itself had been, and since he'd drunk most of the water he could see how light bent and rippled subtly in the blue crystal's curves. Is it actually… but… “This, sirs. I think this glass is dianium."

“I thought you said it was one of the rarest minerals in the galaxy," his captain recalled. She didn't always recall what Barry said perfectly, and he tended to say a lot, but that seemed familiar. “Right?"

“Yes, but… well." He fiddled with his scanner, and shone a light on the water glass. It fluoresced brilliantly, and they could all see the waves of crimson light flowing through it. “Very few materials behave like that."

“You want… cups?" Patal asked, obviously baffled. “More water?"

“This crystal — it's called dianium. It's quite valuable, uh… among the stars."

“He is confused," Zama said.

Patal clearly agreed, for his voice took on an indulgent, soothing air. “That is only a glass, sir." He put his hand back on the table. “One sculpture of a macar tree fruit, in glass." The table whirred and opened, presenting a clear, spiky model the size of a lemon. It, too, radiated strongly. “You see? If you do not tell a table otherwise, it always makes things in the fireglass. There is nothing special to it."

Barry, with his mind racing, found the usual word in Patal's phrasing before his colleagues did. “Makes? What do you mean?"

“Our table. Please, if you enjoy the glasses so much… keep them, as a token of our friendship."

“But the… the table. It made this?"

“Yes, of course. Of course." Once more, Patal placed his hand on it. “Two plates of mixed salad, as I usually order it." Patal took the two plates, and set his own empty glass, and the fruit sculpture, on the platform before it disappeared back inside the table.

The salad looked both real and delicious: a combination of green leaves and neatly diced vegetables, topped by slivers of nuts that seemed to have been recently toasted. “Your table…" Madison May said slowly. “It can make anything? Food? Glasses? Tools?"

“When it is in a good mood." Zama took a plate, and speared one of the green leaves with his claw. He ate it quickly, not out of hunger but to prove to the others that it was precisely what it appeared to be. “Indeed, it is highly versatile."

“How does it work?"

“I don't know," Zama said. “Patal does not know. Some other historians know."

“It must be quite simple," Patal added. “I did not bother to learn. It wasn't really important. Now, as to trade. If you really do love the shiny crystals, we could give them to you. Ordinarily, the tables recycle them, but that isn't necessary. Some children also like the appearance — not to say that you are children, only that… well. But surely you want something more valuable?"

Enraptured by the table, May was at a loss for words. “Uh…"

Dr. Beltran was a little overwhelmed, too, but her diplomatic training allowed the leopardess to hide much of it. Good negotiation required a good poker face. “Our captain means to say we have never seen any technology like this. What would you be looking for in trade that you could not simply produce yourselves?"

“Knowledge! Stories from the outside world," Patal suggested quickly. “Nonmaterial possessions. Music, dance — or… or even images! What does our planet look like from where you come from? Is it as beautiful and peaceful as it seems to be within the District?"

“Of course, there is also —"

“Quiet!" Patal cut off the junior man. “Not so quickly."

“But…"

Madison cocked her head over to the side, and tried to look both curious and disarming at the same time. “What is it? If there something we can help you with?"

Although clearly still uncomfortable with how forward his assistant had been, Patal admitted that there was. “I would be failing in my job as an Overseer if I did not ask about one particular trade good. Do any of your worlds traffic in… this?" He removed his tiara, and pointed to the stone set in its immediate center.

It was the shape of an egg and the size of a marble, mottled with milky white crystal and a duller grey material, rendered shiny only by the fineness of the stone's polish. Madison bent over to inspect it, to no avail. “I don't know? What is it?"

“Precious stone," Patal said. “According to the old books it's found in white crystal, like this."

“I don't know what it is. What about you, Barry?"

“I don't know, either, captain. I'd need to take a closer look."

“Can we… borrow it?" Madison asked. “To investigate?"

Zama gasped. “Of course not!"

“This is the most precious item in the whole District, Commander May," Patal explained. “We… I don't think… it has been with the District since its founding."

“If you can't tell me what it is, I can't really help. I didn't mean to… uh… insult you. Dr. Beltran, can you say that more nicely?"

“There's no need," Patal said at once. “I know you meant no insult. Only… according to the prophecy, you would know about this…"

“Mr. Schatz? Nothing?"

If the Border Collie had been able to assay minerals just by looking at them, he could've found a far more lucrative career. “We can analyze the material back aboard the ship, captain. I don't want to guess, but if I had to — I figure you're going to make me, anyway — I would have to say perhaps platinum. Or maybe iridium… yeah, that makes more sense. The other crystal might be some kind of unworked dianium."

“We do not know these things," the Senior Overseer said. “You use many names that don't make much sense. Maybe they do need to examine it closely, Zama."

“Do you trust them, sir?"

Patal nodded. “We must. Yes, Commander May. I trust you. But please. Please, you must return it. Do you promise?"

She promised.

The promise itself made her giddily curious. She turned the tiara over and over in her paws on the shuttle ride back to the Dark Horse. “I hope you can find out what this is, Mr. Schatz."

“So do I."

“We could really help these people! If they need help — they seem to need help? Why do they need help. All these questions! This must be what it's like inside your head all the time, eh?" She grinned, to tell the Border Collie she didn't mean it as an insult. “You better come back with answers. And you, Dr. Beltran!"

“Captain?" The leopardess looked up at the sound of her name. “What of me?"

“I want a full report on these guys. You have to have some really fascinating insights!"

She did, but even there aboard the shuttle Felicia knew they wouldn't rise to the level of what Madison May wanted. The akita wanted everything boiled down into something simple and bite-sized. These are a trustworthy people, who will make valuable allies for us — or even: they want something from us, and we can't let them have it.

Instead, at the briefing May convened six hours later, Felicia Beltran explained that the 4th District was something of an enigma. As expected, May wasn't satisfied. “What do you mean, an enigma? Where did they get their technology from? How are they using it?"

“I do not understand this either. Captain, I know that is not what you wanted to hear, but I am extremely puzzled. Nothing in their demeanor suggests they know how valuable the raw materials they have are. If they joined the Terran Confederation, they would immediately be one of the richest worlds. But they are not spacefaring."

“You and Mr. Schatz both said that isn't necessarily surprising."

“It would not necessarily be surprising. The exploration impulse motivating you, Commander May, is not a universal constant. A number of worlds have turned inwards after their early forays into the galaxy. The people we met are clearly aware that intelligent life might exist beyond their system, although they professed to have made no contact."

“What about their tables? How does that work?"

Shannon Hazelton, chief engineer of the Dark Horse, had seen a number of mysterious things in her day. The raccoon had, in fact, created a number of mysterious things in her day. She knew when something was mysterious, and when it was something else entirely. “Magic, Mads."

