Moira takes the Domino and brooks no argument on that front. There's some carping from Nemo but he doesn't dare raise his voice above a mutter and therefore Moira chooses simply to ignore him. So long spent armed only with sword and torch, it's a glorious sensation to wield a firearm again, even some Consortium-commissioned trash like this Domino.
Nothing else impedes them, then, on their approach to the Skyscratch nursery.
It's incidentally a short walk. The terrain remains unpleasant and unforgiving, scaling jagged bluffs and descending rocky defiles. All the while, Moira's hyper-aware of their surroundings, fearful of a second line of defense before they reach the box canyon. Within the hour and without incident, however, that smell – the tangy, nostril-scorching stench of spores – first starts to reach them.
{Momentarily}, comes the first distinguishable speaker. The headache immediately starts to needle Moira as soon as she takes an intelligible whiff, a painful reminder of the consequences of breathing too much of this stuff. {Momentarily, Secondseed assures thee}.
“Is disrespect to thine elders,” announces another voice – one that Moira suddenly realizes is actually, gloriously audible – from somewhere up ahead, “the custom of this new Foreplanter?”
{Secondseed does not presume}, stammers the native, {upon Foreplanter's intentions}.
“It does not please the Vesselborn to be treated in this flippant fashion.”
{Secondseed is shamed and saddened by these tidings}.
Good fortune afford the three stealthy pirates a good vantage on the box canyon. Crawling on their bellies, they're able to scoot, on elbows and knees, through a stretch of sand to the very rim of the canyon. From here, they can, unobserved by the nursery's occupants, peer down on the happenings below.
For good measure, Moira unslings the Domino, props the weapon against her shoulder and takes a moment to get the weapon's acquaintance – its design, its heft, its scope.
Through the rifle's scope, the Skyscratch nursery looks much the same, with one key distinction. Among the bleached bones and squat seedlings, there stands a loose perimeter of humanoid figures, watching the kneeling cactoid population with a tangible unease. The harnesses each wear are glaringly obvious – a skeleton of naked thermosteel, glimmering greenly in the moonlight – as are the hefty assault rifles in their hands.
Though confident in the security of their hidden perch, Moira nonetheless shrinks back a little at the sight of such a fearsome retinue of badasses elite.
There are no members of the warband present, Moira notes. Indeed, only the Secondseeds are home, the immature cactoids that guard the nursery while the warriors are away. Where Foreplanter and the rest of his braves might be, Moira's no better idea than the spice rangers.
“How many?” hisses Nemo from where he lays beside her.
“Can you not count?” she hisses back.
“Yes,” he counters, “but I know you already have.”
This Moira cannot refute. “Fourteen,” she admits a moment later.
“Too many,” Odisseus growls across the way. “Way too many.”
“Fuck,” scoffs Moira, “three would be way too many.”
{Hark!} cries the Secondseed spokesman. It thrusts a limb towards the western corner of the canyon and the sloped main entrance. {See where comes Foreplanter!}
The ranger's leader – a Darthen by the hooved and green-furred look of her – has no need of the Secondseed's announcement. She's already turning and striding towards the sandy slope before the cactoid's even finished speaking. The rest of the rangers react cohesively, as one entity. They raise weapons, tighten the formation around their leader and stomp purposefully across the nursery towards the arriving warband.
A pair of crosshairs tend to lend clarity to anything viewed through them. All the power of life and death rests comfortably against Moira’s shoulder. Some sniper’s instinct plants the Darthen’s head directly in her crosshairs and Moira, without thinking, traces the troop leader’s path across the nursery. This seems like the ideal move, to behead the beast with one swift stroke, so much so that Moira nearly pulls the trigger without a second thought.
Repercussions, of course, stay her finger. A killshot on their troop leader would both betray their position and send thirteen spice rangers rocketing up to confront them. What’s more, it would spoil the entire deception – all the rigamarole and heartache they’d endured to sneak onto the planet under the Consortium’s nose. Strong as that temptation is, Moira stays the killing shot.
