The Crossing
I do not remember most of what happened. That life… that mind… is long since gone.
There was chaos. Our systems failed us. Our technology failed us. Our institutions failed us. The enemy of our ancestors had cheated death, and come for us.
Some fought. Some fled. Most died.
We all die eventually.
Except us.
A few remained behind as we entered the portals. They would hide, and bring us back when the danger had passed.
The plan did not work.
The suffocating maelstrom that haunts this dimension ensnared those who entered. Some fought. Some fled. Most died.
Except us.
While the others were twisted by these dark forces until they could no longer survive, some of us were remade. Reborn in the phantom image the swarm possessed. Why we were not fully consumed, I cannot say. The thing that lurks here, the abomination, it does not take notice of us.
We are Unseen.
But not forgotten.
As ages passed, our story was told to those that followed, an unbroken chain of those looking for a way for us to return. To return home. They have planned, and prepared, and agonized, while we planned, and prepared, and waited.
The signal came unexpectedly, a benefactor unknown to us. But the intention was clear enough: a way out.
Now, the Crossing, the moment long spoken of, is upon us. We are coming. Coming home.
We will be Unseen no more.
***
Fretyl. One minute before The Crossing. “Dude, just take it.” “What, the whole wallet?” “Yes! Kitra zon, grab it and go, man.” Elb and Yek had found the man comatose under the bridge. They’d tossed an empty Kola Fizz bottle at him, then given him a couple kicks to the boot. Nothing. “This guy is really rolling. And drooling…” “Suck it up. We wanna’ get out of here in a hurry. These ‘mystic’ heads get really wacky when they wake up.” “I think I’ve got it. I —“ The man snapped his head back hard enough for his neck to audibly crack. His mouth, agape and pointed directly at the sky, let out a gurgling moan. “What the —“ The man’s hand shot out and latched on to Elb, pulling him in close. “Get it off! Get it off!” Yek picked up a chunk of masonry with both hands, hoisting it his above his head. He brought it down… … too late. The man, Elb, the debris, his hands — all disappeared into the grey gas that poured out of the man’s mouth at an impossible rate. It felt like a million tiny cuts, sending Yek reeling. He stumbled back as the wave washed over him…
***
New Yarholm. Fourteen minutes before The Crossing. Crin was trying really hard to hate the day. She had to work, sure. Nobody wants to do that on their birthday. But at least it was all on the comms today, no customer-facing time on the sales floor. If someone got out of line, the connection could just mysteriously “drop.” She’d been up early enough to grab a pastry from the bakery outside her shuttle stop, and the cute Almorian girl at the counter had drawn a little smiley face next to her name on the wrapper. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And the weather! After six solid weeks of fog, it had finally burned off, the sun brilliantly filling the sky. People were smiling and saying “hello,” just because they couldn’t help it. So, long story short, it was taking a lot of effort to be grumpy. Like, a lot. The shuttle was even making good time, and that never happened. Traffic was heavy, like always, but it wasn’t terrible. She would be at the shop a little early, long enough to maybe take a nice walk around the block and enjoy the sunshine. Crin fired up some music on her comp, a playlist she had curated by the band Skeleton With No Spine. She scrolled the social feed. Delia: getting married in six months, posting about flower arrangements. Crin wondered if she was getting an invite. Pelma: finishing a thesis for an advanced degree… Crin still had another year of saving before she could afford to even restart her entry levels on Rivendi. Tellany: passive aggressive complaining about “haters.” Well, at least that was normal. Someone was outside, flailing their arms as they pulled away from the latest stop. She only kind of looked up - people were late all the time, and it wasn’t like the shuttle pilots could really stop and wait. It sucked, but that’s the way it rolls. She had a long, kind of rambling message from her mom that came through the night before. She hadn't wanted to deal with it at the time, the headline being some complaint about one ailment or another. It was always one ailment or another. She felt bad for being annoyed, but there was literally nothing she could do. And, come on: night before her birthday? Could we just, not? The shuttle slowed again, then surged forward. Motion outside caught Crin's attention: a woman, running alongside the vessel, looked up at her, desperation in her eyes. It was more than the normal panic of missing the bus. It was fear. The shuttle roared off. Crin looked up. Once in a trip wasn’t weird. Twice was strange. It hadn’t even felt like they had stopped… The sky had gone grey. Fog had rolled in thick. Wasn’t supposed to do that today, but when were the weather casters ever correct? They were close to her stop, but the shuttle was picking up speed. She pulled the stop-request cord, but the pilot didn’t seem to notice. She pulled out her earbuds… The engines were whining, pushing way past their normal speed. The cabin was filled with panic, the other passengers hollering and shying away from the windows. She turned to look out. The fog was growing thicker, too thick, more like soup than mist. And the people out in it were scrambling like mad, running, falling, trying