CHAPTER XIX (19)- (BATTLE TESTS’).
The sound came first.
A bellowing din—horns and whistles, layered drums, and sudden bursts of explosive plasma works that cracked the air with light and heat. Not music yet. Anticipation.
The Dancers surged onto the stage to raucous applause. Their movements were sharp, fluid, and physically extreme—gyrations, spirals, and contorted patterns that pushed their bodies to the edge of endurance. Every limb, every motion was calculated to amplify rhythm and energy, drawing the crowd deeper into the moment.
This was how the sixty thousand FENGUs were prepared.
By the time the final sequence ended, the dancers were spent. Male and female performers bowed as one, retreating into darkness while the roar of approval rolled through Quelmy Stadium like a living tide.
Then—silence. For half a heartbeat. The vast Concert Hall sank into darkness.
The massive speaker towers hummed to life, a low vibration felt more than heard. The crowd’s clicking and whistling intensified, rising in chaotic layers as eyes turned back to the empty stage.
They knew what came next. The lights shifted. FENGUs were finding their places.
Fog spilled across the platform as shapes began to resolve—equipment frames, instrument rigs, unfamiliar silhouettes. Stage effects ignited in precise patterns, not wild like the opening display, but deliberate. Controlled.
Humans....The anticipation sharpened.
The Human foursome was about to appear.
The LIGHTS blew on, trapping all in the expansive crowds in a white light like a Phosphorescent flash of an early Camera shot ...
“This is it,” Mike muttered, half-grinning. “Three gigs. One planet”.
Neil didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the stage opening, where the light pulsed slowly—almost like a heartbeat.
“Remember,” he said finally, calm but weighted,” they don’t just listen. They synchronize”. That changed everything.
A low harmonic tone rolled through the Stadium—the Hollien welcome resonance. It wasn’t applause. It was a collective signal, a permission.
The anticipation dissolved... The reaction was immediate and overwhelming.
As the ‘Star Band’ stepped into their positions on stage, the Stadium flared with color—bands of soft violet and gold rippling through the audience like waves across water. Sensors embedded in the stage lit up, translating emotional feedback into light.
Neil moved to the center Mic.
For a fraction of a second, he hesitated—not from fear, but from awe. Humanity had crossed light-years to stand here, not with weapons or treaties, but with rhythm and sound.
He leaned in. The first note rang out.
Loud and fast. ‘For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)’ ...
The Stadium Rocked ... the chords bit deep into the masses. The FENGUs answered.
The Hollien resonance shifted, deepening, locking into the tempo as if the planet itself had decided to listen. The band followed along their Setlist instinctively, adjusting on the fly, letting the music breathe and bend. By the time the second song hit its chorus, the audience wasn’t just reacting—it was participating.
Neil felt it then. This wasn’t a concert.
It was a dialogue.
Far above the Stadium, unseen by the crowd, orbital observers recorded the data spike—emotional coherence across multiple Hollien population clusters. Diplomatic channels lit up. Cultural analysts stopped talking. The Event was being Recorded, Live...
Something unprecedented was happening. And this was only Gig One.
As the final note of the opening set faded into the glowing night of Hollien Alpha, Neil looked out over the sea of light and motion and realized:
By the end of these three concerts, nothing—for Humans or Hollien inhabitants—would sound the same again.
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The next two concert nights each unfolded with their own distinct blend of chaos.
Night One set the record.
The FENGUs packed into the first six rows—held back only by the Ardoccan security cordon and the cluster of visiting dignitaries—found themselves robbed of clear views of the stage. The music blasted through them regardless, driving many into shared communal entrancement, but it wasn’t enough.
They wanted to see the Star Band perform their magic. That hunger spilled forward.
Several of the braver—or more reckless—FENGUs attempted to surge toward the stage, testing the perimeter. The response was swift and physical. Ardoccan security units moved with practiced efficiency, pushing the crowd back without hesitation. A few scuffles broke out, sharp and sudden, before order was re-established.
The music never stopped.
By Nights Two and Three, word had spread.
Everyone now understood that Ardoccan security was there for one purpose: band protection—and that they took that responsibility seriously. There were fewer attempts to rush the stage, fewer challenges to the perimeter. The crowd still roared, still clicked and whistled and resonated in waves, but it stayed where it belonged.
Interestingly, there were also fewer dignitaries present. Not from disapproval—quite the opposite. The demand for access had exploded, and many officials chose to experience the performances live-streamed, tuned in from private residences, command centers, and distant working sites across Hollien Alpha. The concerts had become more than events; they were moments people wanted to absorb without distraction.
By the third night, Quelmy Stadium no longer felt merely like a venue.
It felt like a node—a focal point where music, culture, and intent converged. The Star Band wasn’t just performing anymore.
They were leaving an imprint.
By the end of the third night—after several encores—the lads had made a deliberate choice to mix up the order of songs and finales.
No two performances were allowed to feel the same.
The change wasn’t just for the crowd; it was for the record. Each show was being captured in full-spectrum detail, and it mattered that every performance carried its own signature moments—unique inflections, spontaneous transitions, and special effects timed to blend seamlessly with the surging music and the cadence of its flow.
Lighting patterns shifted unexpectedly. Visual harmonics triggered at different peaks. Even the crowd’s resonance fed back into the system in new ways, creating moments that could never be exactly replicated.
What emerged were three concerts that shared a core—but diverged in spirit. Together, they formed a living archive: not a single event repeated, but a progression. A conversation unfolding across nights, each layer building on the last.
By the final encore, the Star Band wasn’t just playing to Hollien Alpha anymore.
They were playing with it.
By the end, the FENGUs in the audience were utterly exhausted.
Most had collapsed where they stood or sat, deeply embedded in trance-like states. The once-constant clicking had dwindled to the occasional, distant chirp. Over it all, a rare thing settled across Quelmy Stadium:
Silence. Even those with restricted views—partially blocked by the smaller yet still imposing forms of the Ardoccan security—were unmoved now. Sight no longer mattered. The experience had gone far beyond it.
The masses of Monkey-Parrots were simply done.
They would sleep it off much the way humans once did after a long night of excess—sixty thousand bodies sinking into recovery—but there had been no alcohol involved. Only sound.
Pure vibration. Stimuli layered upon stimuli. Good, old-fashioned rock and roll.
Their senses had been overwhelmed, saturated by rhythm and resonance until there was nothing left to give. The crowd lay spent, not defeated, but fulfilled—drained in the way only music could accomplish.
The planet itself seemed to exhale.
Backstage, the noise fell away as if someone had sealed the universe behind a door. The Star Band sat or leaned wherever they could—road cases, railings, the edge of the equipment rigs—still vibrating faintly with the aftershock of three nights that felt longer than weeks. Sweat cooled. Fingers trembled, not from nerves anymore, but from release.
No one spoke at first. They didn’t need to.
On a secondary monitor, the live feeds showed Quelmy Stadium from above: sixty thousand FENGUs at rest, a vast, quiet field of bodies and soft ambient glow. No agitation. No discord. Just recovery.
Neil broke the silence quietly.
“We didn’t just play shows,” he said. “Did we?”
Patrick let out a breath that was half a laugh. “No. We did something else.”
The doors parted with a controlled hiss.
Colonel Oblika entered with two aides, his presence precise but unguarded. The hard lines of command softened—just slightly—as he took in the exhausted humans before him.
[“Gentlemen,”] Oblika said, voice steady, resonant. [“On behalf of the Ardoccan Space Control Empire—thank you”].
He gestured to the monitor.
[“All three concerts are confirmed as a total success. Injuries were minimal. Crowd stability exceeded projections. More importantly—”], he paused, choosing the words carefully [“—the desired sensory and aural immunization has been achieved”].
The band straightened.
[“The Shadow Man,”] Oblika continued, [“is infamous for its methods. Negativity. Disorder. The slow unraveling of communal coherence. Those pathways are now closed to it here.”
He inclined his head, a formal Ardoccan sign of respect.
“If and when it arrives, it will find the FENGUs… prepared. It may choose other means, but not the ones it is known for. Not the ones that break minds before bodies”].
Silence followed—not heavy this time but settled.
[“You’ve given this world a defense no fleet could provide,”] Oblika said. [“Culture. Resonance. Unity. The Empire thanks the four of you a thousand times over”].
He stepped back.
As the doors closed behind him, the band finally allowed themselves to exhale fully.
They looked at one another—tired, stunned, changed.
They had come to play music.
They had left behind a shield.
And somewhere out there, beyond Hollien Alpha’s quiet night, something ancient and malicious would eventually notice that one of its favorite weapons no longer worked here.
For the first time, that thought didn’t frighten them.
It felt… right.
Patrick’s mask—the ‘Wonders of the Universe’—had shown the way.
It blazed trails of light across the stage and into the minds of the FENGUs, scattering reflections and color meant to bedazzle creatures often dismissed as simple. But it had done far more than entertain.
It had given them a shield.
Not one made of metal or energy fields, but of hope—woven from rhythm, harmony, and shared experience. A resistance not to force, but to influence. To corruption. To control.
Where darkness thrived on fear and disorder, something else now lived. The Star Band had gifted them happiness. And with it came something far more dangerous to any shadow that fed on despair—
A desire to be free.
That desire would linger long after the lights faded and the echoes died away, carried quietly in memory, in instinct, in the steady pulse of a people who had learned—through sound—that they were not alone, and that joy itself could be an act of defiance.
Mark’s own reflective robe had cast its version of dazzlement as well, catching and bending the light into shifting halos that moved with him. Everything had worked—perfectly. The plasma fountains surged on cue, robo-balls drifted and pulsed, laser arrays stitched color and geometry through the air. Smoke bloomed in every hue imaginable, setting the mood and sealing the spell.
The stadium had been rocked.
Quite literally rocked—to sleep.
Even the Ardoccan security units seemed energized now, their posture looser, their movements lighter, as though the resonance had touched them too. For the first time since arriving, the lads allowed themselves a release. They let out a communal cheer, linked hands, and bowed their heads for a brief, private prayer—
That they had made a difference.
In the wings, the FENGU road crew waited in quiet respite, poised for the controlled chaos that would soon follow. Their flurry of activity would begin anew—disconnecting systems, dismantling stage elements, securing instruments.
Cleanup, however—at least beyond that point—belonged to the local authorities and the organizers of the Quelmy events.
Out in the vast auditorium, the FENGU audience resembled sleeping icicles, neon paint and glitter coating them in frozen cascades of color. The scale of it all was staggering. Restoring a venue this immense would require an army of cleaners.
More FENGUs would do the work.
They would awaken in time, rise slowly, and drift away in groups—back to homes, duties, and conversations already changed by what they had experienced. The stadium would empty.
But the echo would not.
What had been given here would travel with them—into their lives, their communities, their sense of what was possible.
And somewhere in the quiet after the noise, Hollien Alpha settled into a different rhythm than it had known before. It was now time to tear down the Stage and concert Equipment.
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Despite the overwhelming amount of tear-down still looming, the ‘Maestro’—who had observed the entire performance from a shadowed alcove in the Control Tier high above the Stadium—did not remain to oversee the dismantling of the stage, lighting arrays, or sound towers. Nor did he linger for the cleansing of the Stadium floor itself.
Instead, he withdrew.
With a murmured excuse about a brief meeting with several unfamiliar FENGUs, he detached himself from the operation and disappeared into the corridors beyond the Control Tier. Moments later, the ‘Maestro’ had—without farewell or explanation—left the building. Officially, he was presumed to be returning to his private quarters at the Quelmy Towers.
Unofficially, no one saw where he went.
The Bandmates had noticed. Worse for the Maestro, so had Colonel Oblika.
It was nothing new—he had long cultivated a habit of making himself scarce whenever real work presented itself. But this time was different. This was the largest series of shows yet, in the biggest Stadium they had ever played, and he vanished faster than ever before. With every such exit, he earned himself less respect—and tonight, his standing dropped sharply.
The Band themselves would have preferred to stay and help. They were ready to shoulder speakers, haul monitors, and de-clutter the Stage alongside the crew. But the Maestro had already arranged otherwise. Local Ardoccan ‘Heavy Lifters’—larger, purpose-tasked workers—had been hired specifically for the vigorous, physical labor. Between them, the Band’s own Road Crew, and the Stadium’s resident technicians and staff, there was no shortage of hands.
So, the ‘Star Band’ contented themselves with securing their personal gear.
Guitars and microphones were carefully packed and spirited away with the help of the Road Crew. Patrick’s masks—handled with particular care—were removed and sealed for transport. Only Mark’s drum kit remained untouched by human hands; it was already being dismantled by his assigned FENGU Drum Team, a unit that operated with ritual-like precision.
The Stage, once alive with sound and light, was steadily being stripped bare.
And somewhere beyond the Stadium walls, the Maestro was already gone—leaving others to carry the weight he never would.
The security and protection of the Band was paramount. Without the Band, there would be no shows—and without the shows, there would be no mission.
Colonel Oblika made the call.
He urged the Bandmates to pause only long enough to secure their personal gear and essential light equipment—then move. Everything else could wait. Time, however, could not. Even now, he was assembling a tight security cordon, positioning personnel to escort the Band out of the Stadium, across the Plaza, and swiftly into the Quelmy Towers next door.
There was no margin for delay. The FENGUs will begin to wake up soon.
And when they did, the Band needed to be gone.
------------------------------------- OUR MADNESS.-----------------------------------------------
The cordon formed swiftly.
Nearly one hundred hefty-looking Ardoccans took position first, their broad frames creating an immovable wall of muscle and intent. They were reinforced by several members of the I.A.S. TEVLOE crew, supplementing the security detail under the direction of Specialist TAI, who had stepped in to assist.
They assembled in the Quelmy Stadium foyer and held their ground, waiting.
Moments later, the Band and their attending Road Crew reappeared—having hastily changed back into their pre-show clothing—moving fast and light, gear in hand. There was no ceremony, no lingering glance back at the Stage.
On Oblika’s signal, they made their dash.
“This is it, boys!” Neil snapped.
“Okay, Patrick—our star. Come on!” Mike exclaimed, flashing a quick, encouraging smile.
The four of them spilled out of the dressing room, several members of the Road Crew close behind, with Colonel Oblika anchoring the rear. Almost immediately, they were met by a dozen of Oblika’s security personnel filling the corridor ahead.
There was no pause. They moved as one—down the corridor, boots echoing, then out into the vast foyer beyond. Even more security awaited them there. A dense mass of black, armored Ardoccans surged forward, forming a tight wedge formation, the Road Crew and the four Bandmates held firmly at its center. There was some Jostling as the mass of security asserted its presence.
The formation pushed onward, parting a restless sea of FENGU fans who had been unable to get into the concert that night—perhaps hoping for entry, or lingering from one of the previous shows. Curious eyes followed the Band’s passage, voices murmuring, bodies pressing forward.
But the wedge held. And it did not slow.
To those trapped in the middle of the insectoid scrum, it felt like sheer insanity.