David Bradley sighed inwardly. Of all his battles, his attempts to get the crew to avoid providing their reports in dramatic single lines had proven to be the most quixotic. “There's no such thing as magic, lieutenant."

“Sufficiently advanced technology, then, commander — how's that? I can't explain how it works based on the field reports. It's obviously not simple nanotechnology or rapid prototyping. They have to be doing something else entirely, which as far as I'm concerned? Magic."

Bradley considered the additional explanation a small victory. “Maybe we can get them to tell us."

“We'll ask. Or I'll have Dr. Beltran find a way of asking nicely," May decided; she was modestly self-aware of her limited negotiating talents. “Here's a different question, then, lieutenant. What about those crystals? Can you use them?"

Can you use them? Hazelton wanted to laugh. She might have laughed, even, but the odds were good the mad-scientist cackle might get a talking-to from the first officer. “Of course. How much can you get me? We could upgrade the hyperdrive field generators, the shield emitters, the particle cannons — and that's just talking about places where tetradianium would be a drop-in replacement for the solid state hardware we already have. The experiments… my God, Mads."

“You're not supposed to be experimenting," Bradley said. Hazelton's experiments were unorthodox, unpredictable, and troublingly volatile. The raccoon did not like taking 'no' for an answer, even when it was coming from a reactor vessel and the question was 'will I hold up under this pressure?'

“But if I did…"

“You're not supposed to be," he repeated.

“Yeah, but what if you did?" Madison May had an easily piqued sense of curiosity. “Good stuff?"

“Theoretically, a solid tetradianium intensifier could boost throughput from the motivators by a factor of five or ten. I say theoretically because, Mads, nobody's ever had a fifty-kilo chunk of crystal to play with."

David Bradley took a deep breath, agonizingly aware of the trouble he was about to get himself into. “Ensign Schatz, is that true? About the tetradianium?"

The Border Collie fidgeted, tugging nervously at the collar of his uniform. “Lieutenant Hazelton is being, uh. Conservative. Sir. We've known for some time they function as energy amplifiers, but recent conjecture suggests that they're essentially flawless — they don't break down and they don't decrease in efficiency. I'm obviously not a specialist in these matters, but I definitely recall rumors of a report from the Giep Ge College that —"

For once, it was not the ship's commanders that interrupted him. It was Shannon Hazelton, whose eyes were beginning to take on a dangerous light. “That's the study by the New Materials Council you're talking about, right? Mads, they were saying a crystalline interplexer could finally allow for efficient antimatter production using the Kistana stimulation process."

“Conceivably, at or below a La Paz factor of five," Barry said.

“Conceivably, at or below two," the raccoon corrected.

Madison May interrupted them before they could go any further. “I don't know what that means. I gather it's valuable. Maybe we could even do something like that? Shannon?"

“We could. If we had enough material, we could. Or at least, we could try."

“So then, what do we possibly have to offer in trade? Other than music and dance, I mean. Not to understate that, Dr. Beltran; I'm sure you're about to tell me about numerous times when cultural exchanges were just as valuable as technology…"

Madison May was puzzled; most of them were puzzled. The planet was a mystery, and one that was about to get substantially worse. “You said they asked for something, though, right, commander? Ensign Schatz, have you had any luck figuring out what it is."

“Yes. Uh. Ahem."

“Did you just… say 'ahem'? Like it was a word?"

The Border Collie coughed. “Yes, captain. Uh. It's wolframite."

“Which is? Some kind of rare mineral, I take it — one we probably don't have any of?"

“It's a tungsten-bearing ore. We don't have any wolframite on board outside of the samples in our lab, but we do have some tungsten. And… Spaceman Alexander has been working on a system survey that strongly suggests there's reasonable quantities in some of the asteroids here."

“Tungsten isn't all that rare, is it?"

“No, captain. Total production last year was around twenty million tons. It's used extensively in our systems — there have been some efforts to replace it, but it works relatively well at what it does — at least, as I understand it. We're not even major users. The Pictor Empire, for instance, they use tungsten throughout their starship construction and tungsten production was one of the precipitating factors in the Second War. Now…"

“Later, please," Lieutenant Commander Bradley said. “Why do they want it? Maybe they need specifically that composition? Are there isotopes of tungsten?"

“It's the same as everything else in the system, sir. The sample they provided is just wolframite embedded in a quartz matrix. You could buy a stone like this for five or six credits from any exotic merchant on any station in the TC, and they'd feel guilty about ripping you off."

“Then why do they care?"

“That's a good question, Dave. We're going back. Shannon, why don't you come along and we'll see if we can get some actual insights into their technology?"

Everyone understood that her order represented the end of the meeting. Felicia cleared her throat. “Captain?"

“We're going back, Dr. Beltran. If you have misgivings…"

“No, captain. But I would like to accompany you. I am as curious as you are."

May grinned, happy to have awoken some kind of adventuring spirit in the leopardess. “Of course. Meet me in the shuttle bay in half an hour."

Felicia's only objection was to suggest that they should receive permission before landing an engineering crew, and May was willing to assent. They had a second shuttlecraft, after all, and Hazelton's assistant engineer TJ Wallace apparently knew how to fly it.

Senior Overseer Patal was overjoyed to hear of their return, and when they landed they found him, beaming, on the other side of the shuttlecraft's ramp. “Welcome. Welcome back to the 4th District. I hope that your day has been pleasant, Commander Madison May."

The akita nodded, and held out the tiara she had been given. “It was. And here's this back — undamaged, I hope you can see. We had some… questions. Is that alright?"

“Of course!" The overseer said, bobbing his head in the figure-eight pattern that, by then, even Madison recognized as equivalent to the nod she'd just given him. “We can return to the office if you would like."

She said 'yes' just as a low, booming tone reverberated through the valley. The Dark Horse crew looked around for the source. This proved to be complicated by abundant echoes from the cliffs; it took Leon Bader, with the tactical scanner on his pulse rifle, to identify a man blowing a horn from near the top of the cliff wall.

“Ah… an argosy…" Patal said. “Visitors are arriving. I don't believe there is anyone on the schedule — is there, Zama?"

Zama gave a little jerk. “No, I do not think so. There was a transport scheduled from the 3rd District, but they were waiting for supplies, when last I heard."

Leon Bader dropped his tactical visor down over his muzzle. He was looking for threats — technically speaking, the German Shepherd was always looking for threats — and the visor picked up on movement, a large floating object crossing into the canyon from the east.

The argosy looked like an old Earth galleon, with a hull made of precisely fitted wood. Instead of sails, she had four curving fabric wings; they beat the air gracefully, steering the craft closer and closer to the river bottom. “Captain," the shepherd said. “Contact, 82 degrees, low altitude. An unidentified vessel is approaching. I don't believe it's armed."