to latch on to the shuttle - or anything else moving along the street, for that matter. The shuttle shuddered, the engine giving a cough. She looked to the rear— just as a giant spike exploded into the passenger compartment. The power went out, the hover pads dying. The shuttle sailed forward for a moment more before crashing to the ground, skidding along the roadway. Sparks flew up, while the other passengers tumbled about, thrown to the floor or into other seats. She hit her head. Some lay about, splayed across the aisles or left groaning in their seats. The others fell over each other to get out, the front door. The driver lay motionless, slumped over the wheel, a pool of purple blood forming under him. Crin managed to stand, leaning on the headrest in front of her. The spike was still there - she hadn’t imagined it - but… it was melting. Oozing? Whatever, it was turning to a silvery liquid, filled with vessels. It... pulsed. She careened out the door of the shuttle and on to the street. The fog was everywhere. It stung like needles. She wanted to shut her eyes and scream, but each breath was like breathing razorblades. She had to get inside. She was in front of the store. They had crashed in front of it. She stumbled to the doors. The managers always left the outer doors unlocked in the morning, so the employees could get out of the elements. Someone would need to unlock the inner set for her, if she could just get in. She tripped. Hard to see what it was, but it felt soft… warm. Like a person. What was happening? She made it to the double doors, and pushed them aside. She rolled in, and shoved them back close. She took a breath, coughing. But at least she could breathe again. Whatever this was, it was seeping in. She needed to hurry. She slapped the inner door, hard. “Hey! - Cough cough - Hey! Open up!” She stood again, leaning against the door and pounding. “Come on! Something’s out here! I need help!” From inside the darkened store, someone stepped forward. “Thank goodness. Open up, there’s something out here. We need —“ It stood there, in shadow, fog slowly swirling around its feet. She couldn’t make out much, but she knew this: it wasn’t a manager. She turned. The last thing she heard was the glass shattering.
***
Stanrell, disputed territory. Twenty-two minutes before The Crossing.
The bridge shook, obscured by the shower of debris from the explosion. Ahmenya couldn’t see it, but she could hear it - the wrenching of metal, the screams the unit retreating ahead of her. The artillery strike had brought the bridge down.
Now there was no way out but up.
The Lance Corporal behind her fidgeted. “Ma’am, what now?” he asked, the fear in his voice apparent through the amplification of his helmet.
Another barrage rattled the street, multiple hits raking the length. The Kytomachy were targeting the obvious path of retreat. A building down the block toppled over, adding to the debris spilled across the road.
“We go back,” she answered during the lull. “Make our way up the hill until we get somewhere a ship can pick us up.”
“But the Kyts, they’re heading perpendicular to us. If we get stuck —“
“Then we need to hurry,” she cut him off. “Come on.”
None of this should be possible. The Kraeth were one of the mightiest militaries in the galaxy; the Kytomachy had barely started using FTL technology. And yet, seemingly overnight, they had developed arms and vehicles that rivaled some of the best in the established order. It screamed of conspiracy.
No time to dwell on that. They needed to get out of this city, before it too was overrun.
The ground shuddered again, more shells impacting just behind them. They scrambled through bombed-out buildings, under fallen girders and into passages punched in walls.
“Could they call in an APEX unit? Maybe give us some fire support?”
“A mech isn’t going to do much good against long-range artillery. Watch that glass there - and they’re not going to waste one just to save us.”
“But… but we’re here…”
“For now. That’s why we need to hurry.”
Each block was terraced along the slope, forcing them to find paths upward, block after block. Tunnels and passageways had been carved through, but the bombardment was shaking them apart. It cost them precious minutes each time they had to find a new way around.
There was a distinct whistling overhead. The ground shook again, a rumble coming up from behind and below. The first block, back by the bridge, was leveled by another artillery barrage.
They kept moving.
It was on the seventh terrace that the Kytomachy's army caught up with them.
She was almost through a doorway, the Lance Corporal trailing behind, when the shots rang out, a RAT-A-TAT as an LMG opened up down the street. The Lance Corporal dropped, pink mist hovering in the air above him, as more bullets poured into his body. Ahmenya knew better than to bother going back.
She raced through the debris. Had they seen her? A burst pipe showered her in foul-looking water; she had never been more thankful for a full-body containment suit. She paused at a ruined doorway.
No one down the block. They weren't flanking her, at least not yet. But that didn't mean someone wasn't coming up behind. She moved out --
The pain barely registered, other than a sharp pressure in her shoulder. The strength in her left arm gave out, her rifle falling to the side. She turned back, the knife blade pulling out from the wound; she was stunned to see the Kyt soldier so close. They had spent days in a shooting war - now here they were, visor-to-visor, less than a meter between them. The Kyt lunged again.