Neil looked openly alarmed. Patrick was worse—frightened, unsteady—his Day Mask wobbling and shifting across his disfigured face as he stumbled along with the others, struggling to keep his footing. What should have been a short crossing stretched into something that felt miles long, a grinding surge in the general direction of the Quelmy Towers.
The risk was constant and very real.
Human shoes, little clawed feet, and massive, booted Ardoccan foot-claws churned together in a relentless tide. Those caught in the center focused on a single goal: do not fall. Getting knocked down here meant getting trampled.
Neil shouted over the din, panic bleeding into his voice.
“How the Fuck did we end up in this mess?!”
The answer didn’t matter. What was missing was space— they didn’t have enough of it. Feet were already getting crushed, balance lost and recovered by instinct alone.
Colonel Oblika saw it instantly. Heard the Lads.
[“Spread out!”] he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. [“Widen the center—now! Do not trample the Road Crew, or the Band!”].
The black-armored security responded, forcing the wedge wider as they pushed forward.
[“No jostling!”] Oblika roared at the surging FENGUs.
Whether they listened—or even understood—remained uncertain.
At last, the wedge broke through the front of the Quelmy Towers foyer, spilling inside onto the polished black marble flooring.
The transition was abrupt. A handful of FENGU fans were pressed hard against the building’s exterior, momentarily trapped by the surge. Security responded without hesitation—lifting and hurling them aside with dismissive force. The smaller bodies flailed through the air like tossed, stuffed toys before skidding safely away from the entrance, stunned but intact.
Then the doors were behind them. The Security were about to shut them.
The touring party was finally contained within the foyer proper, the security cordon snapping shut once more to seal the space. The noise dulled, replaced by echoing footsteps and strained breathing.
Colonel Oblika didn’t slow.
He broke from the formation and raced ahead, already signaling for priority access as he moved to secure an elevator. The Band needed to be upstairs—now—before the crowd outside found another way in.
Most of the central group managed to squeeze onto the elevator—everyone except four or five members of the Road Crew. Crucially, Patrick’s Stage Mask, sealed safely in its protective case and carried by two dedicated FENGU crew members, did make it aboard. No one was willing to be separated from essential equipment.
Mike and Patrick each clutched their best guitars in hard cases. Their backup instruments, however, remained downstairs with the stranded FENGU crew still stuck in the lobby—a fact that sat poorly with everyone involved.
Colonel Oblika made a rapid assessment.
He ordered Specialist TAI to remain below, oversee their safety, and secure a second elevator to bring the rest of the team up as soon as possible. There would be no abandoning personnel or gear—not tonight.
By then, the Quelmy Towers’ main doors had been sealed. The final handful—no more than ten—of lingering FENGU fans were firmly ejected before the entrances were locked down and secured.
Only then did the elevator doors slide shut.
And for the first time since leaving the Stage, the Band was moving upward—away from the chaos.
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Morning would come gently to Quelmy Towers, almost apologetically, as if the city itself knew what kind of night it had just survived.
By first light, the last of the equipment would be broken down with practiced efficiency—racks powered down, cables coiled, cases sealed and magnet-locked. Everything essential would be redistributed across the waiting shuttles in careful order, checked and rechecked. Nothing misplaced. Nothing forgotten. Not after tonight. The machinery of departure would hum quietly, respectful of the exhaustion hanging in the air.
Outside, the FENGU crowds stirred back into motion. They woke as one, waking from a deep dream—slow, disoriented, hearts still thudding with echoes of sound and light. The trance had burned itself out, leaving behind a population drained but peaceful. Where hours earlier there had been surging waves of arrival, now there was a long, gentle ebb. Ushers guided them outward in wide, patient streams. No chanting. No pushing. Just soft laughter, murmured recollections, the occasional sudden grin as a favorite moment resurfaced.
They were spent—not broken, not hollow, but emptied in the way a storm empties itself into rain. Up above it all, the Star Band slept.
Rooms were secured, corridors guarded, and the frantic energy of the night finally gave way to stillness. Instruments rested in their cases like living things catching their breath. Road Crew members sprawled wherever gravity claimed them—boots kicked off, jackets discarded, comm units silent for once. The FENGU Dancers lay tangled in laughter and half-remembered choreography, bodies sore, spirits full.
Reflection came quietly.
Three concerts. One planet. A pace that bordered on madness.
They had done more than perform—they had imprinted. Sound had become memory; rhythm had become shared history. Stories would circulate long after the shuttles lifted off, growing sharper with retelling. Names would be spoken differently now. With weight. With reverence.
Legends weren’t announced. They were burned in.
And somewhere in the deep structure of the city—perhaps in sealed corridors, perhaps in the silence between systems—the Maestro’s shadow lingered, aware that something irreversible had just taken place.
For now, though, the night released its grip. The Band rested.
The city exhaled. And history, freshly written, began to settle.
The lads finally settled in—not with celebration, not with excess, but with a kind of restrained reverence.
Out of respect for Patrick, to avoid any substance that could intoxicate oneself. No stimulants, no relaxants, nothing that could blur the edges of a night that already felt unreal. Discipline held. Principles mattered. Values intact.
Still… in the unspoken corners of every room, the same thought surfaced repeatedly. They would have sold their souls for a couple of cases of a good beer.
The craving wasn’t chemical—it was ritual. A familiar punctuation mark at the end of something monumental. Instead, they drank water, shared knowing looks, and laughed softly at their own restraint. It was enough. It had to be.
Elsewhere in the tower, Oblika was already moving ahead of the moment.
He stood with Neil and Mark in low-voiced discussion, projecting maps and timelines into the air between them. Re-embarkation aboard the I.A.S. Tevloe was no longer a simple logistical step—it was a strategic necessity. Joppolis City knew them now. The Quelmy District knew them too well. Faces recognized. Movements tracked. Legends attract attention, and attention attracts risk.
They could not linger.
The next ten Earth days—once promised as a luxurious sixteen—would be spent on the far side of Hollien Alpha, away from eyes, away from rumor. Preparation would replace recovery. Planning would replace rest. Rehearsals, security drills, contingency routes, silent resupply. Everything accelerated.
The reason was already rippling outward across the system. A new war. The Vastians.
Its outbreak had collapsed schedules everywhere, snapping old agreements like brittle wire. Supply chains tightened. Transit windows shrank. Priorities shifted overnight. Even music—especially music—was being pulled into the gravity well of something much larger.
The Band felt it, even if no one said it aloud. The era of generous gaps between Concerts was over. Tonight, they rested while they could. Tomorrow, motion would resume—faster, sharper, less forgiving. They were no longer just performers passing through worlds. They were known quantities now. Symbols. Variables. And as the lights dimmed across Quelmy Towers, one truth settled in with them.
Legends don’t get to slow down.
The next day ahead would demand something far less glamorous than the night right now: Accounting. But tonight, it was time to rest and reflect upon this night’s concert.
Tomorrow, every crate, every case, every sealed module would be logged and verified. They needed hard numbers—how much pyrotechnic charge remained, what had been expended, and what could still be relied upon for the future concerts. The next two shows, slated for the swamp-zone of Hollien Alpha, would present their own challenges: humidity, unstable ground, unpredictable atmospherics. Pyro there wouldn’t just be spectacle—it would be risk.
Replacement was uncertain. Resupply routes were tightening. With the war against the Vastians unfolding, priority shipments were being rerouted, delayed, or outright seized. What they had on hand might be all they were going to get.
Yet beneath the logistics lay a deeper, unresolved question.
The special effects—the visual phenomena that had timed themselves perfectly to the music—remained unexplained. No cue latency. No operator error. No manual trigger. They had unfolded with a precision that bordered on prescient, as if the show itself had been listening.
It hadn’t been anyone from the Road Crew. That much was certain.
Which meant the question could no longer be ignored.
As the evening ended, Neil and Mark were wrapping up their meeting with Oblika in his room, the last of the tactical projections fading from the air. Oblika had already turned half his attention to the next problem when Neil hesitated at the door.
There was a pause—brief, deliberate. Then Neil spoke.
“Colonel… about the effects last night.” The room seemed to wait with him.
[“Now that,”] Oblika remarked evenly, [“is a very good question, Neil”]. He turned slightly, eyes glinting. [“Mark, I believe you’ve already met him”].
This was news to Mark. His mind raced through every encounter he could recall, his gaze dropping to the floor in consternation.
“I… honestly have no idea who this could be, Bars,” he said at last. “Not a clue.”
[“You met him several days ago,”] Oblika replied matter-of-factly. [“Out there in the Plaza”]. Mark looked up sharply.
[“Be it known, Mark,”] Oblika continued, a grin spreading now, [“that expertise comes in many shapes and sizes”].
Neil exhaled in irritation.
“He doesn’t know, Bars. Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Oblika’s grin widened.
[“Well then—do you remember that little creature you mocked by calling him ‘Mr. Reptile’?”]. Mark did.
The realization hit him like a dropped amplifier.
“No. Noooooo. Not a chance in hell, Bars.” Mark’s eyes went wide as saucers. Neil’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
[“That little reptilian person,”] Oblika pressed on gleefully, [“wearing the hat—carrying YOUR Stage Schematics in his bag…”].
He threw his head back.
[“Yeeeeessss!”] Oblika was beside himself now, laughter tearing out of him in a full, hysterical wail.
Oblika continued, his tone settling into something more reflective.
[“There is much about Hollien Alpha that will surprise you all. I asked you two to join me tonight because Mike and Patrick are indisposed—sore feet. Stepped on by two overzealous security members. Swollen toes”].
“We know, Bars,” Neil replied with a wince. “Unfortunate.”
He gestured vaguely toward the window.
“Our stay in these Towers will have to be cut short. With all the crazy fans below, we’ll be virtual prisoners if we try to move around on foot. We may need a vehicle to get us over to the Quelmy Shuttle Terminus?” Neil suggested.
[“I agree, lads,”] Oblika said. [“We can’t have that every time you step outside. The terminus isn’t far—but it’s three times the distance of today’s walk from the Stadium. Transport will be required”].
That much, at least, was settled. Mark hesitated, then leaned forward slightly.
“And this… ‘Mr. Reptile man’, Bars,” he asked. “Does he—well—is he a he? Does it have a name, at least?” Oblika’s eyes lit up.
[“Yes, Mark. He is most definitely a he”].
A pause. Deliberate.
[“His name is Aza-Kap.”He grinned broadly.
[“That’s good,”] Oblika added. [“You’re already warming up to him”].
They broke into laughter.
“I’ll just call him Aza, then,” Mark giggled. “Aza-boy!”
The laughter caught like a spark. Mark’s infectious giggle pulled Neil in immediately, and Oblika followed a heartbeat later—three voices echoing through the room, the weight of the night briefly forgotten.
------------------------------------THE ‘RUMBLE’. ------------------------------------------
The moment of mirth was suddenly shattered by a loud series of shrieks from somewhere further down the hallway.
Oblika stopped giggling at once and raised a hand-claw.
[“Wait, lads. Did you hear that?”]
“Hear what, Bars?” Neil replied.
“I heard nothing,” Mark stated flatly.
[“A commotion… of sorts!?”] Oblika insisted, his tone low now. His well-attuned, highly developed auditory senses—the instincts of a Hunter species—had fully engaged.
The laughter drained from the room. Silence followed. Long. Heavy.
All three stood motionless, straining for sound, listening for any further disturbance… any warning that the night was not yet finished. The silence that descended next settled like a numb veil, smothering the room.
It was Neil who finally broke it.
“What did you hear, Bars?” he muttered cautiously.
[“Shouting. A scream… distress… out there”]. Oblika indicated toward the hallway beyond his door, the long corridor stretching past the guest rooms.
Curiosity got the better of Mark. He rose and crossed to the door, easing it open and peering out into the vast corridor beyond. His eyes traced the dim recesses toward the far end. Whatever Oblika had heard hadn’t been far—but Mark himself had caught nothing. He strained his ears now, searching for any confirming sound.
Then he noticed movement. The door to the room he shared with the other bandmates was opening.
Patrick’s Day Mask appeared first, followed by Mike’s head, both craning down the corridor in the same direction as Mark. Mike glanced back and caught sight of him.
“Did you hear that, Mark?” Mike asked quietly.
“No,” Mark replied. “I didn’t—but Oblika did.”
A subtle awareness prickled at the back of Mark’s neck. He turned. Oblika and Neil had joined him at the doorway. The mystery deepened. Mike and Patrick had heard something too.
It came again. This time louder—clear enough that no one could doubt it.
A shriek. Not human.
An animalistic cascade of buzzing clicks, harsh and urgent, tearing through the corridor.
Doors began to open. One by one, then several at once—FENGU roadies, dancers, bleary-eyed crew members spilling into the hallway. Even TAI poked his head out now, instantly alert. Those who had been asleep were awake. Those who had been awake were suddenly very focused.
The air shifted. Oblika stiffened, alarm flashing across his features as the situation escalated beyond uncertainty. He brushed past Mark without ceremony.
[“Move, Mark. I will investigate this”].
He stepped fully into the corridor and began marching toward the source of the sound, heavy footfalls echoing against the polished floor. Mark and Neil followed instinctively, staying close. By now, every door belonging to the Entourage stood open.
Every door— Except two. The quarters of the female FENGU dancers.
And the door marked for the ‘Maestro’. Oblika moved steadily down the corridor toward the ‘Maestro’s’ room, pausing only long enough to knock firmly on the door to the female FENGU dancers’ quarters as he passed.
There was no response. The door remained closed.
He continued, stopping at last before the ‘Maestro’s ‘door. From within came the unmistakable sounds of movement—scuffling, shifting—muffled but urgent. Mark and Neil drew up alongside him, instinctively lowering their voices as they listened. Oblika raised a clenched hand-claw and knocked twice—hard. Mark’s eyes drifted to the strange numeral set into the center of the door: a curious Ardoccan designation. A letter ‘C’, pierced by two black dots, followed by a single vertical stroke—resembling the Romano-Latin 'I’. A room number, presumably… though unlike any he had seen before. He was still studying it when...
......’THUMP!’ Something struck the door from the inside. Not lightly. Not accidentally. The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
All at once, the Maestro’s door was wrenched open. A bedraggled female dancer burst from the room, colliding hard into Oblika as she fled—her mouth erupting in a manic storm of clicking cries. To Oblika, the sound was instantly and unmistakably clear. A plea for help. For mercy.
The intensity of the moment needed no translation. The Band members recognized it at once—panic and terror in their most universal form. The dancer tore past all three of them, shrieking as she ran, and vanished into her own quarters. Her door slammed shut behind her.
TAI had stepped fully into the corridor now, eyes sharp, posture already shifting into response mode. Oblika turned without hesitation.
[“TAI—see to her. Find out what happened”]. TAI was already moving, following the dancer into her room as ordered. The corridor remained tense and silent behind them. And the Maestro’s door stood open.
As the dancer fled past Mark and Neil, they caught sight of it at once. Blood—traces smeared across her face. Not much. But enough.
She was beyond words now, deep in distress, her clicking cries fractured and erratic as TAI shepherded her swiftly back toward her room. The door closed behind them, sealing her away from the corridor. But the corridor itself was no longer contained.