“That would be where you went first," May observed drily. She didn't need to be dry, because Bader wouldn't have picked up on the subtlety, but she fancied herself — incorrectly — a wit. “That's the 'argosy' you're talking about, Mr. Patal?"

“Yes. And they're never armed." Zama answered in place of his supervisor. The short little man strained his eyes to the eastern horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of the ship. “How is it possible you can even make it out?"

“Optical magnification. It looks to be around two hundred meters long, captain. I believe it's made of wood. It has wings."

“If I may be… impudent, Mr. Bader… can you see any emblem on its side?"

Bader increased the amplification on his visor. “Two red horizontal stripes extend from the ship's prow to midway along its hull. Between them is a thick bronze band, containing four circles and an isosceles triangle in white with the base perpendicular to the stripes and its point at an angle of approximately one hundred and ten degrees."

Cornered and sworn to secrecy, Leon Bader might've admitted he thought his captain sometimes failed to appreciate his talents. For the most part, he was incorrect: May appreciated them, she just felt they were often unnecessary. She did, however, give him insufficient credit for being able to quickly provide detailed information without rambling.

Patal and Zama, at least, understood. “That's the emblem of the 11th District. They don't visit here very often. I wonder what the matter is… four circles, that must be the argosy Amakaz. We should be there to greet them."

The Amakaz approached the same part of the river bottom Eli Parnell had chosen as a landing site. Silent but for the rush of air through its wings, the airship drifted to a halt, and slowly settled down to earth. May, Schatz and Beltran went with their hosts to meet it, leaving Parnell and Bader behind.

“What do you think?" the wolfess asked.

“I think our captain is very reckless," Ensign Bader answered. “She doesn't know anything about that ship."

“How does it fly? It can't be those wings — they aren't enough to lift a ship of that size."

“Antigravity?" Everything Leon knew about wooden ships he had learned from stories in which they were generally trying to fill each other with lead shot. “Some kind of propulsion system we don't know about? There's a lot about this planet we don't know about, after all; what's one more thing?"

“Yeah," Eli agreed. She looked behind her at the shuttlecraft's instrument panel, checking to make sure there weren't any warning lights in case they needed to leave in a hurry. “Maybe you're right about being reckless…"

Approaching the ship, meanwhile, Madison May was giving little thought to recklessness. “It's impressive," she told Patal and Zama. “How does it fly?"

“We use machines that counteract the effects of the planet's gravity. They're built directly into the hull, and that way… we need only to use these wings. It's relatively efficient, and all we need is for them to be efficient…"

A door in the argosy's belly opened, and a rope dropped out. A moment later, so did one of the natives, collapsing in a heap as Patal and Zama raced forward to render assistance. Barry Schatz followed May's lead in sprinting to the figure's side.

They had rolled onto their back; their breathing was shallow. “It… it is true," they whispered.

“Captain Huvu," Patal murmured. “Why have you come?"

The figure raised its hand weakly, pointing to the gathered trio of Star Patrol crew. “They… they are here…"

“Yes," Patal confirmed urgently. “They're here."

“They will… save… us," Captain Huvu finished, and went limp.

Barry Schatz only had a general-purpose scanner, and not a medical diagnostic tool, but he did what he could. “Their vital signs are weak, but… stable. What happened?"

“We cannot leave the Districts," Patal reminded them. “Or we become gravely ill. Argosy crews know the sacrifice they make for us. It will take her many weeks to recover. She would not have traveled if she did not believe it was important."

Mindful of what they'd seen, the subdued Terrans walked with Patal and Zama to the office overlooking the District; other residents had come along to tend to the crew of the Amakaz. “What is it, exactly, that makes you ill?" Barry wondered aloud. “Do you need to remain in the valley specifically? Does it lend you some kind of protection?"

Zama and Patal looked at one another. “We do not know," Zama admitted. “The air is poison. It has been poison for many generations. As long as we have records."

“Is that why she wanted us to save you? That's what she was talking about?" May asked.

“It is not in the prophecy, but the District she hails from watches the stars just as we do. Maybe the situation is more grave than we feared in the 11th District, Patal."

“Don't speculate without knowledge, Zama. That is where fear comes from. Our guests don't need to know of that, anyway. We wanted to talk of trade. You said you had questions, Commander Madison May?"

The akita had even more questions than she'd started the day with — they all did. “Yes. Mr. Schatz, our scientist, analyzed the gem you provided to us. You said you desired more of the grey material, not the crystal?"

“Yes. Yes, exactly. The precious stone."

Madison May looked to Barry, and nodded. The Border Collie set a carrying case on the table, opened it, and withdrew two solid tungsten rods. “It seems to be composed of iron, manganese and tungsten. The closest to a valuable material would be… uh…" The two aliens were both staring with wide, shocked eyes at the rods. “This tungsten… you see…"

“This is what you're looking for?" May asked. “Mr. Patal! This is what you're looking for?"

“I believe so. How did you ever… how did you ever find it? Zama — Zama, you were right. They did know where more of it might be obtained…"

“It's not… that rare, to be honest," the akita explained, choosing short words to account for the pair's continued distraction. “You can have these. My chief engineer doesn't like it when I give things like this away, but I'm sure it's fine in this case…"

Patal's hands shook as he took the two rods from the equally baffled science officer. It was all Zama could do to control his own trembling, but he managed to open the surface of the table up. Patal set the rods on the raised platform; the platform descended, the table closed, and a pleasant chime sounded.

“It worked! You… how did you…"

“As, uh… as I said, it's not that rare of a material…"

“It is rare to us." Patal was stunned, and rapturous. “The tables are hungry for it, and we haven't been able to provide them. They complain, and they stop working. They've been failing — stop it, Zama, don't give me that look! Our visitors deserve the truth! The tables have been failing for many years. We were losing hope."

“But this can fix them, I guess? We don't how they work, you see, so we're doing the best we can."

“You want to know how they work?" Zama asked. “Yes? We can help you."

Felicia agreed that this was invitation enough for purposes of diplomatic protocol, and May ordered Lieutenant Hazelton and her assistant TJ down from orbit. She tagged along with Zama on their way to what he described as the heart of the 4th District — though she had a sneaking, if incorrect, suspicion that most of what followed would be boringly technical and fully intended to excuse herself from the proceedings.

The group was met at the door by two guardians, whom Zama approached with a deferential bow to his head. Then he turned to the Dark Horse crew. “May I introduce to you Jana and Kuhun, our most accomplished scientists and experts on the functioning of the tables. They have studied for many, many years to know as much as they do. They'll be able to answer all of your questions." Appropriately reverent, Zama took two steps backwards.

The two scientists looked to have many, many years of experience: stooped and wizened, their armored plates were chipped and worn with age. The contrast with Shannon Hazelton was marked; the one with TJ Wallace, the young otter whose Star Patrol jacket was open and untucked, was absolutely staggering.