She blocked with her forearm, gauntlets absorbing most of the impact. It still sent her tumbling back, unable to pull her sidearm. The enemy wasted no time, rushing in with the blade --
...before disappearing into the mist.
It had rolled in unbelievably fast, a rush of fog barreling down the street like it was wind tunnel, obscuring the attacking Kyt. Ahmenya stood, finally getting her pistol free. Her rifle was gone, lost in the initial fighting. Her left arm barely worked, what little movement she could muster sending lightning bolts of pain shooting up and down her neck. She used her good arm to sweep around, weapon held out, searching for targets.
The street was... gone. Endless grey blocking out the destruction. Whatever it was, it wasn't smoke, or ash, or fog, not truly - it seemed to dance about in an impossible way, like it was untethered from the currents of the breeze. It stun, cold knifepoints pricking at the open wound on her back. Did the Kyts have a new chem weapon? Why use it here, when there were almost no Kraeth soldiers left?
Movement. A darker grey against the monochrome. She fired.
The round sailed through the cloud, leaving ripples in its wake. It impacted, white hot against her target... but the target didn't fall. It rose up, greater, taller than before, much larger than a Kraeth or a Kyt. She fired again, and again, and again, the magazine finally empty.
She managed to take one step back before the enormous claws came out of the grey, and her world went black.
***
Almorian cruiser Nightcall. Twenty-eight minutes before The Crossing. “I’m bored.” “Go watch a holo or something.” “They ain’t got anything I wanna’ watch.” “They’ve got eighty-thousand vids, what do you mean they don’t have anything?” “Anything I want to watch. Geez.” Clemus had joined the Almorian merchant protection fleets to actually get out and see some action. And to make a few felony charges go away. But this... this was torture. Duty was so boring. “Want to go get messed up?” “What? No, man. No. How many times have I told you?" Tatterson had been with Clemus since partway through boot camp. He'd been his roommate since they had shipped out. He was spending increasing time away from their shared berth. "I thought you cut that crap out?” “I did, I did, but I’ve got a little stash of ‘mystic’ left. Just a little.” “That stuff will mess you up. Screws with your mind. It’s like, micro machines or something.” “Nah, I’m good. Beats being bored. We been out here for what, three weeks?” “Two. And if you can’t handle this, you need to get your ass assigned planet-side. Can’t be out here on patrol, getting high aboard a cruiser.” “I’m just bored, man. I’m bored. Thought we’d at least get to shoot some pirates or something. Instead, it’s just space.” “Yeah… that’s what being part of a space patrol is…” “Anyway… think I’ll go check out the forward bow thrusters.” “You better not get high down there.” “Nah, just gonna’ see the sights.” “We both gonna’ end up in trouble, man.” “Nah…” Clemus wandered for awhile, up and down the corridors of the ship. It looked aimless; but each time he came across a guard posted, or a secure hatch, or caught the glint of a cam, he took an opposite turn. Finally, he had weaved his way up to the bow, unnoticed. He pulled out the container from his jacket pocket, feeling the capsules rattle around inside. There were four left. Maybe he could get someone down here with him one day, split some of what was left. Share the experience. That was what ‘mystic’ was all about - shared minds, shared worlds, shared everything. A moment of pure, blissful, epiphany. The contents of the pill swirled, a grey suspension that seemed to dance about of its own accord. Nano machines and consciousness-expanding chemicals, all in one neat little package. He kicked the pill back. Nothing changed. There was just the steady thrum of the ship. Then cold. An icy tingle that went up the spine before settling at the base of the skull. And then the walls melted. He was in space, outside in the void, watching the multicolored stars pass by as the my danced through the heavens. It was beautiful, the way they shimmered amidst the darkness. And he was not alone: the others were already here, spread out across the galaxy, but so far beyond the confines of the physical world. So enlightened. Enlightened. Light. Light as a feather, a photon, a gentle breeze. Floating on, all right, all right, all right. And he could hear the others, talking, laughing, thinking; and he could feel the others, speak their words, laugh their laugh, think their thoughts, minds made whole, brought together by the joyous mental corruption of probaritol chloromystic, their thoughts tangled up as one. Conversations about life, and love, and pain, and glory, and how very, very, very wondrous this all way, and how smart they all were, how kind, how thoughtful they were to want to include others, needed to include others. Until they were all one, one mind, and feeling, and voice, forever. And then there were no others, not anymore; now they were one: one mind, one voice, one — Someone else was here. Not one of the others. Something else. The others flickered and disappeared, one by one, like the stars shutting off in the sky. The thoughts died. The laughter died. The words died. And he was alone. Except he wasn’t. They were here. Unseen, but here. He wanted to run, to slip away, but there was nowhere to go. He was lost amidst the graveyard of the stars, the endless black abyss. They were coming. They were crossing. The sky went grey. They were inside.