She’s next tempted when Foreplanter lopes into her sights.
Surrounded by a score of identical warriors, the flame-scorched Foreplanter is always immediately recognizable. In this case, it’s made all the more recognizable when it refuses to drop to its knees, like the rest of its soldiers, in the Vesselborn’s divine presence.
Once again, Moira’s crosshairs come to rest on the flowered crown of the great Gitter chieftain. Visions of burning ditrogen blistering through that green flesh brings a flinty smile to Moira’s lips. Once again, however, her better angels stay her hand. A clicked trigger here summons not only fourteen spice rangers but also a full Gitter warband and all it would achieve is Moira’s petty revenge.
From this angle, Moira can’t quite determine which of the many thongs draped around Foreplanter’s neck might have Righty and Lefty festooned at its ends. A fist of fear closes around Moira’s heart at the thought of her pistol’s fate and she must redouble her efforts not to explode Foreplanter’s head that instant.
“Behold your Vesselborn,” commands the Darthen as she approaches. She stands there a moment, expecting a response from the towering Foreplanter.
None comes, however.
“We are arrived,” the Darten continues, a twinge of surprise in her voice, “from the bosom of God Beyond, come to receive our moonly tribute, and what welcome are we given? One Foreplanter is slain, another absent and no ceremony, save this pitiful Secondseed, to welcome us?”
Confronted with this challenge, Foreplanter remains completely still, more an inanimate plant than a fearsome barbarian chief.
“Will you answer for this affrontery?”
{In the chaos}, explains Foreplanter, in a scent that’s somehow slow and dangerous, {of my coronation, there was no spare moment or thought given to such a ceremony}.
To her credit, the troop leader makes no visible reaction to this insubordination. The thirteen spice rangers clustered behind her are not so composed. Baffled and outraged expressions pass between them, a few mouthing unpleasant things into their headpieces.
One gesture from the Darthen silences them all. “These words,” she replies, seeming to savor the taste of the Gitter’s insolent spores, “smack of blasphemy. Hast thou misspoken or dost thou provoke the Vesselborn’s wrath?”
Once again, Foreplanter makes no reply. The eyeless cactoid is peerless in its ability to win any staring contest.
Moria snuggles the rifle’s butt a little firmer against her shoulder. She’s certain there’s a way to exploit this supreme strategic advantage she’s stumbled into – the higher ground, the element of surprise – if only she can locate the ideal target.
She sweeps the rifle across either crowd, Skyscratch and spice rangers both. She’s forced to conclude, however, that either is as foolish a target as their leaders. What Moira needs, above all, is to retain her anonymity. At all costs, she must not surrender her position or even her very existence on this planet. That’s a tall order for anyone, even from the security of a sniper’s nest. All the same, she scans the nursery, searching out an unorthodox solution to her problem.
In theory, an unobserved strike against an unsuspecting Secondseed or, better yet, a sapling, could potentially sow some useful chaos. A spontaneous fire amongst the precious Gitter seedlings would throw both ranger and cacti into a frenzy. That could very possibly create the window of opportunity Moira would need to creep into the camp and recover her Lawmen.
This plan unravels
even as it’s devised. Someone would certainly spot the muzzle flash, there’s no mistaking a ditrogen fire for a naturally burning one, there’s no path both quick and safe down into the canyon proper. Most importantly, however, Moira doesn’t have visual on her missing weaponry.
What Moira will not do is sit idle and squander such a superior position.
“We come not,” the spice ranger commences, growing visibly impatient, “to bandy words about rites and ceremonies. We seek–”
The Darthen stops suddenly and stares, center mass, at something on Foreplanter’s trunk. She gestures casually with a harnessed wrist. “Where hast thou come by those baubles?”
Moira’s heart skips a beat when, with a ponderous movement, Foreplanter dangles something from its leathern harness before the spice ranger for her inspection. There’s no mistaking Righty, caked in ceremonial powder, as it spins forlornly on the end of his leash.
{A trophy of conquest}, is all the more answer Foreplanter will provide.