But if they cared for protocol, Jana and Kuhun didn't show it. “These archives are the center of all our knowledge, and where the heart of the tables beat," Jana said. “Outsiders do not often come here. But then, we have never seen such outsiders as you. You are honored guests, and welcome."

Kuhun, who was a little older, stiffened. “Careful. Don't lose your sense of respect for the makers," she rebuked him. “Zama, that goes for you, too."

Zama didn't protest. He stayed behind the door, with Dr. Beltran and Madison May, and disappeared from sight when the door slid wearily shut. The Star Patrol crew looked around, coming to terms with what they were seeing. The archives were carved of sandstone, just like the rest of the District, but crystal pipes ran hither and yon and the room pulsed with a slow, steady glow.

“Your boss said you'd be able to tell us how this whole thing works," Shannon began. “You can, right?"

Kuhun turned on her heel, and walked without another word to a part of the room where many of the pipes joined and the glow was strongest. The pipes entered what seemed to be a stone box, two meters wide and a meter tall, with a window made of more clear crystal. “This is how."

Shannon lifted her head, following the path the pipes took through the complex; there didn't seem to be any particular logic. “Right, but… I don't… I don't know what's going on here."

“Hey, chief." TJ tapped the raccoon on her shoulder, and pointed to an identical stone box behind them — this one dark. “Maybe we can look at that one? It's not on."

“You see," Jana said. “They know. They knew what to look for."

“That one is Big Ama," Kuhun said. “It hasn't been working since I was very young. Only Little Ama has been working. This one here." She pointed to the first box, whose pipes were still lit.

“What's wrong with it?" Shannon asked. The raccoon crouched, and stared through the window; the interior seemed to be smooth, polished, and unremarkable stone. Nothing about it seemed to suggest any sort of problem.

“We need to cast the Spell of Ama on it, but we lack the ingredients," Kuhun explained.

At least, she was attempting an explanation; it proved to be unhelpful for the Star Patrol crew. Shannon looked over her shoulder. “What's that?"

Kuhun seemed uncomfortable, so her assistant Jana spoke up. “When the tables become sick, we need to provide medicine for them. They tell us where and how to apply it. All we need to do is perform the Spell of Ama."

Shannon stood back up. A look at her two companions told the raccoon that neither Barry nor TJ had any better idea of what was going on. “Can you show us?" She was hoping something had been lost in translation — that the 'spell' actually referred to some sort of technical documentation.

Instead, Kuhun rose, walked over to the working box, and placed her hand on it. “Tell us," she said, “what ails Big Ama. How may we bring him back to life?" The machine hummed, and emitted an unhappy buzz. “You see? Little Ama says it is not able to help, for we lack the right preparations for the spell."

Shannon Hazelton knew she was no diplomat — certainly no composed, precise figure like Felicia Beltran. She tried to be delicate, anyway: “I thought you knew how this worked?"

“We do," Kuhun insisted.

“But… the actual details. What is it doing?"

It emerged, over a period of uncomfortable questioning, that Kuhun and Jana did know precisely how the tables functioned. Someone told the machine what was desired and, a few moments later, the object appeared.

On occasion one of the many tables installed throughout the District ceased to function, and when that occurred someone came to see either Kuhun or Jana, who performed the Spell — which involved asking the machine what was the matter, whereupon it produced a diagnosis and a replacement part.

“But not always," Jana confirmed, when Barry Schatz asked if the process was sometimes imperfect. “Sometimes it needs some of the precious grey metal."

“Tungsten," Barry suggested. He had a few more samples in a carrying case at his side, and produced one for their investigation. “Something like this?"

“Exactly like that!"

Seeing Kuhun's excitement, Barry handed the tungsten over. Kuhun opened the window in front of Little Ama, and placed the sample inside. “And now that you have it… what happens now?"

What happened was the machine flashed, and when they could see again the tungsten had disappeared. Kuhun again asked the machine for assistance: this time, instead of buzzing, it produced a small contraption festooned with little knobs and spikes.

One of the pipes leading to the second box — Big Ama — started to flash. Murmuring quiet incantations, the two assistants walked over. They removed a fitting that sat just above the flashing pipe. The fitting appeared to be identical to the gadget Little Ama had just produced — and when the replacement was installed, the second machine lit up just like its companion.

Kuhun's eyes widened, and she raised her hands in supplication to the array of freshly lit pipes and conduits. “You have done it!" she cried. “At last — forgive me for my skepticism! Forgive me for doubting you were our saviors… Jana, do you see what they have done?"

Jana caressed the stone edges of the box reverently. “They have resurrected Big Ama, from all his years of slumber. What… what can we possibly do to repay you?"

Shannon knew, even as she asked it, that the one thing she desired was also the one thing they were going to prove least able to provide. “Can you tell us what happened? What these things are? That would be payment enough."

“But we already have…"

She regrouped with the two others outside, by themselves in a waning afternoon — Kuhun and Jana stayed indoors to marvel at the reinvigorated Big Ama. Warm sun caressed the valley, picking out the edges of stone buildings and the sails of the airship Amakaz in soft, fuzzy light. “So… they don't know how this works, right? We're agreed on that?"

TJ nodded. “Seems that way. I can't imagine the machines actually work on spells and stuff like that. I mean, it would be pretty wicked if that were true, but… I really don't think so…"

“But then… what's going on?"

It was the first question that Madison May had for them, when everyone met up once more. The akita had enjoyed a long and pleasant lunch with their hosts and Dr. Beltran — who, for once in her life, didn't seem to be silently judging everything the akita said or did.

This, although May didn't know it, was because Beltran found herself rather baffled. The 4th District looked like it should've been a preindustrial commune, which would ordinarily have meant the Terran Confederation's non-interference principles came into play.

But they had asked for interference… after a fashion. It didn't quite seem to Dr. Beltran they knew what they were really asking for. Had Madison May not asked the question, Felicia would've demanded to know what was going on herself.

“These tables…" Barry had taken up the cause of explaining, and should've realized he was in over his head. “I don't even know where to begin. Their exact mechanism of operation is still a mystery. The 4th District has several dozen of them, placed in important offices as well as in public places. They produce everything the residents desire, from food to clothing to entertainment."

“They're controlled from the central room Zama took us to," Shannon went on. “If one of the tables experiences a malfunction, two machines in that room diagnose it and provide a replacement part, if it's needed."

“That seems simple enough. And convenient." May thought of all the times such a device would've come in handy on the Dark Horse, and her ears pricked. “Where can we get one?"

“Well, that's the problem, right, boss? Uh. Uh, cap? Captain?" TJ stumbled for what he was supposed to call the akita. He didn't interact with her much — Shannon was comfortable being called 'Shannon,' or 'chief,' and the otter hadn't been brought up with many formalities. “Commander?"

Madison hadn't been brought up with formalities either, and Dave wasn't around to yell at her for being 'lax.' “Whatever," she said. “What's the problem?"