***
Concordance Shipyard, Bevdeleos. Thirty-one minutes before The Crossing. The Bloodhound was a wreck. Tracker Kolt Uzain couldn’t help but stare at the battered ship that he commanded - well, had once commanded. HQ had made clear that, if it wasn’t scrapped entirely, the vessel was no longer was his. Nor was Sci-team Poison Lance, if what was left of that wasn’t disbanded entirely. He was still free on his own recognizance, a courtesy thanks to his years of loyal service to the Concordance. He was looking at ten-to-twenty years in the brig, depending upon what charges they settled on. In theory it was nice to have this time outside of a cell. But he had spent it looking at… this. The Bloodhound wasn’t as well armed as other destroyers in the fleet, but it had been no slouch either. The fact that it had been so torn apart was both a testament to the power of a VSI ship, and the ferocity of their attacker. An attacker Uzain could scarcely believe was real. Luna Sévoss, Elravian boogeyman. Confirmed dead twenty-thousand-odd years ago. And yet, not only was she actually alive, but plotting. Impossible, but no doubt true. Mest had sworn it was her. And the data they had pulled from Timur… Timur. They had never been friends. Truth be told, they could barely tolerate one another. But they had worked together for years, side by side, dealing with the weird and wondrous, trying to keep the galaxy safe from exotic nightmares. And now he was gone. An Automata was a manufactured life form, an artificial mind in a mechanical body. In theory, it wasn’t a death, simply a ceasing of function. In theory. Yet, it didn’t feel like that at all. Fully half the crew was dead or incapacitated, casualty rates hovering around eighty percent. They likely would have been worse had a team not been down on the surface of Qarais when they were attacked. Sure, being away had saved further lives, but in theory the extra firepower may have repelled Luna’s assault. In theory. The yard was trying to patch the Bloodhound back together as best they could. From here, it looked like most of the hull breaches had been plated over, giant metallic bandages holding the vessel together. Uzain hovered over it like a nervous parent, even if he was never going to be allowed aboard again. He had asked if there was anything he could still do. After all, Luna was still out there, now equipped with two Elravian weapons. He had been told, kindly, to shut up and let someone else handle it. Which left him here. Waiting. And wondering. “Pretty big mess.” Zee. Wraith. Part of the landing team that completely missed the battle. One of the few who might have made a difference. “Yes. Big mess. I thought you weren’t supposed to be here?” “Not here talking to you, or not here on Bevdeleos?” “Both.” “Yeah, I'm not supposed to do either. But I’m like you: I can only listen to so many orders before I start picking and choosing.” “Heh. When do you ship out?” “About now. They sent a whole cohort to take me back. Guess I’m special.” “I’m sorry about this, Zee.” “Don’t be. If I thought you had made a bad call along the way, I would have said so. HQ doesn’t know what they’re dealing with. Mark my words: next time Luna hits something, they’re going to come begging for your help.” “Hopefully she has what she wants. Maybe she’ll leave.” “Maybe. But if she doesn’t, I’ll be back by your side to kick her ass.” “Thank you, Zee. Truly.” “Been an honor, Tracker. “Likewise, Wraith.” “Ah, shut it. You’re gonna’ make me cry. See you soon.” Uzain was alone again, watching the wounded ship hovering in the repair bay, workers moving across the hull like a swarm of insects. Kitra zon... what would he do now? He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadow along the wall. Leave it to Zee: Wraiths seemed like big, tough warriors, but he probably wanted a hug. “You can’t come back already, you haven’t been gone long enough to…” It wasn't Zee. It was tendrils of gas, leaking up through the deck. Thick curls, moving with something that looked like a purpose. Uzain had lived through enough strange events to know that it was time to go. He sprinted down the corridor the opposite way. Was it a gas leak? It wasn’t decompression, nor did it look like smoke from a fire. Something from the repair bay? The emergency sirens kicked on, red lights strobing in rhythm to the sound. Whatever this was, it had the whole station on alert. He turned the corner, and was confronted by another cloud, hanging like a curtain in the hall. And something… someone… was moving inside it. Getting closer. He turned. The opposite way in the t-junction was filling as well. He retreated back. There was an emergency kit across from the observation window. If he could get to it before the hallway was overrun, he could maybe get out. The kit was there, just outside the rapidly expanding cloud. He opened the hatch, grabbing at the collapsible helm inside. He placed it on, the auto seal locking to his uniform. The expanding plates slid into place just as the mist closed in, enveloping Uzain in dim, colorless grey. Colorless, except for the two red points of light looking down on him. He sidestepped, just in time to miss the thrust of an oncoming spear. He leaned in, rushing it with his shoulder out, knocking the attacker aside. Uzain powered forward - deeper into the fog, but at least towards more familiar terrain — Until it caught him by the ankle. He fell