Members of the tour’s entourage were emerging from every direction now. Roadies clicked anxiously, voices overlapping in agitated bursts. Several of the male FENGU dancers gathered, visibly shaken, their concern unmistakable.
The tension rippled outward, contagious. Mike and Patrick had joined them as well, standing shoulder to shoulder, silent witnesses to the growing chaos. Oblika did not hesitate.
He surged forward and slammed into the Maestro’s door with enough force to wrench it partially from its frame. The hinges screamed in protest as the door swung inward. Neil and Mark followed immediately, crossing the threshold at his heels. The room beyond was lit…Occupied…And utterly wrong.
What awaited them inside was something none of them had been prepared for.
Standing in the center of the room before Oblika was the Maestro himself—wobbling, ranting, his voice erupting in a hysterical stream of FENGU clicks.
Oblika understood it instantly. Madness. Rage. Accusation.
His reflexes snapped into motion. One hand-claw dipped to his utility belt and came back holding something small, palmed and ready.
The Maestro straightened suddenly, as if bracing for combat. His wings flared wide, flapping erratically—like a rabid, feathered giant bat. In his own grasp was a small, dark device. He continued clicking furiously, beak snapping open and shut as he seemed to be admonishing Oblika with venomous intent.
Then—too fast for warning— The Maestro produced a hand laser. He began to level it at Oblika. In the same instant, Oblika moved. He hurled what he held—a flashing, disc-like object—hard and true.
The projectile struck the Maestro beneath his right forearm just as the weapon aligned, knocking his aim violently aside. ‘PZZSSSTTT!’.........
The sound ripped through the room as a blue beam of light seared past, missing Oblika by a breath and slicing the air between him and Neil.
Neil ducked instinctively. Mark dove flat to the floor. The smell of ionized air lingered. And the fight had begun.
The Maestro let out a piercing scream and dropped the hand laser.
It struck the hard floor and began spinning wildly, discharging erratically as it skidded in tightening circles. His first shot had gone wild, aim disrupted by the weapon striking his arm. Its beam slashed into a nearby wall, tearing a four-foot gash across its surface. The edges glowed red with residual heat. Now the weapon was on the ground, discharging in a wide arc!
The spinning blue beam swept dangerously low.
It missed Mark by mere inches as he lay flat on the floor—but clipped across the Maestro’s right foot before finally sputtering out and dying with a sharp hiss.
A short silence followed. Then the Maestro screamed again.
His right arm hung useless now, the silver disc embedded beneath it. His footing failed him as well crippled, unbalanced, he staggered and began to fall. As he pitched sideways, another female dancer burst past him, ducking low and sprinting for the door without looking back.
Oblika straightened to his full height.
As the ‘Maestro’ toppled sideways, he lashed out blindly and seized the passing dancer, yanking her back against him. His left forearm locked around her throat, pinning her tight and using her as cover.
She cried out once—sharp, terrified—then went rigid.
With clumsy urgency, he fumbled at his belt using his impaired right arm and produced a slim, bladed implement, pressing it close enough to make his intent unmistakable.
Oblika’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade of its own.
[“FREEEZE”!!!] ....The single word filled the room—cold, absolute, inescapable.
The ‘Maestro’ ignored it, continuing to babble frantic, disjointed clicks—rage, fear, accusation all tangled together. Oblika slowly spread his arms wide, palms open, his posture deliberately calm, deliberately non-threatening.
Easy. Steady.
The ‘Maestro’ began backing away, dragging the dancer with him step by unsteady step—toward the open balcony, toward escape.
Toward a very bad decision. Whatever authority he once claimed—whatever mask he wore, the Tour Operator was finished. He was exposed. And everyone in the room knew it.
Neil and Mark scanned the room quickly, their expressions hardening.
Scattered across tables and the floor were containers and devices marked with unmistakable ZART insignia—paraphernalia carelessly discarded, the air faintly tainted with its chemical sharpness. Mark shouted at the ‘Maestro’ in his own language, a sharp command to cool it, echoed instantly by Neil. The room itself told the rest of the story.
Furniture overturned. Fixtures damaged. Signs of a struggle layered atop recklessness. Anyone still inside appeared impaired—disoriented, dulled, or worse.
Two more female FENGU dancers lay motionless on the floor nearby. Unresponsive. Exposed. Their vulnerability alone spoke volumes. No explanation was needed. Whatever authority the ‘Maestro’ had claimed was gone, replaced by something ugly and undeniable. Oblika did not look back. His attention remained locked on the retreating miscreant and the hostage clutched against him. As the ‘Maestro’ stepped out onto the balcony, Oblika advanced as well—slowly, deliberately—every movement measured.
Not rushed. Not emotional. A hunter closing distance on wounded prey.
There was sudden movement behind Oblika, Mark, and Neil at the doorway.
Another Ardoccan burst into the room—a Quelmy Towers security officer. He was armed.
[“NO—!”] Oblika began, turning—
Too late. A single shot discharged. A red beam lanced across the space toward the balcony, striking the dancer before anyone could intervene. She collapsed instantly, her body going slack in the ‘Maestro’s grasp. She had been shot with a laser in the Head—a Hole burned cleanly through her Crested Skull- feathers exploded into a Cloud and Blood splashed across the ‘Maestro’s Face and upper body. He dropped his Blade. And was sent staggering backwards.
The moment froze. The impact of the blast threw the ‘Maestro’ back onto the railing. Off balance, unable to recover on his injured and mangled foot, he slammed into the balcony railing. The security member took another aim at the ‘Maestro’ -- he seemed intent upon killing him! Oblika rushed across to knock the shooter’s arm upwards, spoiling his shot, yelling....
[“STOP! Don’t kill him...he’ll TALK!”].
Perhaps this was precisely what this ‘Security Officer’ was thinking?
Oblika stood between the Shooter ... and the ‘Maestro’...Mark and Neil stepped in front of the Security Officer, as he realized that his job was done. He turned and fled. All were in shock! More Quelmy Towers Security arrived, but these were not armed. Who was this shooter?
Leaning against the Balcony—it gave way beneath the ‘Maestro’.
He fell. He vanished over the edge and down into the darkness below. Silence followed—thick, stunned, unreal.
Gone from sight in a breathless instant, a cavity remaining where he had momentarily been. The collapsed FENGU Dancer lay in a pool of her own blood, and that mixing with such from the ‘Maestro’s two wounds. She lay still twitching convulsively.
The Tour Operator’s reign had ended. Not with control. Not with escape. But with catastrophic failure.
Oblika surged forward, boots pounding across the shattered threshold as he reached the balcony rail.
He looked down. Expecting—Impact. Stillness. Finality. There was none. The roadway below was empty. No broken form.
He knew it were more important to secure the Maestro if he had a chance, than worry about the identity of this overly zealous Security Officer. That would be somebody else's job, the 'Star Band' members were all alive-- THAT is what mattered tonight.
There—Several blocks away. A dark, winged silhouette cut cleanly through the glow of the city lights, gliding with deliberate control, descending in a wide arc toward the deeper shadows of Joppolis City.
Not falling. Not tumbling. Escaping.
The ‘Maestro’ angled his wings, banking smoothly, wounded but alive, descending in a wide arc toward the deeper shadows of Joppolis City. Oblika’s hand-claws tightened on the railing. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his features.
["He lives"]. He muttered to himself.
Behind him, the room buzzed with stunned voices and frantic movement—but Oblika didn’t turn back.
["Run, Maestro"]. Saying to himself. ["You have only delayed the hunt, and you.... .... will only live twice!"].
The night swallowed the fleeing figure whole. But the chase—Had only just begun.
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‘THE AFTERMATH’.
This was a mess. A dead dancer. ZART.
A scandal—massive, unavoidable—now orbiting a Human band… and himself.
There went any hope of promotion.
Oblika had a great deal of explaining to do. To the Star Band—to his friends. To the authorities on Hollien. To the road crew and the dancers. To the Supremes. To Captain Glepko, commander of the I.A.S. Tevloe, whose ship he would soon need to transport personnel, equipment, and tour gear to the swamp-zone concerts barely ten days away. And apologies—endless apologies—to the fans. Then there was Quelmy Towers problems.
A Death. A ZART-fueled party. Prostitution.
And all of it implicating their unpopular tour manager. A shot-up room. A destroyed balcony. Damages stacked upon damages. Who, in their right mind, would rent rooms to these Humans again? The Pioneer Corps would be paying for this—one way or another.
It felt as though he had single-handedly dragged the war into Joppolis City. Was this an attempted assassination? Was the Maestro on the Vastians’ payroll?
Were they even playing the next dates? Was he losing his grip?
And now—who would organize future shows? He would have to advertise on the fly for a replacement. Someone competent. Someone clean. Someone who wasn’t a drug-dealing, shirking, cruel, sadistic excuse for a tour manager.
Inquiries were inevitable. Investigations unavoidable.
The bells would ring.
And when they did, Oblika would have to stand still and answer every one of them.
There was some very serious damage control to be made here:
Oblika needed to sit down with the Band.
They needed to think. They needed to brainstorm. This was the war—was it not? An enemy action. An attempt to disrupt the tour. To derail the mission.
The Quelmy Towers security had no record of the Security Officer / shooter. No name. No Rank trace. No one stepping forward, shaken and apologetic, claiming nerves and poor judgment. A legitimate officer would have stayed. Would have explained. Would have answered questions.
This one vanished. Which meant he was never meant to be identified.
An agent? —sent to silence the once sly and cunning, buy now foolish ‘Maestro’ at the precise moment of his success, or his weakness. The shot missed its true mark and struck the dancer instead. A tragedy.
Yes. But also, a mistake. The mystery deepened—and with it, the pattern clarified.
There was no scandal here.
The Star Band were guilty of nothing more than crushed toes and bad timing. Two of them had been in a meeting with Oblika the entire time. There were witnesses. Records. Proof.
This was an attack. Pure and simple. There would be no story for the gossipers. No salacious narrative. No manufactured outrage.
Not if Oblika had anything to say about it. This wasn’t decadence.
This wasn’t mismanagement. This was the war—reaching out of the shadows to strike at the mission itself.
And now that Oblika saw it clearly…He intended to respond accordingly.
There would be inquests, certainly.
Oblika knew that much. He—and the Star Band, along with anyone who had crossed paths with the ‘Maestro’ in any capacity—would be questioned at length. Statements would be taken. Timelines reconstructed. Motives dissected. All of that would come later. First, the ‘Maestro’ had to be captured.
The galaxy was vast—absurdly so—and it offered no shortage of places to disappear. If he was allowed time, he would use it. For now, the investigation into the ‘Maestro’s activities fell under a far more dangerous heading: his confirmed involvement with the Rallian Pirates Organization. That alone elevated him from disgraced tour manager to strategic liability.
Worse still was what he carried with him. Knowledge.
Fragments of the Mission. Observations of Ardoccan operations. Patterns. Habits. Intent. Information that could be traded, bartered, or sold to the highest bidder. And there was no question who that bidder would be. The Vastians.
Which meant this was no longer just a matter of justice or accountability. It was containment. Damage control on a galactic scale. The ‘Maestro’ wasn’t merely running. He was becoming a weapon. And Oblika intended to make sure he was found—
before that weapon could be turned on them all.
Oblika was deeply grateful that he had always minimized conversations with the ‘Maestro’ about the Mission’s larger picture—and about his own role within it. He knew some things. But not everything.
And Oblika was confident that whatever fragments the man carried with him would not scuttle the overall Mission. It might blemish part of it—cause disruption, delay, embarrassment—but not derail it entirely. Still, one truth could not be ignored.
The ‘Maestro’ had not been in his right mind.
Whether he had truly intended to kill Oblika—or one of the Band—with his weapon was a question that would never sit easily. The capability had been there. The intent, at least in that moment, had felt real enough. Yet his nature worked against him.
He was a loner by inclination. An isolationist by habit. He asked few questions and chose not to socialize—unless it fed his baser appetites and he had his weaknesses too. Drugs and Female dancing Fengus. He avoided deeper engagement, avoided curiosity, avoided anything that did not serve immediate gratification.
Ironically, that made him useful.
To the Mission, he had been an organizer extraordinaire—efficient, tireless, focused on logistics and profit. He showed little interest in intergalactic politics, less still in ideology or allegiance. That disinterest rendered him nearly invisible.
At his core, he was not a strategist. Not a believer. Not a conspirator. He was a creature of business. And his only true aim had been to enrich himself on the backs of the Band.
The ‘Maestro’ had been a fixer.
An organizer—exceptional at managing details, logistics, and people. He excelled at it. In hindsight, his position alone carried a far higher threat potential than anyone had initially accounted for. Especially once war had broken out.
Those who stood to benefit from his placement—those who could exploit his access—were now in direct opposition to the very people who trusted him. Left unchecked, he could have become a malignancy within the operation itself. A cancer to his hosts.
A double agent—formed not through ideology, but convenience—within a very short span of time. Whether he felt the strain of conflicting loyalties was impossible to know. Whether such a concept even troubled him was speculation at best. These were assumptions—nothing more.
For now, he was gone. And in a better world, the Star Band and its entourage were quietly relieved to be rid of the leech.
One outcome, however, could be predicted with certainty. The injuries he had sustained would remain with him for life. They would mark him—physically, psychologically—seared into his sense of self. That alone might be enough to determine where his future loyalties would fall.
Pain had a way of clarifying allegiances. It was possible that, because of these events, the Mission itself had already been compromised. If so, delay would only deepen the damage.
The sooner he was found and brought to justice, the better. Time would tell.
......Time always did.
Following the fiasco at the Quelmy Towers—the death, and the escape of a now-confirmed ZART smuggler—Oblika was summoned before the Ardoccan High Council of Hollien.
There, he was briefed on what had already been in motion. The ‘Maestro’ had been under quiet surveillance.
Plans were underway to monitor him across the ongoing planetary tour—tracking his movements against ZART overdose outbreaks, shipment seizures, and anomalous trade patterns. The intent was to connect the dots gradually, to build an airtight case without alerting the suspect.
That plan, however, was still in its infancy.
Until the incident at the Towers, Oblika had been conducting his own parallel inquiry—isolated, unofficial, and deliberately compartmentalized. Only after the fracas were the findings shared in full.
They were damning.
Evidence pointed to a series of secret meetings the ’Maestro’ had conducted in Joppolis City alone. Authorities had intended to spring the trap after the second Swamp-Bowl concert, when jurisdictional authority on Otachoga would be clearer and the net tighter.
The ‘Maestro’ ruined everything himself.
He grew careless.
An impromptu “wrap party” with the FENGU dancers—fuelled by ZART, coercion, and indulgence, where he drugged and seduced them—exposed his operation before the authorities could act. Sloppiness replaced caution, and secrecy collapsed into chaos.
During the ensuing investigation of the crime scene, investigators uncovered the critical piece. A ledger. It blew the case wide open.
Names. Dates. Transactions. Locations. Routes. The ledger mirrored the path of the Star Band almost precisely charting trade connections, planetary contacts, shipment timings, and known associates. It was a trove of organizational intelligence, much of it yet to be formally corroborated, but internally consistent and devastating in scope.