“Well I was poking around, doing some experiments and stuff. And it seems, like… it's pretty wild, right, but it seems like the whole machine is basically, like, built into the city. Can't be removed. It seems to take in water and silt and stuff from the river as, like, feedstock for whatever it replicates."

This was only part of the system, as Shannon pointed out next. “Including the tetradianium crystals, which is apparently the default material the tables produce things with. When the residents are done using them, they just recycle whatever they made and it gets decomposed. It's almost a closed system."

“Almost?"

“For some reason, the machine can't produce tungsten. Any spare parts that use it…"

“Lieutenant Hazelton and I believe that it can work tungsten, but the recycling efficiency is very low — maybe on the order of five or ten percent. I think this may be because its primary use is in parts that degrade over time, so there's less of it to recycle, but it may also have to do with the density of the material… we don't understand the system well enough, or we could experiment more. I'd like to try replicating some even denser elements, but we don't know the instructions to do that and, uh, and we weren't able to explain to the caretakers of the central machines what we wanted."

May tried to listen carefully to what Barry was saying, and made it successfully most of the way through the Border Collie's explanation. “They ran out, is what you mean?"

“Yeah, cap. We think so. That one dude, he was like… they ran out of the metal for parts, like, decades ago. They've had enough to fix little things, but not when the big machine broke down. They couldn't fix that until we came to help them." TJ shook his head. “It was pretty wild watching how happy they were."

Madison took this back to the two Overseers, with Felicia's blessing. “We can provide you with twenty kilograms of tungsten — based on what we've learned from your scholars, it should be enough to run your tables for a good, long time. The thing is… it's not that rare, you know? You could get it yourselves, if you wanted. There must be some on the planet. We can teach you what it looks like, if that helps."

Patal sighed, his expression turning glum and sorrowful. “Once there was, in the valleys of the 6th and 12th Districts, but they exhausted their mines centuries ago. The expeditions we have sent out to discover new sources have all ended in disaster."

“What kind of disaster?"

“If we leave the valleys, we become very ill. You saw how even brief exposure sickened the captain of the Amakaz. Imagine being out of the valleys for weeks at a time — we couldn't possibly endure it!"

Barry Schatz was thinking about their encounter with the Amakaz, and some inconsistent information he'd picked up on his scanner. “Uh, about that… I was thinking about it, and, uh. Are you sure? Do you know the pathology of the illness? How it works?"

“Of course! We've studied it for years and years. We begin to have difficulty breathing… then at length we simply waste away, our weakness total and complete."

“But… you've tried?"

“Of course we've tried," Patal said, rather curtly. “We've been doing this for a very long time."

Commander May cleared her throat. “Please, excuse him. He can get a bit… excitable."

“Yes…" Patal seemed to realize that he was, after all, talking to their saviors. “Well, it's no matter. As we were saying…"

Several hundred kilometers above this explanation, the bridge crew of the Dark Horse were very nearly as bored as Madison May was swiftly becoming. David Bradley kept watch, along with Leon Bader — although the shepherd didn't really have much to do.

“You can lock your station and get some rest," Lieutenant Commander Bradley told him. “We'll need someone for the next watch, if the others aren't back. Why don't you get some rack time?"

“The ship is dangerous undermanned as it is, sir. I would be remiss if I left my station."

“We do benefit from a lot of automation, you know," David said, although he knew the German Shepherd had a point. Cruisers like the Dark Horse were designed to operate with a crew of hundreds. The Star Patrol had not been able to find 'hundreds' of people willing to serve on her. “And there's not much going on down there right now."

“But if we were to come under attack…"

“They don't have any weapons. What would they attack us with?"

'We don't have any weapons' — exactly the sort of thing someone who did have weapons and was trying to lure the unwary into a trap would say. Leon didn't know how the rest of them could even stand to be so lax. “They don't have weapons that we can detect, or that we know about."

“They've been extremely friendly so far." Lieutenant Commander Bradley let the rest of the explanation hang; an alert light had started to flash on his console. “We're being hailed. It's… not the captain."

“Is it coming from the city, sir?"

“No. But it's hard to tell. It looks like it's coming from the same transmitter. I'm putting it through."

“Travelers," a slow voice said. “I see your ship above us. It has finally happened. Are you there?"

“We are. You're speaking to Lieutenant Commander David Bradley, aboard the Star Patrol cruiser Dark Horse. Who is this?"

“I am Edda. Welcome to our planet. You must not approach the surface."

David looked at Leon Bader, whose expression was the dry I-told-you-so of the perpetually paranoid. “It's a bit too late for that. We've already visited the surface. Why are you warning us away?"

“They… do not understand," Edda said, showing no proclivity for helpfulness. “The valley-dwellers. They do not understand. They will, in time, but… but not now. You must not speak with them. You must not help them."

“We need a bit more than that, Edda. Our civilization is a peaceful one; we seek peaceful contact. We've already begun negotiating with the 4th District."

“No. You must stop. You must."

“Can you tell us why? Why do we have to stop?"

Silence.

Why does everyone in the universe speak in riddles? That was a better question, and one David intended to bring up to Dr. Beltran at the earliest opportunity. “Edda, can you tell me why? What's going on?"

“Apologies. I apologize for what I must do."

“Edda? Damn it." Bradley allowed himself to curse, because the communications channel had been closed by the remote party. “Alright, ensign, have it your way. I'm taking the ship to Gold Alert." He tapped the command to do so into the console next to his chair.

Leon's paws worked briskly and eagerly at his controls. “Deflector shields online, sir. Weapons are in active-standby and tactical scanners are operational. Awaiting your orders."

The radio lit up with a chime. “Bridge, this is Lieutenant Parnell."

“This is the bridge. Go ahead."

“Commander, something's happening down here… the ground is beginning to shake. Can you tell what's going on?"

“No. Is the captain with you?"

“She and Ensign Schatz and Dr. Beltran left me to watch the shuttlecraft. They're still talking to the… the ruling people. Mr. Patal. I tried to contact them, but our personal radios seem to be getting interference in the valley. Lieutenant Hazelton, in the other shuttle, can't raise them either. Should I go find them?"

“No. Stay with the shuttle and get it ready to depart — I'm sure the captain is headed back by now." Mitch Alexander entered the bridge; David stabbed his finger urgently in the direction of her station. “Spaceman, get Hazelton back on course to dock with us — and find out what's going on down there."

The Abyssinian used the time she took logging in to her computer to make a few guesses at what the golden retriever might've meant. One by one, the sensor logs started filtering onto her display, and she got her first hint at an answer. “Major seismic activity, sir."

“They've weaponized earthquakes," Leon said. “We should've known."

“Stress is building up along a fault line that runs roughly parallel to the river. The computer estimates it will cause catastrophic failure of the cliff walls in approximately two hours."