forward, both elbows crashing to the deck. He kicked backwards with his free foot, again and again, whatever it was grabbing tighter and tighter. Uzain reached for something, anything that he could use to fight back, but the floor was empty. He had no gear, no weapons. He kicked again — The observation window exploded, shards of glass blowing in before being rapidly sucked back out into the low-pressure atmosphere of the repair bay. The fog went with, pulled in long, sinewy coils out into zero-g. Uzain could see it now, the creature: not a person of any kind he recognized, and not fully organic. A cyborg, organic tissue and robotic musculature fused in a way he had never seen. It almost looked surprised to see him. It looked even more surprised as a trio of Wraiths came barreling through the hole. The creature stood, but not fast enough: the first Wraith laid into it with a pair of pistols as they slid into a covering position over Uzain. The second pounded the monster with an enormous autocannon, which bucked against the Wraith's armor as they fired round after round. The thing tried to rush forward, but the autocannon was too much, blasting parts away with each hit. And there was Zee. Without pause he swung his sword, cleaving the beast clean in two. “Let’s go!” Zee shouted, pointing out the window at a waiting Wraith ship. The hall was already filling with the mist again. Uzain grabbed hold of the Wraith that was covering him, and they rocketed out the hole, the jetpack carrying them to the waiting craft. Before he could even collapse his helmet, the ship was racing forward, toward the complex’s exit. “Where are we going?” “Out." The Wraith that had flown him out had settled into the pilot's seat, and was furiously working the controls. "Need to assess and figure out how to hit back.” “Fine, but we need to go back first.” “Excuse me?" The Wraith never turned his head, focusing instead on the maze of the station as they flew outward. "The place is crawling with those things, and more of them by the minute.” “There are defenseless repair techs all over the Bloodhound. They have nowhere to go, and they can’t fly the ship - but I can.” “Oh, Uzain…" Zee let out a deep chuckle. "You just had to say ‘defenseless,’ didn’t you? Turn us around, Oathus.” The Wraith pilot, Oathus, shook his head, then pivoted the ship around. “This is a bad idea, but when has that ever stopped us…” Zee put a hand on Uzain's shoulder. “Hey, Tracker: when this is all over, remind me to ask for a raise.” “I’ll be the first in line to write your commendation letter.” They dove back into the mist.
***
Almorian drift-city Ifcopp. Forty-two minutes before The Crossing. It had rained for days, the kind of downpour that turned the lowest streets of Ifcopp into canals. High above it was a simple inconvenience, business and relaxation marred by the rain. Down below, it was a deluge, washing away homes, ambitions, and lives. The Jackal could care not care less about either. Three decks up from the sewers, the normally busy shops in the market row were shutting down early - at least, the ones that hadn’t already sprung leaks and been forced to shutter. There were no customers; the ones from below were too busy dealing with the flood, and no one above was foolhardy enough to venture down. All the better. It silently crawled above the storefronts, listening. Augmented microphones boosted conversations, while neural implants filtered, sorted, then uploaded relevant audio to the field HQ. The electronic sniffers picked up digital signals: bank transactions, text messages, comms traffic, social media, meta playlists - anything transmitted came into the antennas, got a thorough AI review, before the relevant information was funneled directly to the cerebral cortex. The rest was beamed to command’s servers for further security analysis. The Jackal paused. It was interested in a particular sound. The rain pummeled the rooftops, dropping from the decks above in furious streams. There were no gutters, no downspouts: no one with the necessary funds was worried about where the water all went when it got down this far, a kilometer or more beneath their feet. Instead, it just gushed, an unending torrent. Filters scrubbed the sounds of the storm from its receptors. The noise became a dull drone in the background, a soothing rumble in contrast to the yammering of people and machines. The Jackal turned its head, and listened again. The shops below were calm: the steady thrum of a cooler, the irritating buzz of alarm systems, a clerk whistling a rambling tune while his broom swept across the tile floor, the halting sob of another cashier… noise. And then, someone sent a DM with a keyword: ‘mystic.’ It might as well have been a flare shot into the sky. It came from three buildings over, a data pad registered to a citizen with a record. HQ was alerted almost as quickly as the Jackal, the assault team rolling before the Jackal had even begun to slink towards the target. It wouldn’t be long now. It scrambled over the rooftops, dodging cables and power conduits, sensors trained on the origin point. Speech began to come through now, snippets of conversation: “- ipment needs to move out tonig -“, “-ikely underwater by morni -“ “ake ‘em with us?” “Nah, save the room for merchandise. We’ll get new staff. Bosses only care about the goods.” The Jackal slipped into position just across the street. It was a bike shop, long-since closed for the day. Yet, as it listened there were distinct heartbeats - nine of them: four Almorian, two of those calmer than all the rest. Those would be the priorities. Slowly, the Jackal drew the rifle slung over its shoulder, and gently placed it into firing position on the ledge. It toggled the ammunition-selector, cycling through the options: armor-piercing, flechette, incendiary, hunter-seeker, phase-shift, digital - a tap, and a digital cartridge slid into the chamber. There was the clear whir of an active terminal on the other side of the wall. It lined up a shot, and sent it into the corrugated siding. It was a low-velocity projectile, sub-sonic and built for stealth. It impacted and drilled, burrowing its way into the building. The round dropped to the floor with the slightest ping, the casing split in two. The insectile drone crawled out, spindly legs scrambling up the nearby table legs. Perched in front of the terminal, its body flipped around, plugging into an exposed data port. Transmission started immediately. Invoices, DM’s, search histories, all pillaged in a fraction of a second. The neural net collated the data in moments, the cross-check confirming the obvious: these guys were manufacturing probaritol chloromystic. ‘Mystic’ was nasty stuff, even by street drug standards; users were docile while in the throes of an ‘epiphany,’ their term for the supernatural high it gave them. When they came out of it, junkies invariably rambled about conversing with some sort of shared mind, formed out of the thoughts of other users. That wouldn’t have been so bad, if they didn’t violently attempt to ‘convert’ others by dosing them with the drug against their will. The dealers didn’t exactly do anything to discourage it. Confirmation received, the Jackal gave the signal. The assault team gave the go-ahead. Time to start the show. All it took was a mental command to turn the antennae into full-powered transmission mode. Every device in a one-block radius suddenly emitted a deafening screech that trilled up and down the audio spectrum. Almorian, Solean, Drin, Cnidarian: no matter the species, no one could ignore the Howl. The commandos’ grapples hit the sides of the building with a ping, demolition charges sliding along right behind. They exploded on impact, blowing holes into the walls just below the lines’ attachment hooks. A swarm of TGV’s were through the gap within seconds, overrunning the drug den. The crew are professionals: a couple of pop pops, some screaming, and it was done. The Jackal turned the transmitters off. Now there was just the sound of the downpour. It was a nice, clean op. ‘Mystic’ manufacturing is dangerous, and busting the suppliers even more so; nanite narcotics have a tendency to propagate and end up everywhere you don’t want them. But not today. The suppliers would be dragged in front of the magistrate, the slaves turned over to social services, and — Something moved. Someone moved. A figure silently dropped from the darkness above, carried down like the falling rain. Her tattered garb and black armor blended in with the inky street, barely discernible in the dim light. She looked up, straight at the Jackal, features obscured by a dark faceplate. Without a word, she spun and raced into the building. The Jackal hit its comms, calling the commando lead, but there was no response; the wide-band was immediately awash in shouting, punctuated by the rat-a-tat of gunfire. The Jackal triggered his own wrist grapple, and glided down to street level. It pulled its pistol, and made its way along the side of the building. The sounds inside had changed, the shouts and gunfire replaced with... something too low to make out over the rain. Whispers? Rushing gas? There was a side entrance, only about three meters away. The Jackal slinked along the perimeter, close to the wall. The sound was louder, more rhythmic. Like chanting. It reached the door, and stepped back. A solid kick, and they could breach the room. It readied itself. The puncture was quick, like ice between the ribs. A knife, clean through the back, hideously cold. The Jackal collapsed to its knees, gasping for air, unable to even make a sound. The woman came around from behind. She seemed to glide, the downpour rolling right off her armor and tattered clothes, untouchable, ethereal. She had left the knife in the Jackal's back, buried up to the hilt. Her thoughts were inscrutable, hidden behind her mask. Except... the Jackal could hear them, her thoughts. Whispers. Flickers of an idea. Its vision was growing dim, not enough air getting to its brain. He slumped to the ground, the world fading even as the words grew clearer. Before it, the door exploded off its hinges, an expanding cloud of grey boiling out and across the ground. Its vision narrowed further, the edges growing dark. A creature stepped through, something indecipherable, a tangle of circuitry and pneumatics and flesh, striding forward. The woman - the witch - bowed deeply. As the light died, the creature bent down, caressing the Jackal's helmet. It looked through the visor, deep into the Jackal's glassy eyes. It seemed... calm. "This was meant for your ears. You will share it with the world." The Howl activated again, the data uplink to HQ coming back to life. The whole of Ifcopp was filled with the sound, the speech, the word... The Crossing had begun. They were home. All would be Dim, soon...