A coup. A grand slam of intelligence.
Additional evidence followed: a seized ZART shipment, distribution paraphernalia, unregistered currency, and diamonds—favored payment instruments of the Rallian Pirates.
Two local accomplices were identified and taken into custody. There would be no lawyers. Not here.
On Hollien, truth was not negotiated. It was extracted. Forcefully, if required. The Ardoccan way allowed no paid defense, no procedural delay.
The truth always emerged in the end. And usually, very rapidly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Pioneer Corps High Command had reached a decision. A replacement for the Maestro would be found. The mission—to protect the FENGU colonist-workers through continued musical experimentation—would proceed.
The outbreak of this latest war would undoubtedly interfere with touring plans, and schedules would be revised repeatedly, as circumstances demanded. The conflict was unplanned, volatile, and unpredictable.
But some defense, it was agreed, was better than none at all.
The Mission would move on.
So long as Oblika’s actions were recognized for what they had been—an attempt to prevent further loss of life—and so long as the Band members’ alibis held, their names and reputations would be cleared of any supposed wrongdoing. With that assurance, operations could continue as planned.
And there was more. Already, one unexpected effect had become apparent. Morale had improved.
The Band was popular—undeniably so. Compared to the Klo-Cetzi Race’s performances—shows heavy on ‘vibrations and light’ but empty of soul, little more than music-less noise—these Earth-born rockers ignited something real.
Excitement. Connection. Energy.
Where others offered spectacle, the Star Band delivered experience. And in uncertain times, that difference mattered more than anyone had anticipated.
After the two upcoming concerts at the Swamp-Bowl, no further plans could be relied upon. The war had altered too much. Conditions were shifting too quickly. Anything the Maestro had once organized—routes, schedules, contingencies—now had to be discarded and rewritten. Only one commitment remained. The final two concerts would be played.
They were an obligation. A promise made to a population of fans long starved of entertainment and cultural expression. That promise would be honored. Beyond that point, nothing was fixed.
From then onward, the influence of the missing tour manager—now a wanted fugitive—would begin to erode. His reach would shrink. His relevance would fade. Whatever threat he once posed would diminish with distance and time, receding steadily into the past.
The future would no longer be shaped by his plans. It would be shaped by what came next.
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Re-Embarkation — I.A.S. TEVLOE.
Dawn over Joppolis City came muted and gray, filtered through layers of cloud and industrial haze. The Quelmy Towers stood quiet now sealed, scrubbed, and already retreating into rumor.The shuttles arrived without ceremony.
The hunt for the ‘Maestro’ had already begun.
Security protocols across the Joppolis City region were quietly elevated. Not a lockdown—not yet—but a tightening of the net. Cargo manifests were frozen and reissued. Passenger lists cross-checked against biometric scans. Every outbound shuttle, freighter, and private starcraft was flagged for secondary inspection.
Nothing left the region without scrutiny.
Crates were opened. Seals broken and re-applied. Life-support compartments scanned. Hidden bays probed with gravimetric sweeps and thermal imaging. Any vessel large enough to conceal a wounded FENGU was delayed, searched, and logged.
The flow of traffic slowed—but it did not stop.
That was deliberate.
Too sudden a closure would alert the quarry.
Instead, the checks came layered and methodical. Joppolis Control worked in concert with Pioneer Corps intelligence and orbital patrols, filtering data in real time. Patterns were watched. Deviations noted. A net cast wide enough to catch movement, but subtle enough not to spook it.
Beyond the city region, Hollien Alpha continued to function. Trade moved. Civilians traveled. Life went on. But within Joppolis airspace, the ‘Maestro’ was being hunted.
And he would not leave unnoticed.
As the Shuttles arrived, Equipment moved first.
The extra Muscle that had been hired were much welcomed, and it was a pity they had to remain here in Joppolis City where they lived. They would be very useful unloading and setting up for for the next two Concerts. But the Band cannot have everything their own way.
One by one, they docked against the I.A.S. Tevloe, her vast hull looming above the terminus like a patient, watchful leviathan. Floodlights traced her markings. Access ramps extended. The ship was ready.
Flight cases. Racks. Pyro crates—counted, sealed, re-counted. Instruments were treated with reverence, hands careful, movements practiced. No one spoke much. The Road Crew worked in focused silence, exhaustion tempered by habit.
The Band followed. Then their Dancer troupe. Minus one. Her remains were being studied for Intoxicants and injurious signs. Her Funeral arrangement has been entrusted to a local company in Joppolis. Very unfortunate. Her remaining Dancer friend was in Mourning. She had a name..in FENGU. It meant, ‘The Petalled one’. Or ‘Petal’ for short.
Mike and Patrick boarded together, their steps measured, faces set. Toes still very sore. Neil and Mark came next, exchanging a glance as they crossed the threshold—no words needed. The Tevloe’s interior lights reflected softly off metal decking, sterile and reassuring.
Safe. For now.
TAI and some of the Tevloe’s other crew oversaw personnel manifests with quiet efficiency, confirming headcounts. The FENGU Dancers moved as a group, sullen, subdued but steady. There were fewer of them now. The absence was felt without being named. Two of the Females were also quite sick- being drugged, over-dosed. And maybe worse? And the last had been physically assaulted by the ‘Maestro’. It had been a wild and stimulating night all around! One hard to forget and wrapped in notoriety.
Oblika boarded last.
He paused at the ramp’s edge, casting a final look back toward the city. Joppolis lay spread beneath the clouds—still glittering, still alive, already moving on.
Too many questions remained unanswered. But this was not the place for them. He stepped aboard.
The ramp retracted with a low mechanical hum. Seals engaged. The Tevloe’s engines stirred, a deep vibration felt more than heard. Much of the damage from the Jump had been repaired. Bulkheads adding rigidity and strength for battle. But she was no longer certified to make another Jump. She must travel slow now, for all time, until she gets moth-balled and scrapped.
Above them, Hollien Alpha waited.
The Swamp-Zone. The Swamp-Bowl. Two final promises to keep.
As the ship lifted cleanly from the terminus and angled skyward, Oblika allowed himself a single, quiet thought:
Whatever followed—war, pursuit, reckoning—
the music would still be played. And that, for now, was enough.
The I.A.S. Tevloe cruised slowly through Hollien’s upper atmosphere, her passage smooth and unhurried. Below, the planet rolled beneath her hull in layered bands of cloud and shadow.
By the following day, they would be above Otachoga.
Once a continent forged in fire, Otachoga had long since begun to sink—its volcanic bones swallowed gradually by the vast, encroaching swamps that now defined the region. What had once been molten upheaval had softened into mire, steam, and slow decay.
Cities did not sprawl here. They endured. And they were few.
Great urban structures rose on colossal metal supports, driven impossibly deep into Hollien’s bedrock. Towers and platforms hovered above the choking wetlands, elevated against the rot and the rising waters below. From orbit, they appeared almost unnatural—iron forests standing where stone had failed.
It was there, amid heat, mist, and ancient ground still shifting beneath its own weight, that the Swamp-Bowl waited. And with it, the final two concerts.
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The ‘SPIRAL CITY’.
The City of VOL-STAKA was a scene to behold.
Barely two hundred and forty Earth years old, it was young by Ardoccan standards—yet already steeped in legend. Vol-Staka had been founded by a devout Ardoccan religious sect, one that had once lived at the very edges of the great swamps of Otachoga.
They were deeply spiritual, reverent of water gods and unseen spirits they believed dwelled beneath the mire. In their earliest days, they survived through limited trade with transient Ardoccan clans, exchanging ritual craft and knowledge for tools and protection.
They prayed for endurance. They prayed for sanctuary. In time, they received both. When Hollien Alpha was first encountered by off-world explorers, it earned a blunt, unflattering name: the ‘Planet of Worms’. The title was not undeserved. Vast numbers of these primitive, burrowing organisms infested the swamplands—huge, slow-moving creatures that churned the mud and reshaped the wetlands over centuries.
As exploration expanded and permanent routes were established, settlers learned quickly where not to build.
The worm-ridden swamps were avoided.
Instead, populations clustered in more accommodating regions—stable ground, higher elevations, and eventually, elevated structures. The swamps themselves were left largely untouched… except when danger, or entertainment demanded otherwise.
Vol-Staka rose from this caution.
A spiral city of platforms and ascending tiers built high above the mire on colossal supports, it stood as both sanctuary and symbol—faith elevated above decay.
All of this was explained to the Star Band during the long transit to Otachoga. They listened from the comfort of the Tevloe’s lounge, drinks in hand, watching the muted greens and browns of the continent slowly rotate beneath the viewport.
What awaited them below was not merely another venue. It was a city born of belief, fear, and adaptation.
And at its heart stood the Swamp-Bowl.
It had been impressed upon the Band that as the population of Otachoga grew, necessity had shaped architecture in very specific ways.
Cities in the swamps could not spread outward. They rose instead, built on colossal metal pylons driven deep into the planet’s bedrock. From above, these settlements resembled gigantic corkscrews, their spiraling cores wrapped with clusters of capsule-like and lozenge-shaped dwellings attached along the outer rims.
Vertical cities. Anchored against sinking ground and relentless moisture.
Transport between these elevated structures was achieved almost entirely by anti-grav. vessels. They floated with an eerie steadiness, their forms reminiscent of airborne submarines—elongated hulls, flat upper decks, and segmented flotation bladders built into their undersides.
Those bladders were not decorative.
An anti-grav. failure meant a long, ungraceful fall to the liquid surface below, and survival depended on whether the craft could remain afloat long enough for rescue. Redundancy here was not optional—it was doctrine.
The vessels themselves varied enormously in scale. Some were small, carrying ten Ardoccans at most. Others were vast, capable of transporting hundreds. They served as ferries, freight liners, personal transports, and mobile platforms for countless other roles.
Most were equipped with solar sails—broad, reflective structures designed to supplement their energy feeds. These sails were exceptionally efficient, capturing light from the Hollien sun and converting it directly into usable power for anti-grav. systems and life support.
In a world of water, rot, and sinking ground, everything floated—or it failed.
["Tomorrow, lads, we make planetfall on VOL. Vol-Staka is the city—Vol is the continent"]. Oblika explained. ["It is Ardoccan for ‘Wet’. An… appropriate name"].
Neil snorted softly, leaning back.
“It’s good to hear something about the place we’re meant to visit and play,” he said. “But I won’t pretend I’m thrilled, Bars. Swamps and all… not exactly my idea of a tour highlight.”
Oblika’s mouth curled faintly at one corner.
["Otachoga does not care what anyone prefers,"] he replied evenly. ["It merely exists"].
[“Let me tell you about the Vol-Staka Rotunda,”] Oblika said. [“Most people call it the Swamp-Bowl now, but it wasn’t always that”]. He gestured outward as if the walls were not walls at all.
[“Long before the city, the origin founders worshipped here—on an open plaza built at the edge of the great swamp. No roof. No seating. Just voices rising into the mist”].
Oblika continued, clearly enjoying the lesson.
[“Seats were added later. When the old faith fell out of favor, the Rotunda became a place for speeches… then plays. The dramatic arts took over. Slowly, the bowl grew—more seating, new structures, buildings to hold both audience and performers alike”].
He glanced at the lads, his eyes bright.
[“So yes—you’re playing a concert hall. But it wasn’t built for music”].
“You know a lot about this place, Bars. How so?” Oblika didn’t answer immediately.
[“I used to come here when I was young,”] he said at last.
[“I lived on Hollien for a time. Joppolis City”].
He paused, then added, almost deliberately, [“We hunted worms back then”]. Oblika’s gaze drifted to the lounge window, out across the swamps below. The look in his eyes wasn’t observation—it was distance, as though he’d wandered back into the mist of something unfinished. There was a past here he hadn’t escaped. And something in this place was forcing him to face it. The Band members were intrigued.
[“For some young Ardoccans growing up on this planet,”] he said, [“there is a… rite of passage. If that’s what you want to call it”]. He hesitated before continuing.
[“The Worm Hunt. You can face it alone, or as part of a team”]. His voice shifted then—lower, heavier. Sad, perhaps.
[“Deep in the largest swamps live a species of immense worms. Fearsome creatures. The test was bravery: to face one at close range with an energy spear”].
Oblika shook his head slightly.
[“It was never recommended”].
“Are there any still left Bars?” Mark asked. Oblika gave a slow, doubtful motion.
[“I haven’t heard of any sightings in years”]. He looked back out toward the swamps.
[“They’ve almost become myths now. Legends of the deep”].
“Patrick, do you think there are any of those giant, deep-water swamp worms?” Neil asked. Patrick was frank.
“Given the immensity of this area, I’d have to say yes—it’s very possible that life like that still thrives in the depths.” Neil turned.
“Mike, what do you think?”
“I’d have to agree with Patrick—yup,” Mike answered.
Mark chimed in.
“It only stands to reason, fellas, given the size of these more remote parts,” he opined. Oblika finally spoke.
[“Well, lads, you may be correct. There have been rumors of tunnels—subterranean, labyrinthine networks—that could allow the passage of such worms”].
“And the Vol-Staka Rotunda—the Swamp Bowl?” Neil asked. “That’s where we’ll be playing—right on the edge of a swamp. Will there be any risks to us?” Concern had crept into his voice.
[“No, lads,”] Oblika insisted. [“Only smaller ones inhabit these shallow edges. No more than a few feet in length—and they’re shy”]. Then Oblika waved the thought away.
[“We should stop talking about swamp scum and focus on brighter matters. We have two dates to play, and then we’re homeward bound—Jellsius IV” ].
“So that’s the plan then—upcoming shows on Hollien… cancelled?” Mike questioned.
[“Not cancelled—temporarily postponed,”] Oblika advised. [“The unpredictable nature of a war breaking out means we cannot guarantee your safety. If necessary, we’ll broadcast your live-recorded shows and music over the transmitters to collective batches of FENGUs as a substitute for live performances. During wartime, this may prove far simpler”].
It made sense. Touring across solar systems during a war would strain Ardoccan resources and place the tour in a precarious position. Remaining at a familiar base and awaiting further orders was the safer course.
It wasn’t that the mission had failed—only that it no longer existed on a predictable timeline. They were no longer in control of a unique situation. Exterior realities now dictated their path.
[“Don’t look so glum, boys. We’ll do these two concerts, get them out of the way as promised, and then return to Jellsius—by any means necessary. If the Tevloe can’t transport us, we’ll find another way. For all I know, this ship may be ordered to remain here. Its propulsion systems still function well, but the hull could be too fragile for another jump. I’d rather take my chances than be smeared across the galaxy in a split moment”].
“I second that,” Mark said.
“Me as well,” Neil agreed. Then he grinned. “Tomorrow, we’ll do what we do best for these FENGUs—deliver some good old rock and roll!”
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‘The SWAMP BOWL’.
The Vol-Staka region was warned to be hot and humid, steam rising endlessly from the swamps below. By the time the first shuttle descended, the Vol-Staka region was already choking with heat. Humidity clung to skin and gear alike, thick as a second atmosphere. Below the Rotunda, the swamps exhaled constantly, long plumes of steam rising through twisted mangroves and stagnant water that smelled of minerals and decay.