“Do you know why?"

“No, sir." Computer modeling had been able to predict how long the cliff might hold out against the inevitable, but it certainly didn't provide any pat answers about what had happened to begin with. “This area didn't show previous signs of seismic instability."

“Can we do anything to stop it?" The retriever was, for the most part, only thinking out loud — and it had been an awfully Madison May kind of thought.

Mitch gave him the benefit of the doubt. “No, sir. I don't believe we can stop an earthquake from low orbit. The odds are low."

“A precisely targeted torpedo impact might be able to relieve stress on the fault line before it became critical in the valley, right?"

“I don't know. Sir."

Oh, hey — I do! Leon's happiness was tempered by the realization that he couldn't, in good conscience, act on it. “Sir, you're technically correct, but it would require a yield in the hundreds or thousands of terajoules. The treatment might prove to be worse than the cure."

David drummed his claws for a few seconds. “We were hailed by somebody. They called themselves 'Edda.' Can you localize the source of that transmission, spaceman?"

Localizing the source of the transmission was, of course, very easy; all transmissions came from the same radio station. Mitch ran a few more sensor sweeps, trying to pick anything interesting out of the results. “There are some electromagnetic signals coming from a small structure two kilometers below the summit of the mountain where their transmitter's located. They're consistent with a control station. Maybe it came from there?"

“How consistent?"

She went back through the logs until she found the conversation between Edda and the Dark Horse. “During your interaction, there appears to have an increase in activity. Maybe Edda lives there?"

“Hail them. Target the structure directly."

“No response, sir."

Leon would be wanting to try particle cannons next. David wasn't certain it would help, and he didn't want to jump right to orbital warfare if he could help it. “Open a channel to Lieutenant Parnell and the shuttlecraft."

“Channel open."

“Lieutenant. Any word from the captain?"

“No. Lieutenant Hazelton and Spaceman Wallace just took off. And things are definitely getting worse here. I saw a tall crane tip over… everybody's safe, but there looks to be a lot of panic."

David heard some concern in the wolf's own voice. “You're safe?"

“I'm in an open area. I think I'm safe." Barry, who would've known about liquefaction and the danger of the shuttlecraft being swallowed up by the earth itself, was not around to say it. That was best for everyone's nerves. “You're sure you don't want me to go looking for the captain?"

He didn't want her to leave the shuttle unoccupied. There, Leon definitely had a point about their lack of crew. “Stay put for now. I'll be in touch." He tried to go over their options, none of which seemed to be especially friendly.

They probably couldn't stop the earthquake. And even if they managed to rescue May and the others, that left the 4th District at the mercy of its imminent collapse. Edda, who might have had answers, wasn't in the mood to provide them — and he had no way to compel Edda to talk.

Or did he? “Leon, can you fly a shuttlecraft?"

“Not… really, sir."

“Spaceman Alexander?"

The Abyssinian developed a very keen, hyperfocused interest in her computer. “Had my license suspended, sir. Uh, five times."

And that was all of them. Unless… David turned on his communicator. “Sabel Thorsen, it's Bradley. Can you fly shuttles?"

“My programming limits me to extremely old shuttles," the spitz said. “I suspect anything I knew how to fly would probably be long obsolete by now."

He'd picked a very amendable ship to be reanimated on: the Dark Horse had been mothballed for two centuries by the time Madison May got her paws on it. “You might just be in luck."

They all were. Sabel met them on the shuttledeck wearing his powered armor — there was never a bad occasion for powered armor, and he didn't have a regular uniform. David had taken Leon with him, leaving Mitch Alexander in sole command of the ship. Sure, I'll be fine, the Abyssinian lied unconvincingly.

The Dark Horse had, on her deployment, been given two Mark 4 shuttlepods: sleek, shiny, colorful and new. Eli Parnell liked flying them; it was the closest the lieutenant got to having her paws on modern starships. One of the Mark 4s was currently on the surface; the other was on the way back, but they didn't have time to wait.

Before the Mark 4 came, logically, the Mark 3, 2 and 1. Before that, shuttles had 'types,' the latest being the Type 18 and the earliest (skipping a few unlucky numbers and models) being the Type 1. All of these had been designed by the Sirius Spaceworks, and proudly bore the screaming eagle of that company's emblem.

Such an eagle was conspicuously absent from the machine parked several bays down from the remaining Mark 4. The shuttlecraft had been painted in gunmetal grey. It had a boxy wedge for a canopy, a squat keystone-shaped body, two trapezoidal tails that stood stiffly vertical, and a pair of blunt triangular wings folded up against the fuselage like the shuttle was trying to shield itself from punishment. “They left it behind when they sent us off. They didn't feel like moving it."

“Ah," Sabel said. “I see why." 

“Can you fly it?"

“Of course." Sabel strode up to the shuttle and unlocked its canopy, which at least opened smoothly. In addition to space for six passengers, it had room in the cockpit for a pilot, specialist, and flight engineer — flight engineers were still needed, back in those days. He climbed up the ladder that had folded down, and made himself comfortable. “I can fly a Vostok-class shuttle."

“Vostok?" David asked. He tried to think of where he'd heard the name — for he was, after all, a space historian. “Those came before the Type 1, didn't they? God… wasn't there a range before that? The Letter shuttles? A, and B, and…"

“F. F was the newest when I was frozen, in 2590." Sabel held in the power switch for the shuttle, and its lights flickered on. One by one, and unhappy about being awoken — but they came on. “It's still connected to the fuel lines. Let us try the reactor, shall we?"

The reactor, too, still worked. The shuttle had been designed long before the Star Patrol became truly interested in aesthetics. Function over form, that was the watchword. David kept a careful eye on Sabel, to see if he could even understand what the spitz was doing. He could not.

The spitz himself couldn't really have explained it. Flying shuttles had been programmed into him, the way language had but metaphor had not. “Everything seems to work," he said. “Bridge, this is Shuttle 4, ready for departure. Open the bay doors."

“You couldn't have put Lieutenant Commander Bradley on for that?" Mitch Alexander teased the oblivious spitz. “Cleared for departure, Shuttle 4. Bay open." They swung open, Sabel flipped the switches to release their docking clamps, and the old shuttlepod darted forward, out into the deep space.

“We don't have artificial gravity, do we?" David Bradley asked.

It was a rhetorical question, since they were all being compressed by the acceleration of the shuttle's thrusters. Sabel didn't do well with rhetoric. “The Vostok was designed before artificial gravity plating became cheap and widely available. Unfortunately there may be some discomfort. Given their age, the engines need to be run within a limited range of power settings."

“Oh? Why?"

Sabel had enough mental resources to fly and talk at the same time, although not enough to judge how his conversation would be received. “The engines use Howland intensifiers rather than toroidal motivators. They are obsolete because of their tendency to explode."