*** Epilogue
Union Forward Operating Base Gjontelle. Seventeen minutes after The Crossing. “What in the Inferno am I supposed to be looking at?” The call had come in to Pleeg’s aide-de-camp with distress-call level priority. Rushing to the comms hut to find that nothing on post was currently or imminently ablaze was irritating. Especially considering their esteemed visitor would be landing in minutes. The comms tech squirmed in his seat. “We have intercepted numerous transmissions in the last fifteen minutes, from subjugated and non-aligned space. They indicate a disaster is unfolding.” Pleeg scowled. “What kind of a disaster? On multiple planets?” “Yes, Dux Majoric Pleeg, across a variety of outposts and vessels. Some sort of, er…” he hesitated, looking like he was afraid of being struck over the head, before stammering on. “Some sort of cloud, is enveloping them.” The rest of the personnel in the room cringed. Pleeg audibly snorted. “I am to be scared of a cloud?” “No, Dux Majoric. But the cloud is playing havoc with weapons and armor, and contains… uh, hostile creatures of some manner.” “Creatures? From the mist? Are your translators working? This sounds like a bad holo.” “Yes, sir, we’ve double checked.” The technician called up a long list of intercepts, and scrolling through them played snippets of screams and terror. Over and over again, shouts of distress, calls for help, blood curdling moans and cries. The list went on and on, planet after station after ship. “Whatever is happening is being reported from multiple points, by multiple parties.” Preeg furrowed his brow. “Has there been anything about this from Central?” “No, Dux Majoric.” The general’s demeanor had changed, having heard the audio recordings. “Collate the materials at once. Send directly to me. The Judicat will be here any moment, and I will need to brief them if this is an emergent issue. Then I will transmit to Central for further analysis.” “Should we raise the security level?” “Mind your place, Grist. I will issue the orders here.” “Yes, Dux Majoric Preeg.” Preeg stepped out of the comms hut and into the gloomy morning. He pulled his respirator closer; the air was like sludge, smoke and chemicals from distant fires rolling across their encampment. He would need a moment in peace to examine the evidence. If there was some sort of attack underway, his superiors would have to be alerted. But first he must be certain. He had not become a Dux Majoric by being hysterical. He was only steps away from his camp headquarters when he spotted the sentry. The mist had grown even thicker during the short walk, so much so that he could barely make out the guard’s salute. He raised his hand to return the greeting, only to find his hand suddenly convulsing in pain. He brought it in, cradled to his chest. A gaping, ragged hole in his palm burned like frostbite. “Guard!” Preeg shouted, but there was no answer. The mist parted ever so briefly, long enough to catch a glimpse of the soldier still standing there… dead, pinned to the side of the bunker by an enormous spear. Preeg pulled his sidearm, fumbling it with his non-dominant hand. He crouched to return fire. The first one came in from his right, launching metallic bolts similar to the shaft that had impaled the guard. Preeg dropped to the ground, blindly firing towards his attacker. A lucky shot caught it by the foot, knocking it off course and into a pallet of supplies. He got back on one knee; another one appeared from ahead, clutching one of the enormous javelins. Preeg fired again, but had little effect. One round caught the spear, shunting it aside. The creature lost its balance, and crashed down in front of him. Preeg emptied the magazine into its skull, leaving the head a smoking ruin. He rolled over and crawled, headed to the dead trooper. There was still a full rifle there, if he could just — He could hear it now, the screams and low thumps of weapons fire, coming from elsewhere in the camp. Coming from all around. Everywhere. The fog swirled, and in the dim mist, he could make out more of them. Dozens. Poised to strike. Preeg pulled his boot knife. If this was it, he would not give them an easy time. “Those Chosen shall never die!” From beyond the veil, he could hear a response, a voice so low and gravelly that it almost didn’t seem like words. But Preeg could just make them out: “The only chosen to die… is… — GRACK!” The air sizzled, Preeg’s thick skin pricking. The air seemed alive, tremors rippling like an electric current. The fog gave way, pushed back and flakes falling to the ground like ash. The creatures exchanged a look. A naginata blade burst through the back of the first monster. In one swift motion it ripped upwards, splitting the beast in half at the midsection. A creature like a hound leapt at the newcomer, and it too was cleaved in half. A surge of electrical energy danced across the ground, another group of the creatures seizing before plummeting to the dirt. The naginata lashed out again, the blade end slashing apart anything in its path. Preeg could only watch in awe as the attackers were dismembered and electrocuted, one by one. Finally, with a last electric wheeze, the assault was over. “Dux Preeg, I assume?” The warrior, clad in the orange robes of a monk, casually offered him a robotic hand. Preeg grasped him with his non-dominant hand, and awkwardly stood. “And you are clearly Judicat Saffra.” The figure shrugged. “That’s what they say. Anyway, you hang tight, and get that hand patched up.” The Judicat reached out, the air shimmering with an electric vibration, a static charge coursing outward. He concentrated a moment, then snapped back to normal. “Looks like the origin’s thataway, so I’m gonna’ be onaway, okay? Okay.” Before Preeg could answer, the Judicat bounded off, leaping into the clouds. Preeg stood a moment, looking at the twisted bodies fallen all around. He rushed inside.