Only a single shuttle could land beside the Vol-Staka Rotunda. That limitation made setup a grueling challenge. Crews were forced to wait their turns to unload, working within the narrow spaces allowed.
That bottleneck turned setup into a grinding exercise in patience and endurance. Crews queued equipment in tight, muddy corridors, waiting their turn to unload in spaces never meant for touring infrastructure. Crates were hand-carried when lift rigs failed, boots sank ankle-deep into soft ground, and more than one case slipped from exhausted hands with a hollow, worrying thud., and that limitation made set up a grueling challenge. Crews were forced to wait their turns to unload, working within the narrow spaces allowed. It quickly became clear that the speaker towers would have to be downsized. Moving heavy equipment without sufficient FENGU power was proving difficult. Without adequate FENGU power available planet side, moving the heavier arrays bordered on impossible. With the concert scheduled for the following day, there was no room for delay—they had to hustle. Every ounce of strength, every straining muscle, and every sharply timed organizational command was required.
The dancers would perform first.
There was enough pyro for two shows, but nothing approaching the scale, or spectacle of the Quelmy Stadium performances. The Swamp Bowl crowd would be far smaller, and the limited supply of special effects and visual treats would need to be carefully rationed between day one and day two.
As dusk approached, a lighting tech swore he saw ripples in the water beyond the Rotunda wall—too large for wind, too deliberate for settling mud. Later, one of the ground sensors blinked offline for several seconds before reactivating on its own, its data buffer inexplicably wiped.
No alarms were triggered. No orders were given.
Still, as the last cases were locked down and the crews finally stood back to assess their work, a shared unease settled in. The Swamp Bowl was ready—but whatever lay beneath it had not been accounted for.
And beneath the Rotunda, something shifted.
The Vol-Staka Rotunda was far less capacious than the sprawling Quelmy Stadium of Joppolis City, its scale shaped by the smaller, more rugged population of this region of Planet Hollien. Built not to impress through sheer size but to endure the hostile wetlands surrounding it, the structure rose from the swamp like a reinforced Spiral crown of stone, alloy, and treated reed crete. Locals referred to its Concert Hall at its base interchangeably as the Swamp Bowl Rotunda, a name earned not only by location, but by reputation.
Where Quelmy dazzled with towering tiers and luminous sky-arches, the Swamp Bowl pressed inward—compact, dense, and alive with sound. The seating rings were steeper, closer to the field, designed so no roar was wasted and no movement on the murky pitch went unseen. The air inside carried a constant mix of humidity, brine, and electrical charge from the city’s power lattice, giving the Rotunda a pulse that could be felt through one’s boots.
Vol-Staka City itself wrapped tightly in a huge spiral from the Stadium up, a permanent settlement that swelled dramatically during Swamp weed season, when the waters ‘Turn’. Elevated walkways crossed above the marsh, linking smaller market spires, lodging stacks, and transporting pylons. Other Transport Pylons were attached half-way up the Many inhabitants were native Hollien marsh-dwelling FENGUs—broader-framed, and robust. Other creatures were an advanced Reptilian species, scale-skinned, and half amphibious—joined by Ardoccan off-world traders, scavengers, gamblers, Ardoccan Sentinal Guards, to provide Security issues. and sound engineers drawn by the event’s raw energy and lucrative chaos.
Some came to Profit.
Some came to Hunt.
Others came simply because the Swamp Bowl demanded witnesses. But ALL came to work.
For the duration of the Entertainment season, Vol-Staka transformed from a working swamp city into a roaring convergence point—music, some sport, and survival entwined. And at its center, the Rotunda waited, ready to test not only the players on the Stage, but any band daring enough to challenge the swamp’s approval.
The primary crop of these swamplands was not grown but endured—a mineral-rich weed that infested the boundary zones where water and land perpetually contested one another. It thrived in the shallows, knotting itself into dense mats that pulsed faintly beneath the surface, as if the swamp itself were breathing.
Specialized Gathering craft skimmed these regions day and night. Low-profile and wide-hulled, they shaved the weed from the marsh’s skin just as it bubbled upward, releasing thick clouds of marsh gases as a natural reaction of the ecosystem. These gases—volatile, corrosive, and highly valuable—were siphoned and condensed on the spot, another resource pulled from the swamp’s reluctant generosity.
Once harvested, the weeds were dried and processed in elevated refineries ringing Vol-Staka City. The fibrous matter broke down into dense mineral compounds—heavy with trace elements—that could be refined into fuel or repurposed as raw material for energy production. Nothing was wasted. In the swamps of Hollien, survival demanded efficiency.
It was this constant exchange—extraction balanced against endurance—that kept Vol-Staka alive, and why the city existed at all. The Swamp Bowl merely amplified what was already there: labor, danger, and the relentless conversion of hostile terrain into power.
Oblika’s Tales spoke of fleets of FENGU Gatherer craft deploying at first cycle, fanning out into pre-plotted geographical grids etched deep into Vol-Staka’s navigational charts. Their hovering vessels skimmed several feet above the swamp’s surface, gliding over reed-choked waters with practiced precision as harvesting arrays descended in synchronized patterns.
Forty to fifty craft worked in disciplined lines, advancing methodically across the marsh like migrating shoals. As the mineral weeds were skimmed free, the swamps answered in hissing eruptions of released gas, the air briefly clouded before containment fields sealed the vapors away.
Above and between the gathering lines, Ardoccan Security Glider craft maintained constant sentinel patrols. Sleek and angular, they traced slow, deliberate arcs through the humid sky, their presence less about authority and more about deterrence. In these waters, equipment failure, sudden gas surges, or territorial swamp life could turn routine harvests into disasters within moments.
The gliders ensured that none of the FENGU craft drifted out of formation—or into trouble—and that the swamp, unpredictable and watchful, never went unanswered.
Vol-Staka was only one of many spiral-shaped cities rising from this region of Hollien, each sharing a similar origin and purpose. Their corkscrew forms—vast, blade-like spirals of reinforced habitation—were not aesthetic choices but necessities. The ground level was perpetually waterlogged, unstable, and hostile to permanent settlement. Survival demanded elevation.
The forced spiral design drove habitation upward, layer upon layer, lifting industry, commerce, and governance away from the choking wetlands below. At the base, machinery and extraction systems did the dirtiest work. Above that, the city lived in.
The Ardoccans had engineered the system with characteristic efficiency. Using FENGU laborers, they established an industry that did not merely operate on Hollien—it worked on this part of the planet. The entire rationale for populating it was utilitarian: to deploy colonist FENGUs across a wide spectrum of labor roles, each assigned according to sub-species, physiology, and environmental adaptability.
They were industrious little helpers, tireless and compliant, lacking both the temperament and cultural inclination to protest their condition. Complaints were rare. Organized resistance was nonexistent.
There were no aspiring independence movements among the FENGU species. None had ever taken root. The Ardoccans had chosen their labor stock well.
Humans, by contrast, were present only in small, tightly controlled numbers—employed exclusively for specialist tasks where their ingenuity or adaptability proved useful. There had never been any intention to populate Hollien, or any Ardoccan-controlled world, with humans in significant measure. Their independent tendencies gave them inefficient risks.
Why encourage future problems when obedience could be bred, selected, and maintained?
The personnel were quartered aboard the TEVLOE, and at the end of their first night they would return there once more. Vol-Staka was not a place for visitors to settle lightly; even those granted access were expected to withdraw from it when their duties allowed.
Housing within the city consisted of specially constructed habitations scaled for Ardoccan physiology, though most of the residential space was designed for the FENGUs. They were housed in regulated districts, assigned to supervised companies operated under Ardoccan authority, their lives arranged around shifts, quotas, and compliance.
The dwellings themselves took the form of circular pods, clustered along both the inner and outer rims of the massive spiral blades that rose skyward from the swamp. From a distance, the city resembled a colossal, rotating instrument—each habitation a node in a larger mechanism. Higher still, construction continued unabated, cranes and scaffold-lines silhouetted against the haze as Vol-Staka extended itself upward in deliberate increments.
At some point, the ascent would have to end. There were limits to what even reinforced foundations could bear in the saturated marsh below. In truth, the reason was simpler.
Enough FENGUs were already in residence.
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A Meeting ... or two.
Oblika held his pre-concert meeting as he always did. The assembled entourage gathered within the TEVLOE’s crew lounge, a space normally reserved for transit briefings now repurposed for ritual.
Present were the four members of the ‘Star Band’: Patrick, sealed behind his ‘Day Mask’; Mark, draped in his shimmering robes; and Mike and Neil in their customary jeans and tee-shirts, practicality favored over spectacle. Their boots had been weight-adjusted once more to compensate for the surface gravity of Hollien, a small but necessary concession to performance.
Nearby stood the three female FENGU dancers and all four of the male ones, their posture subdued, expressions uniformly glum. Performance nerves were common, but there was something heavier in the air tonight.
Clustered beyond them were the working elements of the operation: several FENGU road-crew team chiefs; the ever-present TAI, accompanying the group for medical oversight of the band members; a handful of local FENGU stage chiefs; and a small contingent of Ardoccan officials assigned to Vol-Staka. The locals’ input would prove invaluable. The Swamp Bowl stage was smaller, tighter, less forgiving, and those who lived here understood what would function best. They knew the rhythms of the place—what the city tolerated, and what it did not.
No one missed the ‘Maestro’. The absence felt deliberate, even welcome, and the overall mood remained cautiously positive. Gradually, the dancers began to lighten, some exchanging gestures of reassurance as the tension eased.
As many as could wore their translator helms. For those without, Oblika would provide translation himself. He always did.
["Call to order! ALL LISTEN UP."], Oblika boomed. ["HERE is the Schedule!"].
Then loud clicks erupted from his mouth part for the benefit of the FENGUs in attendance. And this was how this meeting would continue, slow and laborious. The FENGU 'Roadcrew' clicked some questions and responses towards Oblika. And he duly replied. This was acting as a Bottleneck, but the ‘Star Band’ Members were mindful of how the Local FENGUs were behaving, looking for tell-tale signs of frustration. Some of them were exchanging glances and the looks were not ones of happiness.
Also, in this pre-concert meeting were some of the local Stadium crew chiefs, to assist with equipment Set-ups and placement. Oblika translated their questions and concerns to the group. This meeting would take a while.
["Right after this meeting, we will begin shuttling the equipment down to the surface, to the Stadium, and removing this equipment onto the landing pads at the Swamp Bowl,"] instructed Oblika.
The FENGU 'Roadcrew' clicked some questions and responses towards Oblika. And he duly replied. Oblika was acting as a Bottleneck to the smooth flow of this meeting. The ‘Star Band’ members watched the local FENGUs carefully, gauging the cadence of their clicks, the angle of their stares. Some glances were exchanged — not angry, but tight, measured, as if patience were a resource being quietly spent.
There was the question of Security. Heavily armed Ardoccan guards had begun to appear — not filtering through the stadium but moving with purpose. A troop carrier had disgorged them in silence, and they took positions behind the stage, forming a hard perimeter where the structure overhung the swamps. This was a screen being held between the Stage performers and the Wild swamplands beyond. The screen faced outward, not toward the crowd. Whatever it was meant to stop, it was not expected to come from the seats.
Why? The 'Star Band 'Members had to pose this question to Oblika.
["Security reasons"]. Was all he offered. That was not a sufficient answer for the Band. Oblika did not elaborate. The clicks did not follow. The perimeter remained where it was.
The questions that the Road Crew — those who had travelled with them from Jellsius IV to Hollien Alpha — put to Oblika were sound ones. The ‘Star Band’ listened patiently through the translations, aware that these loyal, experienced little helpers had stood beside them through every concert thus far, across two different worlds.
Yet none of them had any answers as to why armed Ardoccan Star Marines — the elite Celestines — would be required at a rock concert.
Why here? Why now?
Was there something Oblika already knew — something he was choosing not to share with his entourage? The thought settled uneasily among the band.
Mike spoke up first. His translator helm was set to loud; the I.A.S. Tevloe’s crew lounge possessed good acoustics, but he wanted his questions carried clearly, to reach not only Oblika, but every FENGU present.
“Bars, why the heavy security positioning at the swamp’s edge?” Mike asked.
Oblika inclined his head.
[“Well, yes — there is the question of swamp worms, indeed. A good concern, Mike.”]
“The big ones?!” Mike pressed.
Oblika paused — only briefly.
[“No, not quite. It is possible that a number of smaller species may be attracted to the lights, vibrations, and noises generated by a concert of your kind. There is the possibility that these could coalesce into clumps and slither out of the swamp. Security will be on hand to vaporize any such concentrations.”]
Mark spoke next, his tone carefully neutral.
“And the tunnels, Bars?”
Oblika answered without hesitation.
[“The tunnels are out in the deeper swamps, Mark. There are very few.”]
“But there are some, Bars?” Neil asked urgently.
Patrick remained silent. Still self-conscious in his day mask off-stage, he avoided drawing attention to himself during the meeting.
Oblika continued, his voice measured.
[“There may be some smaller tunnels, true.”]
Neil did not let it go.
“How small?”
[“I don’t know, Neil. Look, lads… I haven’t been here for a lifetime. I honestly don’t know. It’s not as if I live here, is it?”]
Oblika’s tone had hardened; irritation crept through the translation, defensive now rather than explanatory.
“No. But they do…” Mike said, gesturing toward the local FENGUs — the stadium chiefs — those who had not looked surprised at any of this.
Oblika’s patience snapped.
[“OKAY! Let us get back on track, shall we”]. His voice rose, sharp and dismissive. [“I am holding this meeting to discuss the stage show. The song list. Scheduled times for special effects — pyro, sound, and lighting matters.”]
He swung his right arm-claw toward the band.
[“I am holding this meeting primarily for you. Not to discuss… worms.”]
There was a pause — deliberate.
[“We are taking the maximum of precautions. So let us put an end to this.”]
The discussion was closed.
It was clear there were aspects of the situation Oblika was simply unwilling to address.
The briefing continued. The concert schedule was agreed upon. Local crews were assigned to assist the ‘Star Band’s’ own FENGU roadies: positioning lighting rigs, placing speaker towers, synchronizing pyro effects to the song list’s flow. Timing would be everything.
The correct planning was imperative — even if some dangers remained unspoken.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The meeting drew to a close. The ‘Star Band ‘dispersed to their quarters aboard the Tevloe, each of them carrying the same unspoken sense—that more had been left unsaid than resolved.
The FENGU dancers would once again open for the Star Band, performing for two Earth-hours before a brief intermission. That pause would allow the stage crew to position the band’s musical equipment across the smaller stage.
Below, the tour’s stage crew and local chiefs were already heading planet-side to begin unloading the lighting-rig skeleton frames and to finalize which light sequences would be deployed. Each venue on the tour had demanded greater complexity in setup, but the smaller auditorium of the Vol-Staka Rotunda forced a rare retraction—less equipment, fewer options, tighter compromises.