“You don't sound all that worried."

“No, commander. Ulvar units were designed with a life expectancy of only a few weeks."

David coughed. “We weren't, you know?"

“I know. That's why I'm being careful."

Howland intensifiers predated even the Dark Horse, which was designed with marginally safer sublight thrusters. David decided it wasn't worth being worried about — if the engines exploded, they'd be dead before they knew anything was wrong.

On the other hand, it also told him why the shuttlepod had been left behind. Disconnecting the fuel lines alone would've required half a dozen environmental impact statements and a crew of twenty highly paid specialists just to observe the process. Instead they'd just left it in place, and hoped nobody noticed.

Oh, well. What can you do? Sabel could fly it, after all; that was a stroke of good luck. “Not the most impressive ship, I guess. But at least it works, right?"

“There's something to be said for older tech, sir," Leon Bader said.

“Bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, eh?"

“Yeah."

Sabel, hearing the German Shepherd's agreement, wanted to do the same. “Because the bird in the hand is of a more valuable species?"

“Well… no," Leon said. “Not necessarily."

“Then why are you holding it?"

Leon tried to consider the best way to explain. “Because you were hunting it. You have that bird. The birds in the bush, you don't have."

The shuttlepod began to shudder as it hit atmosphere. “Why would you be hunting a bird unless you knew it was more valuable?" Sabel asked. “I suppose you mean it was a target of opportunity. But now that you have the bird in your hand, you can also hunt the ones that are still free?"

“Er… yes…"

“You're the bird in this scenario," David offered, and then immediately realized this wasn't quite true. “Maybe the shuttle is the bird in this scenario. The combination of you and the shuttle."

“Two birds would be better than one bird," Leon added. “But you already have the one bird, so it's guaranteed. It's better to have one thing guaranteed than two things that aren't guaranteed."

“Yes," Sabel said, carefully. He adjusted the shuttle's profile, and the turbulence lessened a bit. “I believe I follow. You would rather have someone who is not me, but they are not available."

David turned to look at Leon. “Is he always like this?"

“More or less, sir."

“I don't mind if you would have preferred a better shuttlepod and pilot. We were programmed to be expendable," Sabel reminded them. He liked the Dark Horse's crew, but they had a funny way of forgetting that life was only a temporary obstacle to achieving the lasting glory of heroic sacrifice. “I do not always understand your language, that's all. Leon is trying to help."

“I do what I can."

Sabel Thorsen nodded. “You do. And a bird in the hand…"

“Hey!"

The spitz grinned, happy that he did, in fact, seem to be learning. The shuttle dropped below ten thousand meters; he flipped the wings open and set them on a glide towards the mountain range that was their final destination.

David fiddled with the old manual controls on his panel until he found the radio switches. “Bridge, this is Bradley. Are you there?"

“Yes, sir," Mitch said. “Read you five by five, sir."

“Great. Any word from Commander May?"

“They've met up with Lieutenant Parnell and they're getting ready to take off. Shall I have them meet up with you?"

“Yes. What about the seismic activity?"

“Eighty-five minutes until catastrophic failure."

David assumed the Abyssinian was making an educated guess, because it seemed unlikely the ship's computer could accurately predict, down to the minute, when the cliff walls might collapse. Either way, it underscored the need to get answers quickly.

Sabel brought the shuttle in for a landing in front of a stone bungalow; lights from inside suggested it was occupied. David and Leon clipped respirators to their muzzles, to compensate for the low oxygen. Sabel's armored suit took care of that for him. It also took care of his weaponry.

Lieutenant Commander Bradley hoped that weaponry wouldn't be needed. He knocked at the door to the bungalow. A few seconds later, someone answered. “You came," he said. “That's a surprise."

“We wanted answers." The figure looked, for the most part, like any of the other inhabitants of the 4th District. He was taller, though, as tall as any of the Terrans, and three of his limbs had been replaced by mechanical equivalents.

He gestured to the room behind him with his one remaining arm. “Well, I can't stop you. Come in. I'm Edda, but you must know that already."

The building was spartan but, with the door closed, at least it was warm and pressurized. David unhooked his respirator. “What are you doing? Why are you destroying the valley down there?"

“Because," Edda answered. “It's time."

“What do you mean? You have to stop — there's thousands of people down there. They'll die if you keep going!"

“Perhaps it is time for that, too," Edda replied, betraying no emotion. “You were never supposed to come. I wish you hadn't come. Not to this place."

“But we're here now. Can you at least tell us what's going on?"

“Is that all you want?" Edda ran his fingers along the wall; a hatch opened, and he took a cup of steaming liquid from it, caressing the mug in his spindly mechanical fingers. “I thought you wanted me to stop it, too."

“Well. Yes," David allowed. “We're very confused, Edda."

“I'll tell you the truth," their host said, and pointed languidly to a table and the chairs around it. “But you will not interfere."

“I can't promise that."

Edda gave the retriever a mirthfully aged look. “It wasn't a negotiation. You can't stop what has begun. Only I can. I said I would tell you the truth, and you would not interfere. That is true. Sit."

Leon and David sat; Sabel's armor made that difficult, and the spitz elected to remain standing. Edda understood, and didn't judge. For his part, his legs split into a four-legged stool of sorts, on which he rested.

“You've seen the replicators in use. They can make anything. Food, clothing — artificial body parts, when the ones biology gave us finally become tired." He pointed to his own, in case they might not have noticed the smooth metal struts and glowing crystalline supports. “Do you know where they came from?"

David felt the question would not have been so leading if the answer was intended to be truly mysterious. “You made them," the retriever guessed. “Originally."

“Yes. We made them, many centuries ago. I knew the couple responsible for inventing the very first replicator. That was the moment everything changed. We could have anything we wanted. Anything we could conceive of was ours at a moment's notice. You can imagine what happened…" He took a slow drink from his mug, looking at the three Terrans and waiting for their reply.

“With that kind of machine to answer your every whim, your civilization stagnated. You never progressed beyond that point." David wasn't quite in the mood for guessing games — a clock was still ticking — but he thought that this, too, was obvious. The modern-day inhabitants of the planet were subdued, and diminutive, and unquestioning. “You sabotaged yourselves by removing any sort of… need."

Edda took another drink. He stayed silent, but his eyes drifted in Leon's direction. He stared.

Why is he looking at me? the shepherd thought. Does he want my guess? He doesn't want to know what I think. He can't want to know what I think — right?

“What do you think, warrior?"

Put on the spot, the shepherd splayed his ears. “Uh…"

“Tell me," Edda prompted.

“The opposite. The ones who invented it realized they had unlimited power. Rather than using their invention to usher in a utopia, they used it to become wealthy."

“And why not?" Edda asked. “They invented it."