The appearance of the firearm has an immediate effect on the spice rangers. The muttering, the glances, the curses all return in full and this time, the Darthen makes no attempt to quell them.
“So boned,” opines Odisseus, his head dropping to his paws. Moira, in complete agreement, requires all her concentration not to sever the strand that keeps Righty prisoner with a perfectly-aimed shot from her borrowed Domino.
“That,” the troop leader indicate significantly, “is from the raiment of a Vesselborn. It is a claim most sacrilegious to say thou hast conquered one of mine kin.”
Foreplanter’s reply is thick with threat. {The Vesselborn are no longer welcome in Skyscratch territory}. This time, it’s the Gitter who draw back, spores of alarm, scandal and terror filling the box canyon. {Too long hast thou demons plagued our people, castrating our young, pillaging out–}
This is all the blasphemy that Foreplanter manages to speak. The Darthen listens politely to this for a few seconds before twerking both wrists and unsheathing both heatblades.
Faster than anyone in the canyon can react, the ranger’s taken a step forward and made a rapid movement of her arms, the heatblades only a faint suggestion of shimmer and light.
Foreplanter staggers back, lines of fire tracing an “x” across his trunk.
It makes an abortive attempt to strike back, all ten arms lashing forward. This movement only causes the Gitter to collapse into smoldering pieces, fire ravaging the severed hunks of its torso.
Violence blossoms in the nursery. Foreplanter’s entourage surge forward, a score of glasswork weapons unsheathed in a second and raised high to smite the comparatively tiny rangers. The Stargazers, however, are much too fast for that, opening fire with their rifles before the Gitter can even come close.
Green ditrogen savages the advancing Skyscratch marauders, cutting them down completely no more than three strides into their headlong charge. The slaughter is quick, brutal and utterly uncontested by any of the Secondseeds, watching in complete stillness and silence.
Meanwhile, the troop leader advances a few steps, stoops and retrieves something from Foreplanter’s crackling carcass. At the end of a length of knotted vine, she inspects what’s clearly Nemo’s Carbon Industrial piece, likewise smeared in chalky dye.
“Hey, that’s mine!” mutters an indignant Nemo.
The crosshairs converge on the Darthen’s unsuspecting head. The chamber is primed. Moira massages the trigger with her finger and holds her breath. In between heartbeats, she clicks the trigger and the rifle kicks like a double shot of Borsk brandy.
The shot is absorbed harmlessly by a shimmering something that encircles the spice ranger in a sphere of protection.
Too fascinated by the study of Nemo’s firearm, the sound of clattering gunfire too loud, the troop leader doesn’t seem to take note of Moira’s little indiscretion. For a chilling moment, the Darthen glances up and notices the ray shield’s ripple. Still concealed on her perch, Moira nonetheless wants to shrivel up and disappear from that glance, the one that scans the canyon’s brim.
How could she, spice ranger fangirl that she is, have forgotten the automatic ray shielding that activates soon as the heatblades are drawn? With the click of her too-eager finger, Moira’s nearly given away their position, their existence and with it, the entire caper, like some trigger-happy amateur.
One by one, the Darthen collects each of the ornamental weapons – Nemo’s pistol, Moira’s revolvers, Odisseus’ shotgun – from Foreplanter’s smoking remains. This done, she stalks back across the nursery and approaches the Secondseed spokesman. Still kneeling, the poor cactoid visibly trembles before the advance of so powerful a godling, the one who effortlessly slaughtered all its grove’s greatest warriors in the blink of an eye.
“Now,” the Darthen begins, “tell me all you know about these Vesselborn.”
CHAPTER 15
Odisseus is the one who found it.
“Found it,” he announces over his shoulder, more mockingly than he'd necessarily intended. He'd taken such a dim view on everything that'd happened since they'd landed on this arid rock, the disparagement in his voice was quickly becoming a long habit.
At his call, his companions are pulled away from their own searching and eventually level up on either side of him. Together, all three of them gaze down at what lies smashed at the Ortok's feet like they'd discovered the priceless vase the family jborra accidentally knocked off the end table.