All involved were FENGU. Though regional variations affected size and form, their shared language ensured a clean, universal stream of communication.
The band’s FENGUs felt a palpable relief in their freedom from the ‘Maestro’s’ yoke. His bullying and intimidation were not missed. In its place grew a cautious optimism— even moments of joy—among the touring FENGUs.
Still, the loss of one of the female FENGU dancers lingered heavily over the troupe, an absence felt as keenly as any sound left un-played.
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Back in their quarters, Neil convened a small gathering. Their FENGU helpers and roadies had already departed for the transport bay, riding along on a pair of plain, boxy TEVLOE shuttles.
“Okay, fellas—I don’t know what was going on with Oblika in that meeting. We’ve done this pre-show routine plenty of times, but we’ve never had our questions and concerns rebuked so openly. Not like this.” Neil shook his head. “What are your thoughts?”
“Evasion,” Mark replied immediately. “I got the sense he knew more than he was letting on. I can’t tell whether we’re being deceived or simply dismissed—but being shut down at the one moment we’re meant to ask questions? That was wrong.”
Patrick spoke next.
“Lads, I stayed quiet during the meeting, but I was watching the local FENGUs. I was trying to see if there was something about them that felt… alarmist.” His tone was measured, deliberate.
He hadn’t been alone in that.
“I noticed it too,” Mike added. “Their awareness was elevated. They were vocal—just not with words. Patrick’s right.”
“Me as well,” said Mark.
“Yes,” Neil agreed. “I saw it too.” He paused, then asked, “So we’re agreed—we need a private audience with Oblika?”
“Yes,” Mark said bluntly.
“Absolutely,” Mike followed. “Especially if he expects us to accept an armed security presence without explanation.”
“You betcha, fellas,” Mike confirmed.
“We’ll catch him during setup at the Vol-Staka Rotunda and get his lowdown then,” Neil said.
“Agreed.”
“Yes.”
“You bet.” All three answered in unison. “Now we’d better get packing,” Neil added, already shifting into motion. “We need to move our stage gear down to a shuttle. Time’s short.”
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Down the shuttle deck below, the four bandmates—along with a handful of FENGU attendants—made their meandering way through the lower decks. The internal structure of the I.A.S. Tevloe was still being reinforced, with maintenance and construction ongoing. Navigating the corridors, hallways, and stairwells of the repurposed, ancient freighter had become a constant challenge.
One thing they were all keenly aware of: the ship could no longer draw maximum power from its modern engines. The compromised frame simply wouldn’t tolerate it.
The fate of the I.A.S. Tevloe remained uncertain. Would she become a stationary hulk, bristling with firepower and locked into permanent orbit around Hollien Alpha? Or would she be relegated to the slowest vessel in the Eastern Fleet—fit only to serve as a glorified garbage scow?
Tevloe was far older than she had ever been meant to be, long past obsolete, and still stubbornly flying.
Mike, Neil, Mark, and Patrick folded themselves into the shuttle’s narrow bucket seats, knees too high, shoulders pressed in. The seats had clearly been designed for smaller bodies—Fengus, maybe, or juvenile Ardoccans—not full-grown humans carrying instruments, gear, and fatigue. The molded frames bit into their backs with all the sympathy of industrial plastic.
This was Tevloe standard issue. No frills. No polish. Just function.
‘Tartak’-class freighters carried eight of these medium shuttles as a matter of course, squat and boxy, built to haul cargo and personnel without complaint. They smelled faintly of recycled air and machine oil, their interiors scarred by years of use. These weren’t vessels you admired; they were vessels you endured.
The ‘Silver Machine’ was nowhere to be seen.
No sleek curves. No whisper-quiet engines. No luxury shuttle from the Quelmy Stadium Joppolis City Tour—the one that had made them feel, briefly, like they mattered. That ship had vanished from their orbit entirely.
The band didn’t need to be told why.
With the Ardoccans now at war with another empire, the Silver Machine would be busy shuttling Fleet Staff Officers, envoys, and assets that counted. The Star Band had been quietly, efficiently downgraded, relegated to the machinery of logistics, another line item in a system that had more urgent concerns than music.
The shuttle’s hatch sealed shut with a heavy clunk, final and indifferent, and the engines began their low, grinding rise toward launch.
These box-like shuttles were rated to carry around thirty human-sized beings, a dozen Ardoccans, or fifty to sixty Fengus. Seating came in mismatched tiers and dimensions, barely half the interior given over to bodies; the rest was reserved for bulk cargo—crates, equipment, and whatever else needed moving more than it needed comfort.
Their shuttle was packed to the ceiling.
Concert and stage gear filled every spare corner, strapped down in dense, rattling stacks. Lighting rigs, coils of cable, and sealed equipment cases crowded the aisle. Fengus roadies and attendants wedged themselves wherever there was space, perched on cargo restraints or crouched between crates. The Star Band occupied the few remaining seats not already claimed by equipment.
Their personal instruments were lashed in place with deliberate care.
And then there was Patrick’s stage mask.
Encased, padded, and secured as if it were a living thing, it sat among the cargo with almost ceremonial importance. Leaving that behind was never an option—no matter how tight the space, no matter what else had to be sacrificed.
As the occupants settled into their seats, an overhead instruction light flared to life in the galley.
Strap in. Descent imminent.
Moments later, the outer doors sealed. A sharp hiss tore through the shuttle as pressure equalized against the cold vacuum beyond the sally-port. The deck shuddered—metal answering metal—then steadied.
Three shuttles were dropping on this run.
Colonel Oblika rode in one of them, accompanied by Specialist TAI and a small, deliberate entourage. Cargo filled what space the personnel did not—crates locked down, mass carefully balanced for atmospheric entry.
The third shuttle carried something else entirely.
Star Marines.
Celestial Guards.
Celestines.
Seconded to Hollien Alpha’s Eastern Fleet security forces, they packed the compartment wall to wall—personal effects, battle tech, weapons secured but unmistakably present. Too much hardware for a simple show of force.
That was the question hanging in the air, unspoken but shared by the bandmates:
What did their concerts require a military contingent for? Celestines weren’t decorative. They were deployed when something was expected to go wrong.
Whatever was coming, Oblika knew.
And the moment they hit the surface, that conversation would happen—whether he was ready for it, or not.
Silence gripped the shuttle, broken only by the low, constant vibration of its four engines thrusting upward—power held in check, waiting.
Those with window seats watched as the inner bay doors began to part. Beyond them, the outer doors already stood open, framing a split vision: the obsidian black of open space, clean and absolute, bisected by the brilliant arc of Hollien Alpha below—its curve ablaze in reflected light from the Hollien Sun.
Mike and Neil had the best view; faces turned toward the glass.
For Mark and Patrick, it took effort—aisle seats, necks craned against the bite of their restraints, catching fragments of the world beyond as the shuttle crept forward.
It wouldn’t matter for long.
One by one, the shuttles began to clear the hangar, easing out into open space. As they did, every seat became a window—and the planet filled their vision, vast and unavoidable, waiting beneath them.
“Take a look at that, lads!” Neil said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“Wow…” Mike breathed. “What a magnificent world.”
He was fully enthralled.
With the way now clear, all eyes stayed forward as the first two shuttles eased through the double bay doors. They drifted out into open space, then tipped nose-down, beginning a slow, graceful arc toward the glowing world below.
By the time the shuttle carrying the Star Band cleared the outer bay doors and committed to its descent, the cabin flooded with light. Brilliance poured through the viewports, stark and sudden after the darkness of the hangar.
The shuttle rolled gently to starboard, aligning its trajectory. As it did, the black ring of deep space above them slipped away, dropping behind the glass. In its place rose the sunlit immensity of the exoplanet—vast, radiant, inescapable.
Ahead, the first two shuttles were already falling, reduced to small black pinpoints against the glow, accelerating as they plunged toward the surface.
The shuttle carrying the Star Marines would break off, routing directly to Vol-Staka Rotunda Stadium to deploy alongside forces already in place.
Oblika’s shuttle—and their own—would continue to pre-designated landing pads within Vol-Staka Spiral City. From there, a separate structure had been prepared: quarters for the four musicians and their entourage, secured for the nights they would spend in the city.
Everything was planned.
Every trajectory accounted for.
And as the planet swelled in their windows, it was impossible not to feel that once they touched down, nothing about this visit would be casual.
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Oblika and TAI’s shuttle made a brief stop at the complex where the band and their entourage would be housed for the next several days. The accommodations formed a clustered sprawl of dwellings about half-way up the height of the city, seemingly balanced along the edge of a massive fin—one of the great spirals of Vol-Staka—jutting out over the city below.
Adjacent to the cluster lay a broad apron of landing pads, wide enough to receive several shuttles at once, their surfaces scored and darkened from repeated atmospheric burns.
Half of the road crew was already planet side, deep into preparations at the stadium. Oblika’s stay in the city itself would be short—just long enough to see the band and their people checked in and secured. After that, he intended to descend to the surface proper to oversee the stage build with the remaining Fengu roadies.
Word was that Aza-Kap would be with him as well—the diminutive lizard-man, pyrotechnics savant, and walking violation of several safety codes.
The band’s shuttle descent seemed to stretch on forever.
The star-scattered void bled into deep blues, the darkness thinning as light pressed in from above. Night yielded, reluctantly, today. Blue skies bloomed across the viewports as the shuttle bit into the planet’s atmosphere.
No matter how many worlds they touched down on, the band never grew accustomed to moments like this—the beauty of re-entry, the promise carried in alien skies, the sense of endless adventure still waiting ahead.
They were the fortunate ones.
The blessed. Or perhaps they were something else entirely—
the chosen… and the cursed.
Lower and lower the shuttle descended.
Mike and Neil watched in fascination as the cloud cover parted, and a gigantic, corkscrew-shaped structure rose into view—its upper reaches piercing the highest clouds like a needle through fog.
As the haze thinned, the world around it revealed itself. At first, only fragments appeared: dark patches breaking through the cloud layer. Then the high veil tore away entirely, unveiling the astonishing landscape below.
A vast expanse of green and shimmering wetlands spread outward in all directions—liquid and marshland interwoven, glinting in the light. From this height, it seemed to rise toward the city itself, threatening to engulf the slender spiral that struggled to assert its presence within an endless wasteland.
The spiral dominated everything.
A city grown upward instead of outward—coiled, defiant, and alive.
Those who witnessed the scene could only imagine what lay hidden in its deepest, unexplored reaches—what watched, what waited, far below the surface.
This was not a tamed world. This was a true frontier. And they were descending straight into its heart.
“I see those two black dots ahead of us—they’re headed for the Spiral City too,” Neil remarked.
Mike nodded.
“Yeah. It looks like it. We might catch up with Bars when he lands—if he’s still on the pad by the time we touch down.”
As the shuttle bled altitude, the city below resolved from abstraction into motion.
Vol-Staka’s spiral megastructure rose out of the swamp like a colossal drill bit; its corkscrew tiers crawling with light and traffic. This was only one such city in the Otachoga Region—a swamp-belt province stretched tight along Hollien’s equatorial latitudes—but from the descending shuttle it felt endless, a single machine devouring the horizon.
Air lanes braided around the structure. Cargo skiffs slid between platforms. Service lights flickered in vertical chains along the city’s finned spine. Far below, the swamp steamed and shifted; its murk broken by refinery flares and the slow crawl of harvesting rigs.
Vol-Staka was alive—
not merely occupied, but working—every tier humming with purpose as the shuttle closed the final distance toward its landing pad.
Sliding into view beneath the shuttle were the ‘skimmers’ and the ‘Floaters’.
Long, narrow craft—some little more than reinforced decks wrapped around humming grav-engines—drifted through the lower airways in loose, aggressive packs. Others were massive, modular beasts strung with cargo pods and fuel bladders. They were crewed by adventurous Fengus and independently minded Ardoccan freebooters, drawn here by rumors and appetite alike, hungry for contracts, thirsty for profit.
As the band’s shuttle continued its descent, the craft carrying the security detail peeled away from Oblika’s escort. It broke formation cleanly and slid down along the outer curve of Vol-Staka, dropping toward the lower tiers and the stadium’s dedicated landing pads far below.
The separation was precise.
Deliberate.
Whatever awaited by the band at the Swamp-Bowl, security was already there—on the ground, in position, and ahead of them.
War was coming to Hollien again. Everyone knew it now; that news had spread like a wildfire on this frontier. The Otachogan skies buzzed with the sound of a boom being born.
The Empire’s shift to a war economy pressed hard on the swamp-belt workers, but it also cracked the door to opportunity. Fertilizers for expanded food worlds. Raw ores. Trace rare elements leached from swamp weed and black mud. Vol-Staka and its sister cities were being pushed to deliver more—faster—and for the first time in cycles; that pressure translated into rising demand and even higher pay.
Mike and Neil watched the traffic slide past the viewport as Oblika’s shuttle remained ahead of them; its profile grew larger as it throttled toward the landing pads.
Moments later, their own shuttle adjusted course, easing into formation and mirroring the descent. The spiral city loomed closer now; its tiers peeling past in slow, deliberate arcs.
Inside the cabin, an overhead beacon pulsed to life—an amber symbol strobing against the ceiling panels. No one needed to ask what it meant. Landing sequence.
The band shifted instinctively. Hands checked cases. The straps were tightened. Each of them took a quiet inventory—not just personal gear, but of the equipment that mattered to the mission ahead.
If everything went according to plan, they’d soon find out why Vol-Staka warranted such a heavy security presence.
And if it didn’t—
they’d already brought everything they were going to need.
The shuttle banked left and eased down toward a marked position square—one of six reserved bays set into the landing pad’s broad fin.
The Engine's rumble softened as thrust bled off, but the craft began to shudder as crosswinds clawed at it, high above the swamp. The spiral city funneled the air into unpredictable currents, buffeting the shuttle hard enough to make the deck plates tremble beneath their boots.
Then—contact.
A short, decisive jolt ran through the hull as the landing struts locked in place. The ever-present hum of the four thruster pods dropped in pitch, then faded as power drained away.
Silence followed.
They were finally down.
The overhead light flashed again—this time green.
Seat restraints released with a series of soft clicks, the universal signal to stand by and prepare to disembark. The shuttle’s interior lights brightened a fraction, casting hard reflections across instrument panels and flight cases.
Through the forward viewport, Oblika’s shuttle remained stationary on the pad ahead. They weren’t rushing.
It became clear that Colonel Oblika and his company intended to wait—letting the band exit first.
An arrival team sprang into motion the instant the shuttle door hissed open.
On the adjacent craft, Fengu roadies were already moving—gathering cases, hoisting crates, and filing down the passenger ramp onto the pad in a tight column of porters. No wasted motion. They knew about this routine.
The band followed fast. Personal bags, instruments, and—handled with particular care—Patrick’s mask was rushed out with the help of the Fengu attendants, along with the remaining musical gear, and onto the exposed surface of the landing pad.
The wind hit them immediately.
It tore across the spiral city at this altitude, savage and unrelenting, whipping thin clouds across the pad in frantic streaks. The temperature dropped sharply, biting through clothing, and the air carried a damp chill laced with a moldy stench—rotting vegetation rising from the swamps far below.