*** Prologue
Private yacht Corssico, Null. Seven days before The Crossing. He looked at the carnage around him: the ship was a wreck, scarred by the fight. Equipment was smashed. Glass littered the floor. Pill capsules were everywhere, scattered like confetti. And, of course, the seven dead men: five of them by his sword, before it was knocked away into some dark corner. The sixth killed by his bare hands. The seventh… the seventh was too terrible to contemplate. Not that there was much left of him to contemplate. A ring of dust lay where he had once sat. He had not expected to be… wherever this was. He remembered being in the void, the mist shifting around him while the outsiders continued to pry at his thoughts. Then the message had come through, seemingly offering a way out of his prison - but also making the safe offer to the enemies within. He had barely begun to contemplate the pontential consequences when the subroutines that governed the lowest levels of his consciousness had reacted, beginning the process of crossing over to… Well… this place. Wherever or whatever it was. The men who had been here aboard this vessel had been packaging these pills, and didn’t look kindly on his bursting out reconstituted from the body of their comrade. They obviously hadn’t reckoned on dealing with his Athame - even corrupted, it had still traveled with him to this reality. The hard-light blade had made short work of the crew, all except the sixth: that one had required a hands-on killing blow. Now… he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was dead. None of the men here looked like creatures he was familiar with. Demons, maybe. He didn’t feel dead. He felt more alive than he had in… how long had he been in there? That strange other dimension? The Dim. He had come back as mostly machine, his mind maintained within the positronic cortex. Yet, something had changed; his time within that other realm had warped his body like it had his sword, that he was sure of, even if he had yet to see the changes in a mirror. What that meant, how that was possible, he could only guess. Before he could gather his thoughts, a streak of light cut through the air, a gash in the fabric of space opening before him. He recognized what it was at once: his own Flame was capable of opening a portal in the same manner. He did not expect a panicked woman to step out of it. The portal snapped shut behind her. She stood transfixed, blade hanging loosely at her side, and looked him up and down. “It’s true.” She was stunned, examining him like a morbid curiosity. He struggled to form a response. Everything was running on instinct, higher level functions still coming online, code recompiling in his head. With a voice he barely recognized after what had seemed like an eternity from when he last spoke, he croaked out a metallic-tinged question: “Who?” She startled, breaking out of her enchantment. For the first time, she looked him in the optics. “Me? Right, sorry. I’m Imani Fateen. A Guardian of the Veil. It’s an honor to… well, to speak with you.” A Guardian? Her unit name was unfamiliar, her armor totally different than he had ever seen. Even her species was impossible to place. What kind of Guardian was this? How long had he been away? She finally glanced around the room, taking in the destruction. “I see you’ve, uh, dealt with these guys already.” She laughed nervously. “Not like you couldn’t. You’re the Precursor, after all.” “How… here?” “Oh, I came through the —“ she gestured behind her with the sword. “Wait, no, you know that.” Another nervous laugh. Speech module still hadn’t fully loaded. Neither had his short term memory center: he remembered a message, but not what it had said. “A… message…” “Right! Yes. So. We need to go. No one’s sure what’s happening, but the message seems bad. It’s hard to tell at the moment. You were sort of the lynchpin in our systems, and then you suddenly, uh… reincarnated? Reincorporated? I don’t know, you’re here now. The tunneling still works for the moment, the techs were able to move that to a server in normal space, thank goodness.” He spasmed, a motor relay receiving updated functions. She took a single step back, hand on her sword hilt. She may have been nervous in speech, but her movements were calm. “You alright?” “Still… processing…” “You and me both. Anyway, we need to go. I don’t know how long we have before they cross over.” “Who?” “Who? Them. The Ones Out of Sight. The Shadows Cast. The Unseen Beyond the Veil… you know, from the Dim?” Oh no. “Yes… go…” “Right this way.” She slashed the air with her blade, a dimensional tear sliced into the fabric of space. He hesitated: he had just escaped confinement after who-knew how long. Could he possibly go back so quickly? But if those things, those things in the shadows… if they were coming out, threatening lives here… He began to step through the portal. “I have to say,” she said, following close behind. “It really is an honor, even under the circumstances. I can’t believe I get to meet the last Precursor Guardian.” The last what? He plunged into the grey.