David was as shocked as Leon that the shepherd's guess had been accurate. “But you could've done so much more. You could've turned this planet into a paradise for everyone with that technology…"

“Why? The little people, the crawling masses begging for their handouts — they couldn't have come up with it. And it wasn't our responsibility to feed them just because they were feeble and incompetent. We took advantage of them the way you'd take advantage of your flock, or your herd of cattle."

“The rich grew richer," Leon said. “The poor grew poorer…"

“They were only there to drag us down. And when they could drag us down no further…"

“They rebelled," the shepherd finished.

“There were many of them, and few of us. Even despite our great advantages, they almost won. When it had settled, those of us who remained decided it would never happen again. We indoctrinated them. The replicators became… a religion, more than a technology. We forbid them from leaving their Districts, telling them they would become ill if they did so. When, after the first few times, disaster visited any explorers, they learned their lesson."

“And now, none of them know anything different." David heard himself saying the words, but it was hard to accept they might be true. The scale of what was being described staggered the retriever.

“We still needed them for mining the few resources the replicators can't synthesize. When the stockpiles in the valleys started to run dry, my colleagues attempted to lure the residents out — but they wouldn't go; the superstition is too strong. In the end they created the expectation that, one day, a savior from the stars would arrive."

“Us." David swallowed.

“Yes. They never did. Our planet is far from anything interesting. Once, I thought we would leave it — I thought the replicators would give us what we needed. They can make extremely sophisticated parts, as you see. By then it was too late, though."

“Where are the others? Your colleagues?"

“Dead." Edda said the word with chilling finality. “They are dead."

“You killed them."

“After a fashion. What we did was horrible. We thought we were gods, and our hubris destroyed this planet and all the potential it might've had. I have kept the machines running as best I can for five hundred years — such penance as I may offer. The cryosleep pods my colleagues occupied had many… useful… raw materials. I am the last one."

“Why destroy the city, then, if you've sacrificed so much already?"

“They know that you exist. As long as they know that, they have reason to believe that help will come from elsewhere to save them from themselves. Our only hope is to banish that, cruel as it may seem. The machines are running down, Commander Bradley. One day, with or without me, they will stop altogether."

He paused, and waved his fingers in the direction of the building's door. It opened on a surprised Madison May, with Felicia Beltran and Barry Schatz at her side. “Glad to see you made it out," David said. “This is Edda."

“Edda," May echoed.

“I created the machines," Edda explained. “You cannot keep them going."

“'Created'? You said you knew the people who created the machines."

As the door closed, Edda turned from it so he could face David again. “My partner was the last person I unplugged. It's time that this ended."

“It is," the golden retriever agreed. “But you can't make that choice."

Madison May felt she was in the dark, and she didn't like that one bit. “What choice? You're creating the earthquakes, too?"

“To remove any trace of your visit. So they can be free, at long last. We lived in that valley. That's where I started all this. It's fitting that it be where I end it, too."

“You can't," David said. “You're absolutely right that they can't go on forever. And you're right they're going to need to learn how to live on their own, without you guiding them. But don't you see that by destroying that city, you're doing exactly what you claim to oppose? Let them choose, Edda. Set them free by allowing them to be free."

“The risk is too great. Another ship could come by, and give them another century of respite. I'd hoped this would be the end — things are already breaking down. They're beginning to trade amongst themselves outside the demands of the calendar. They're learning that other cities can provide what their own machines cannot."

“You said you maintain the replicators, though. You could stop. They'd run down on their own, one at a time… maybe the 4th District lasts a bit longer than the others, now. Maybe it'll be where they begin to rebuild. On their own. Without you."

“Will they? Do you believe that? Do you believe those people you interacted with will ever understand what this really was?"

“I have faith in all people, Edda," David insisted. “All people have potential. Everyone can be redeemed. You've been doing your part — you called it 'penance.' Maybe the last piece of that is… letting go."

Edda's expression had the weariness of every last year of his existence. His shoulders sagged; the light in his artificial parts dimmed. “Maybe." He flexed the fingers on his biological hand. “Very well. It is stopped. Even they will be able to rebuild anything broken."

“They'll learn. They still have the spark of what you were, once."

“Maybe." The second time he said it, though, Edda sounded far less convinced. “You should go now."

“We just got here," May spoke up. “Why would we —"

“Because this is my house. And you were my guests. I'm saying you should go." Edda raised his hand, if not his voice: the door sprung open, and cold air flooded the room. He didn't say anything else.

Madison May took the copilot's seat in the shuttle, next to Lieutenant Parnell. “What's that other ship? How'd Dave get down here?"

“Must've found it lying around in the shuttlebay," the wolf answered. “It's an old Vostok. A museum piece, ma'am."

“Can you fly it?"

“No. I wouldn't even know where to begin." It lifted off before them, dazzling the two with the glare of its thrusters. “But it still works, huh? That's pretty neat." Parnell brought their own craft aloft more sedately, keeping the building before them in view.

May and Parnell were both staring at it when the bungalow started to crumble. Little sparks flew from the stone, kicked up along with the dust that the mountain winds swept away in an instant. “Are we in danger?"

“No." The wolf backed them away just in case, but whatever was destroying the building did so without any fuss to its surroundings. No more than fifteen seconds later, all that remained lay in a flat, featureless heap. “I don't even know what happened…"

David explained all he could, at a staff meeting in the captain's ready room. The 4th District seemed to be stable, from their orbital observations, but the Dark Horse was no longer able to contact them. The radio dish had been destroyed, just like Edda's residence.

“What happens when they run out of tungsten again?" May asked. “They're trapped in that valley. If they leave it, they become fatally ill."

“Edda said it was all part of their mythology, designed to keep them there."

“But we saw what happened."

“Well. Not quite, captain." Everyone in the room turned to look at Barry. “I tried to tell you on the planet. The captain of that airship was fine, physically. I couldn't detect anything wrong. I think it was psychosomatic. A learned behavior."

“They learned to become ill if they left the comfort of their homes?" When the akita said it out loud, it didn't actually sound as ridiculous as she'd thought at first. “Well, they'd fit in with the Terran Confederation, I guess."

“The more they leave their homes, the more they'll realize they actually can," David said. “Like us, if you're continuing the metaphor."

Back on the bridge, after the meeting was over, Madison May leaned over to her first officer. “Do you think we could ever become like that, Dave?"

“Like what?" he asked.

“Complacent. Dependent on machines like that. Happy to stay in some little town until we starve to death because we're afraid of leaving. How's that saying go? Earth is the cradle of mankind, but we can't live forever in a cradle?"

“Did you ever stay in your cradle, Maddy?"

The akita smiled, quite guiltlessly. “No."

“I think we'll be fine."

Satisfied for the moment — but only for the moment — she turned from him to look forward, where their orbit was carrying them into the planet's nightfall. Their course had already been laid in. “Engage the hyperdrive, Lieutenant Parnell. To the stars — full speed ahead."