Vol-Staka did not offer a gentle welcome.
Waiting on the landing pad was TAI; shoulders hunched against the wind; his expression fixed somewhere between irritation and disdain. The gusts tugged at his coat and headgear, and he made no effort to hide his displeasure.
Behind him loomed Oblika.
The Colonel stood immovable; a towering silhouette wrapped in black battle armour, its surface dull and predatory in the cold light. The wind seemed to break around him rather than move him—an anchored, menacing presence that required no comment.
Nearby, a cluster of Fengu roadies huddled together for warmth, shielding one another from the worst of the blast. These were Plains and Pastoral Fengu from Jellsius IV—smaller, slighter, and far less hardy than their Hollien Alpha counterparts. Unaccustomed to the altitude and the cold, they shivered openly, their discomfort plain.
Completing the tableau, a delegation from the Vol-Staka City administration stood ready—formal, watchful, and clearly eager to welcome the four members of Star Band to their city.
The sooner they were all off this damned landing pad, the better.
Among the delegation now engaged with Oblika—clearly deferring to him as the band’s official point of contact—were several Ardoccan officials. They wore long yellow robes, the fabric snapping and streaming violently in the wind, pressing flat against their frames as they struggled to maintain composure.
Even wrapped in ceremonial color, they looked small up here—voices carried away by the gale; authority diluted by altitude—while Oblika remained unmoved at the center of it all.
Neil shot Mike a look—sharp, disapproving. Then his gaze swept to Mark and Patrick, the latter already wearing his public day mask. No one needed to say it. None of them wanted to spend another second exposed on this deck, battered by the cold and the screaming wind.
Mike leaned into the gale and raised his voice.
“Let’s get into shelter, for Christ’s sake, Neil!” He shouted, words torn at the edges. “If it’s like this down at the stadium, we’re in real trouble.”
Neil nodded once. Agreement was instant.
At that moment, one of the Ardoccan officials in a violently flapping yellow robe stepped forward. The creature extended a left arm—ending in a segmented claw—in what was clearly intended as a formal greeting.
The band’s translation helms were active, but the civic delegation wore none of their own. What spilled from the official’s mouthparts was blind chatter; syllables whipped away by the wind before they could fully form.
Neil caught only fragments from the closest one—
just enough to know they were being welcomed.
Just barely.
[“Welcome, Humanz,”] the official said at last. [“I am Russus Klu-bak Yonoy, Prefect of Vol-Staka City and overseer of mining operations in this region. We have followed your successes… and anticipated your arrival keenly.”]
The words came out stiffly, awkward even through the translation helm, as though each phrase had been rehearsed and re-rehearsed.
Neil inclined his head and did his best to respond in kind.
“We’re happy to be here,” he said. “I’m Neil. This is Mike.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Mark. And Patrick.”
He touched his chest as he spoke his own name, then pointed to each of them in turn, letting the translators catch up and lock the associations in place.
Russus nodded politely, as if the names were already familiar to him. He stepped closer and extended his clawed hand to Patrick, shaking it with careful formality while studying the musician’s mask with open curiosity, his head tilting slightly as he did so.
Then the Prefect turned back to Neil. With a broad sweep of his arm, he gestured toward the rest of the delegation—and with a second, more emphatic motion, toward the exit ramp leading off the landing pad.
Shelter. Warmth. And, unmistakably, onward business.
Everything remained cordial. Everyone stayed polite.
But words, stripped of context and clarity, were torn away by the wild, foreboding wind—spent almost as soon as they were spoken, sacrificed to the air and utterly lost.
The group began moving toward the building set into the outer edge of the pad.
Mike glanced sideways at Mark and broke into a grin.
Poor Mark.
He loved those robes the Fengus had first presented to him back on Jellsius IV—his choice, proudly so. Today, though, the shimmering garment had become liability. The fabric snapped and ballooned wildly, flapping behind him like a crazed drag parachute on a jet back home.
His bandmates watched with open amusement as Mark wrestled the robe into submission, struggling to keep it from betraying his modesty.
And on a day like this— there was no doubt he felt the cold more than any of them.
The poor sod.
Oblika’s booming voice cut cleanly through the wind. With a sharp gesture, he called the band to his side, and together they moved quickly out of the gale.
The party passed through a broad doorway and into a reception area carved into the structure itself. The change was immediate—still air, warmer, carrying the scent of prepared food. Tables had been set out with refreshments, carefully arranged in what was clearly meant to be a welcoming display.
Several representatives of the local Fengu workforce waited inside as well, ready to meet the band.
None of them wore translation helmets.
The omission struck Mike as odd. Considerable effort had gone into receiving them, and yet communication—the most basic courtesy—was completely absent.
What, he wondered, do they think we’re going to do? Break into one of our cover tunes and sing our introductions?
Did they honestly believe the band communicated exclusively through music?
Last he checked, they still talked.
They didn’t announce themselves by singing.
It was only a fleeting thought.
After all, they hadn’t come here to socialize. They were here to play—to entertain. Not to hobnob with creatures they barely understood, on a strange superstructure rising out of the worst part of an alien world, run by officials who might well be corrupt and quietly profiting from their performance.
Music was the job. Everything else was noisy.
The tables were overflowing with the bounty of Hollien. Platters sagged beneath heaps of glossy produce and steaming dishes. Some offerings were recognizably agricultural. Others were unmistakably local.
Dominating the main table was a creature that looked disturbingly like a sea serpent—or perhaps a colossal eel. It lay stretched across a bed of sparkling vegetation, its length easily twelve feet, its body segmented into precise slices along the spine. The flesh glistened, clearly cooked; steam rising faintly from between the cuts.
Arranged along its length were smaller platters: vivid fruits split open to reveal jeweled interiors; jars of sharp-smelling pickles; neat blocks of white, red, blue, and green cubes pierced with slender sticks. Bowls of thick stews emitted savory vapors.
And then there were smaller delicacies.
Several dishes contained writhing, multicolored things of various lengths and thicknesses—coiled, glistening, very much alive.
Worms? Perhaps.
Breads and layered pastries, at least, looked familiar—reminiscent of the Fengu feasts back on Jellsius IV. Whatever the officials lacked in shared language, they more than compensated with hospitality. The message was unmistakable:
Eat. Be honored. Be impressed.
The band was gently ushered toward the feast, and the relief was immediate. No wind. No biting cold. Just still air and warmth wrapped around them like a blanket.
And, truth be told, they were more than a little peckish.
They were encouraged to take triangular platters from a neat stack at the corner of the nearest table and circulate at their leisure, selecting whatever caught their interest from the spread. Nearby, smaller tables had been arranged with seating for diners to settle in and eat.
The band exchanged faint smiles. It wasn’t so different from a buffet back on Earth.
Whatever differences separated their species, hospitality clearly translated well. The Fengu of Hollien proved every bit as generous as those they had known on Jellsius IV. For a moment—plates in hand, surrounded by unfamiliar aromas and alien faces—the reality of it settled over them.
They were impossibly far from home. And somehow, still welcomed.
Oblika drifted up beside the band as they queued along the laden tables, plates in hand. Despite the armor, he moved with surprising ease, looming comfortably among them.
His helmet retracted just enough to expose his face, and a broad grin spread beneath the harsh interior lights.
[“Hello, lads!”] He boomed. He tapped the side of his own translation unit and glanced around at them.
[“Can you all hear me?”]
The question cut cleanly through the low hum of conversation and the clink of serving utensils. Even here—indoors, among food and warmth—Oblika carried the atmosphere of command with him.
“Yes, Bars,” Neil replied evenly. “We’re on the common channel.”
He tapped the rim of his translation helm to confirm, the faint indicator light pulsing once in acknowledgment.
The shared frequency settled between them—private enough to cut through the room’s noise, public enough for coordination. For the first time since stepping off the shuttle, the conversation felt controlled.
“You bet, Bars,” Mark said.
Patrick and Mike confirmed in turn, their indicators flickering green inside their helms.
[“Good,”] Oblika replied. [“Then I’ll identify a few of these for you.”]
He extended an armored arm, claw gesturing smoothly across the spread.
[“First—some you’ll recognize from Jellsius. Those fruits are there. The breads. Several of the stews. Safe territory”.]
The band relaxed a fraction. Then they moved along the table. They reached a row of platters filled with writhing worms—thick and thin, short and rope-long, colored in sickly violets, jaundiced yellows, bruised blues. Every one of them very much alive.
The sight stopped them.
Spoon-like serving utensils jutted from the rims of the platters. Those embedded among the worms trembled and wobbled as the creatures coiled and struggled beneath them. The metal clinking faintly against ceramic.
Exotic. Undeniably fresh. And thoroughly… revolting.
The thick slices carved from the so-called sea serpent—eel or otherwise—were clearly cooked. Seared along the edges, tender at the center. In effect, steaks.
The band watched as the Ardoccan officials helped themselves without hesitation. No grimacing. No ceremony. Just an appetite. And it didn’t look half bad.
One by one, they took the plunge and lifted a slice onto their plates.
‘When in Rome’… Mike thought. ‘Do as the Romans do’.
It was a sensible move. No one wanted to give offense—not here, not now.
Beyond that first show of courage, most of them played it safely, gravitating toward foods they recognized from Jellsius IV: breads, fruits, familiar stews. Predictable was good. The predictable was safe.
They were due on stage in only a few Earth hours. Of all nights to experiment recklessly with alien cuisine, this was not the one. The last thing any of them needed was to be sick before showtime.
The serpent meat was… surprisingly clean.
Not fishy. Not oily. Somewhere between swordfish and veal, with a faint mineral brightness that lingered on the tongue.
Mike chewed slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured through the translation helm, keeping his lips barely moving. “I don’t hate this.”
Across the curved reception table, Russus Klu-bak Yonoy’s double-lidded eyes focused in a gentle sequence on each member of the Band. The Prefect stood rather than sat — a posture of honor, or perhaps vigilance.
Oblika remained poised beside him; hands folded behind his back, stance relaxed but unmistakably command present.
[“The Sea Serpent,”] Russus said, his voice resonating like wind through stone columns, [“is traditionally consumed before events of triumph. It symbolizes momentum through turbulence.”] A polite diplomatic beat.
Translation helms hummed softly. The locals watched, fascinated, as the Band’s words appeared as cascading glyphs along the inner surfaces of the hall’s light walls.
Neil leaned slightly toward Mike.
“Momentum through turbulence,” he muttered. “That’s either inspiring, or a warning.”
“We should ask that security question soon, Neil.” Mike ventured.
Oblika had taken it upon herself to discreetly identify which offerings were safe for sampling—and which were better admired from a diplomatic distance.
The most intriguing to the Band were the arranged spirals of multi-colored sausages laid out across heated stone platters. They ranged from deep garnet to saffron gold to an almost luminous teal. Steam rose from their lacquered skins in fragrant ribbons.
[“These,”] Oblika murmured, [“are considered celebratory.”]
The casings were crafted from layered proteins rather than intestine—translucent, faintly iridescent. Inside, the fillings were dense and marbled: blends of aged cheeses with finely minced meats. Some had been twice-barbecued—first slow-cured over mineral coals, then seared again at intense heat to seal in their oils. Others had been steeped after grilling—pickled either in sweet, nectar-thick reductions or in sharp, spice-heavy brines that carried a faint metallic tang.
Specialist TAI leaned closer, studying the cross-sections.
{“Okay… that’s ambitious”}.
[“Most contain eel variants,”] Oblika continued, [“combined with Macro-Worm muscle”].
Mike hesitated mid-reach.
“Clarify ‘macro,’ Bars”, he asked.
[“Significant,”] Oblika replied evenly. [“But not analogous to terrestrial earthworms”].
Oblika adjusted the translation output, likely softening the terminology.
[“These species possess structured musculatures. They are not soft-bodied detritivores, nor slugs. Their tissue density is comparable to… game meat”].
Patrick gave a cautious nod.
“So. ‘Steak-like’ worm. Interesting.” Patrick commented.
[“In essence”].
The Band exchanged glances. This was still safer than the visibly writhing platter.
Mike selected a small medallion slice from one of the twice-barbecued varieties. The exterior snapped lightly beneath her teeth. Smoke. Salt. A surprising sweetness from the cheese. The interior was firm—almost like chorizo crossed with smoked eel, with a faint mineral depth that lingered but did not overwhelm. He exhaled and was relieved.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s not horrifying.”
{“High praise,”} TAI muttered.
Across the hall, several Vol-Stakan officials observed their sampling with composed interest. Not intrusive, but curious.
The food here was not merely sustenance; it was calibration. A measure of adaptability. Of trust. Of how far visitors were willing to step across the unfamiliar without surrendering control. And tonight, the control mattered. The concert waited.
After selecting a careful assortment from the buffet, Oblika guided the Band toward a nearby dining table set slightly apart from the main reception flow. It offered enough distance for privacy, but not so much as to suggest secrecy. Diplomacy, not concealment.
They arranged their dishes before them—serpent medallions, slices of twice-barbecued sausage, familiar fruits, and dense breads.
Oblika waited until they were seated before turning her gaze to Neil.
[“I will brief you on the security situation, Neil”].
His tone was even, but there was a narrowing of focus in his compound eyes that made it clear this was not casual conversation.
Neil nodded once. He had suspected as much. Standing at the buffet, he felt the subtle brush of his awareness—an almost imperceptible pressure at the edge of thought. Oblika had undoubtedly sensed the collective undercurrent running through the Band: performance anxiety was one thing. Security on an alien world was another.
“We had been wondering about that, Bars,” Neil said evenly. “There wasn’t much chance to ask before.”
[“It is a legitimate concern,”] Oblika replied. [“And an appropriate one. Let us address it”. They settled in.
The seating arrangement formed itself almost ceremonially.
Mike positioned at one end of the row—anchor, as always. Mark beside him, then Patrick, then Neil at the far end. To Neil’s left sat Oblika. Beyond him, angled slightly outward, was Specialist Vendius TAI.
The center of the table held several heavy vessels containing thick pastes and crystalline granules—seasonings, perhaps, or biochemical enhancers. Steam rose faintly from some of them. The chairs, clearly designed for Vol-Stakan physiology, were cavernous. The four bandmates sank into them almost absurdly, legs barely touching the ground; arms swallowed by curved rests that had not been intended for human shoulders.
Mark adjusted himself and muttered, “I feel like I’m five.”
Patrick’s boots swung once before he stilled them. Ironically, the only two seated with perfect ergonomic alignment were the Ardoccans.
Oblika and Vendius TAI—tall, black, angular, their locust-like forms folding neatly into the sculpted recesses—appeared entirely at ease. Their elongated limbs rested naturally against the contours of the chairs. Their posture was composed. Controlled. Predatory silhouettes at a banquet table. The visual contrast was almost comical.
Almost.
Vendius TAI did not touch his food. His compound eyes scanned the hall in slow, methodical arcs. Oblika leaned slightly toward Neil.
[“Your performance platform is secured at three concentric levels,”] he began. [“Visible security is minimal. Covert presence is not”].