“Well, it's about what we expected,” Moira is forced to admit.
“I guess,” Nemo sighs, crossing his arms and burying his mouth in the meat of his palm. “Good news is, pot's still pretty much intact.”
The pot is, as far as Odisseus can tell, still pretty much intact. The plant it was potting, however, has been overturned, stomped repeatedly and now lies, dried and desiccated at their feet. In this state, it's almost unrecognizable as a Gitter seedling – a flattened and shriveled mess.
“Good news is,” counters Moira, stooping to retrieve the cracked pot from the crusty mess of pulped cactus plant, “there's no shortage of replacements.”
Odisseus looks up from the sad spectacle of their smashed payday to the field of blossoming Gitter saplings, arranged in neat patterns all around them. There is, as far as Odisseus can tell, no shortage of replacements.
They’d awoken that morning, from a short, uncomfortable but very necessary sleep beneath a rocky outcropping, to discover the Skyscratch nursery abandoned. The Secondseeds had vanished, leaving only a pair of sentries to guard the grove’s precious saplings. To go and case the nursery for their missing Attaché and seedling, it was a simple matter for Moira to gun these stragglers down, despite all Nemo’s protestations to let him “have a turn”. Two more Gitter bodies added to the charred pile at the foot of the slope and The Unconstant Lover’s crew were free to search the canyon with impunity.
It didn’t take long, of course, to stumble upon the remains of their precious prize. Smashed into oblivion, it was clear to see their booty had met the same fate as the helpless saplings of the Splitspine grove. The Attaché, presumably also confiscated by the spice rangers, was significantly nowhere to be found.
It was this otherwise predictable outcome that threatened to topple Nemo from the heights of blind optimism into the depths of more appropriate despair. He’d spent the morning combing the nursery, hands rooted in pockets, eyes downcast, boots occasionally skipping stones across the dusty ground.
Moira is marginally more productive. Recovered pot in hand, she went hunting across the canyon floor, inspecting individual saplings and prodding them testingly with her wingtip like she knew the first thing about xenohorticulture.
Odisseus, meanwhile, elects to stand here, stare at the squashed seedling and wonder what all the carnage and zealotry and dehydration was even all for.
The spice rangers had lingered in the nursery for more than an hour, extracting every scrap of information they could about the offworlders; their appearances,
their behavior, every syllable they might’ve uttered. Thankfully, the Secondseeds could furnish them with precious little hard data. They could provide no description of the ship and no proper names, save “Badass Supreme” which, when uttered by a spice ranger, nearly sent Nemo into a fit of hysterics.
More importantly, the Secondseeds have no accurate information about their whereabouts, believing them as good as dead in the bowels of Fernhollow.
One squad of rangers headed that way, to allegedly search for corpses. The remainder flew back westward, summoned by a transmission of some kind. It didn’t take much to infer what they might have discovered, abandoned anachronistically in the flatlands, that might draw their attention away.
“Hey,” barks Moira from a short distance away. He turns to consider her and the sapling at her feet. “Can you, uh–”
To help sell the point, Moira makes a few clawing gestures with one hand and waggles the empty pot with the other. Odisseus makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh as he harrumphs his way over.
The sapling she’s chosen is identical to the thousand others that’re littered across the nursery. Squeezed towards the back of its ribcage-shelter, Odisseus must scrunch down and lumber toward the one Moira requested. She, meanwhile, stalks off towards the shredded remnants of the environtents, muttering something about “lining”.
His claws extended, the Ortok drops to his knees on either side of the sapling. He squats there a moment, no more a gardener than Moira and uncertain precisely the best way to start excavating this ugly alien plant.
{Curious}.
Odisseus scrunches up his muzzle. The smell came unbidden into his nose, too familiar, too immediate. He reels back a little, attempting to register the wordless sensation that’s come with the smell. It’s not unlike a Gitter’s speech-spores but this is unrefined, more suggestive than specific.
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