The hum of this Spiral City vibrated faintly through the floor beneath their feet. The feast continued around them. But at this table, the atmosphere shifted. From hospitality—To strategy.
Oblika rested both upper hands lightly upon the edge of the table. The ambient murmur of the reception flowed around them; Utensil chimes and low-toned alien harmonics blending into the steady hum of the Spiral City.
[“Well,”] he said evenly, leveling his gaze across the four of them, [“regarding these heightened security precautions — I shall continue”].
The Band stilled.
[“Three principal reasons,”] Oblika went on. [“First: we are now formally in a state of war with the Vastian Galactic Empire”].
The words were delivered without flourishing. But they landed.
[“This renders your presence here — and our association with you — strategically visible. It renders all of us ... vulnerable and exposed”].
Neil leaned forward slightly, elbows on the too-wide armrests.
“Is this a changing reality, Bars?” He asked. “Something that could shut this mission down?”
[“Not at this time,” ] Oblika replied. [“However, … I do not pretend to see the whole horizon”].
He allowed that to sit.
[“This is our third war with the V.G.E. They are… considerably larger. Their industrial reach spans eighteen established Sectors already, and expanding into another possibly soon-to-be, five more! They are already four times our own size, and set to grow even bigger--so, we cannot hope to match this, blow for blow. Their fleets can absorb losses we cannot afford. They may continue hostilities for decades — perhaps centuries on and off. They are currently in 3 different Wars—and yet feel the need to take another lunge at us in addition?!”].
The Spiral City’s low resonance seemed to deepen beneath their feet.
[“Our own resources are finite,”] Oblika continued quietly. [“Measured. Accounted for. We do not possess the luxury of endless conflict”].
Mark shifted in his oversized seat.
“So, what you’re saying,” he said carefully, “is we’re playing in the middle of something that could go on forever.” Mark’s eyes grew wider at that moment.
Oblika inclined his head.
[“I am under no illusion that we can prevail through attrition alone”].
A pause.
[“Unless,”] he added, almost thoughtfully, [“a transformative event was to occur”].
He looked down for a moment — not defeated, but calculating. Then he remembered the setting. The audience. The optics. His Mandibles clicked slightly, and a deliberate brightness entered his posture.
[“But you must not appear glum,”] he said lightly. [“We are among allies. And we are very much on display. I can afford to look worried as I feel like I have the weight of the Galaxy upon my Armour, but you... you are our entertainers. It looks bad to see you, unhappy”].
He gave them a sharp, almost conspiratorial grin.
[“So… smile”].
Patrick blinked once, then immediately flashed an exaggerated showman’s grin that bordered on parody. Unfortunately, no one could observe it, as it was beneath his Mask. Mike chuckled under his breath. Neil shook his head slightly —his ’Day Mask’ wobbling, tension easing but not dissolving.
Across the hall, a pair of Vol-Stakan dignitaries were indeed observing them. Vendius TAI had not moved. War. Visibility. Finite resources. A transformative event. TAI was a wounded and soul-damaged survivor of one previous War. He was well aware of what they were up against.
The words lingered in the air between bites of eel, and twice-barbecued sausage. And somewhere beneath the city — far below the landing platforms and reception halls —Something vast shifted in the dark.
Patrick adjusted slightly in his cavernous chair, the faint shimmer off his ‘Day Mask’ headgear catching the prism-light overhead.
“Bars,” he began, measured but confident, “we’re gaining popularity. A lot of it is the music, sure — but it’s also the energy. The spectacle. And maybe…” he tilted his head slightly, “…the Mask doesn’t hurt.”
Mark rolled his eyes faintly but didn’t interrupt. Patrick continued.
“In a war climate like this — morale matters. We’re a booster, aren’t we--no?”
There it was. Not ego. Strategic awareness. Oblika regarded him carefully.
[“An excellent observation, Patrick,”] he said. [“Morale is a resource. Frequently underestimated. Frequently decisive”]. He folded his upper hands together.
[“There are currently two other ‘star bands’ under Pioneer Corps patronage. They operate in separate sectors, performing in styles native to allied worlds. Their funding and logistical support mirror your own”].
The Band exchanged quick glances.
“We’re not the only show in town.” Mark muttered.
[“Correct,” ]Oblika said smoothly. [“However, their reach is… comparatively modest. Their FENGU audience growth has ... plateaued. Your trajectory, by contrast, continues to rise at an exponential rate”].
Neil’s brow furrowed slightly.
“And?”
[“And,”] Oblika continued, [“with your distinct Human ‘Rock and Roll’ idiom — your percussive emphasis, harmonic aggression, rhythmic drive — you have begun resonating across species lines in a manner ... we did not fully anticipate”].
He allowed the word to resonate. To linger.
[“If current projections hold, you will eclipse the others entirely within two planetary cycles. At that juncture, resource allocation becomes… rational”].
“Meaning?” Patrick asked.
[“The Pioneer Corps may consolidate cultural funding. It would be inefficient to divide support among acts of diminishing strategic impact”].
KAI exhaled softly.
{“So, the other bands get cut”}.
[“That is the likely outcome,”] Oblika confirmed. [“You are poised to become culturally significant beyond entertainment. You are becoming symbolic”].
The word hung heavy. Mike had been listening quietly, fingers resting against the edge of his plate.
“That’s a logical projection,” he said at last. “But simple logic doesn’t always survive contact with economics.”
Oblika’s gaze shifted. Mike continued.
“You’re in a resource war. Finite supply. Massive enemy. If things tighten enough, morale projects are usually the first to go. Symbol or not.”
There was no challenge in his tone. Just realism. Oblika studied him more intently now.
[“You believe we may prioritize munitions over music”].
“I believe,” Mike replied calmly, “that when survival math starts getting ugly, art has to justify itself harder than weapons do.”
A faint silence settled over the table. Vendius’ eyes flicked once toward Mike. Not dismissive. But in Assessment.
Oblika inclined his head slowly.
[“You are not incorrect”].
The Spiral City thrummed faintly beneath them again.
[“But understand this,”] Oblika added quietly. [“In prolonged conflict, civilizations do not collapse solely from military defeat. They collapse from internal erosion”].
Mike leaned forward slightly.
“Music prevents erosion”. That landed differently. Not propaganda. Doctrine.
Across the hall, laughter rose from another table. At this one, the calculus of war and art had just been quietly rewritten.
[“That can be true… Mike. Mark”].
Oblika’s voice shifted — not stern but pointed.
[“Smile, you two. We are on display every bit as much as those dishes over there”].
Mark blinked once, then forced his posture upright.
Mike inhaled and let seriousness dissolve from his expression. Within seconds, the four of them were beaming with almost theatrical brightness — teeth, nods, casual gestures — the well-practiced ease of performers who understood that perception was currency.
Across the hall, several dignitaries appeared reassured. The performance had already begun. Oblika allowed a fraction of a second to pass before continuing; tone lowering just enough to remain private beneath the ambient noise.
[“Secondly,”] he said evenly, [“there exists credible concern of another assassination attempt”].
The word did not echo. It simply settled.
[“We have already intercepted one destabilizing effort — the individual we referred to as the ‘Maestro.’ His methods were indirect. Psychological. Opportunistic. He was just plain ...nasty].
Patrick’s grin faded first. Neil leaned slightly forward.
“What of him, Bars? Any news?”
[“None,”] Oblika replied. “He has gone to ground. Disappeared into Hollien’s interior territories”].
Vendius TAI’s mandibles flexed almost imperceptibly.
[“He maintained commercial contacts here,”] Oblika continued. [“with Traders. Cultural brokers. Those who traffic not only in goods… but influence”].
Mark’s jaw tightened.
“So, he’s still in play?”
[“Undoubtedly, minus one arm and a blasted face, hopefully. I expect he will lay low for a bit, lick his wounds, then attempt to get off this Planet”].
Oblika’s compound eyes dimmed slightly as if recalling something distasteful.
[“He sampled accessed privelege. Indulged excessively. His appetites exceeded discretion. That is how he exposed himself”].
A faint ripple of restrained disdain passed through his posture.
[“Predators who gorge lose stealth”].
Mike exhaled slowly.
“And now?”
[“Now,”] Oblika said, [“he waits. Or recalibrates. I am leaving the Security services here to mop him up the next time he makes a spill”].
The Spiral City’s low resonance vibrated through the table legs.
[“He may attempt another manipulation. He may attempt a spectacle. He may attempt martyrdom”].
Neil frowned.
“Martyrdom?”
[“If he cannot control narrative,”] Oblika replied calmly, [“he may seek to destroy it”].
That sat heavier than the word assassination had. Vendius spoke next, voice dry and precise.
{“Sniper vectors have been mapped. Structural breach contingencies are active. Crowd-flow suppression protocols are in place”}.
Patrick glanced toward the distant landing platform entrance.
“You’re expecting a firefight, at a rock concert?”
[“We are expecting unpredictability,”] Oblika corrected gently.
He shifted his gaze back to the Band.
[“But you must not appear to expect it”].
Across the hall, a Vol-Stakan official raised a glass toward them.
Mike lifted his own in return. Still smiling. Still radiant. Still marketable. War, predators and political destabilization — all wrapped beneath stage-ready charm.
And beneath the Spiral City…the hum continued.
“Yes, the Quelmy Towers was a fiasco for us all,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Especially the food… AND the poor dancer. She had no chance. The show must go on — with five now.”
They forced a short chuckle. That was the spirit. Even here — war, assassins, pirates — they defaulted to gallows humor.
{“Even I found it distasteful,”} TAI added dryly. {“And I will eat pretty well ANYTHING… but Worms”}.
That did it. Their laughter became genuine for a moment. A few nearby dignitaries glanced over, reassured by the levity.
Oblika let it ride before continuing.
[“The situation with the ‘Maestro’,”] he said, lowering his voice just enough, [“was that he turned out to be what we call a ‘twin-player.’ As you would say — Double-Agent”].
He leaned back slightly, more conversational now.
[“He was working with the Rallian Pirates. And the Pirates are Vastian allies. So… friend of a friend of our biggest enemy”].
Mark gave a low whistle.
“And did he give you anything useful?” Neil asked.
[“Nothing we did not already suspect,” Oblika replied, with a faint grimace. [“No locations. No fleet numbers. No operational details. No technology data. Nor about who was paying him. His dealings were focused almost entirely on what THEY could do for HIS Zart smuggling. We have some of his accomplices—so we can ‘flip them’ for information”].
TAI’s mandibles clicked faintly.
[“At first,”] Oblika continued, [“we believed him to be a big worm in a small pool”].
He paused, letting the metaphor hang.
[“As it turned out… he was a small worm in a much larger one”].
Mike grinned broadly.
“Well said, Bars!”
“That about sums up that LOSER, Mike,” Neil added.
More laughter. More smiles. Across the hall, the optics were perfect. At their table — camaraderie. Elsewhere — influence.
But beneath the humor, something had sharpened. The ‘Maestro ‘hadn’t been some flamboyant nuisance. He’d been connected. Protected. He had locally enabling ‘Helpers’.
Backed by pirates aligned with a galactic empire currently at war with the Ardoccans. And he was still somewhere on Hollien. Waiting.
Oblika watched the Band carefully as they laughed. He genuinely liked them — their energy, their ridiculous Earth slang, their refusal to stay solemn for long. He’d studied their culture for years. Old Westerns. Rock documentaries. Naval dramas. He understood morale. Understood myth. Learned from Mankind ...Humanity.
And if they succeeded here — truly succeeded — it would not just help the war. It would help him. A successful cultural operation under wartime conditions carried weight. Weight that could translate into command. From Fieldwork, back into Warships. Into battle.
Avenge his Family.
But that future required tonight to go smoothly. There is one more reason for the security presence. And this one… was less political. He tapped the table lightly.
[“No great loss,”] Oblika said with a small shrug. [“We can find another organizer with his skills. Minus the nefarious agenda”].
A few faint smiles lingered.
[“And lastly — and more importantly for your situation — are these Worms”].
That did it. The air shifted.
[“The ‘Shadow Man’ approaches,”] Oblika continued, his tone lowering. [“And with its proximity to Hollien Alpha, even the simplest creatures on this planet are rising in reactive resistance. They are claiming the lives of our colonists”].
The warmth left his expression. This wasn’t politics now.
This was personal.
[“I will elaborate,”] he said. [“There are twenty-two known species of Swamp Worm catalogued so far”].
The mirth vanished from the Band’s faces. This was the part they had been waiting for.
Not pirates. Not assassins. This. Oblika gestured subtly toward the buffet.
[“The largest specimens are believed to be rare now. Hunted heavily. Pushed toward extinction. But they are not ALL gone”].
He tilted his head toward the massive serpent centerpiece.
[“That one, for example”].
They all looked. The twelve-foot eel-like creature glistened under the hall’s prism-light.
[“Now that is a juvenile,”] Oblika said evenly. [“Note the silver patch behind the cranial ridge. That marks early-stage development”].
Mike blinked.
“That’s a baby?”
[“Yes, and you have all eaten a bit of it”].
He let that sit for a moment.
[“They grow one hundred times that size”].
Silence. Patrick stopped smiling entirely. No one could tell.
Mark’s jaw set.
[“The remaining giants,” ] Oblika continued, [“are believed to have retreated into the deep-water tunnels and cave systems that crisscross the Swamp Zones. Particularly in the Otachoga Region”].
He paused.
[“Which is… here”].
The low hum of the Spiral City seemed to deepen beneath them.
Neil swallowed.
“You’re saying there are—”
[“Yes,”] Oblika said quietly. [“There are”].
Vendius TAI finally spoke again.
{“Seismic activity in the lower marsh substrata has increased in recent cycles”}.
Oblika nodded once.
[“The Shadow Man’s approach is not merely strategic or political. It alters ecological patterns. Sound. Vibration. Energy fluctuations. The biosphere reacts”].
Mike glanced toward the distant landing platform doors.
“And we’re about to run ... a Rock Concert.”
“With amplified bass,” Patrick muttered.
“With Glitter Balls, Lazers, Light blasts, Glowing Orbs... “Mike trailing off, suddenly aghast.
“AND THUNDEROUS PYRO!!” Gasped Neil. “If that won’t attract something!?”
Oblika met their eyes, one by one.
[“Yes”].
No drama. No embellishment. Just truth.
“I feel like I want to throw up!” Uttered Mark, the Band’s loud Drummer suddenly not so loud.
[“I would at least wait until we were away from that lot, Mark”]. Oblika subtlety indicating the nearby Officials.
“What the hell have you gotten us into, Bars!” said Neil, under his breath.
[“Not I, Neil. The ‘Maestro’ organized it”].
Patrick stared at him.
“GREAT. We are all gonna die then.”
Oblika steered the discussion back to the worms.
[“Basically,”] he began, lowering his voice, [“the negative auras projected by this invasive… shadow entity has begun agitating the central nervous systems of our worm populations”].
He paused briefly, choosing words they would grasp.
[“It is rather like raising the temperature beneath them. Slowly. Relentlessly. Their natural instincts are being overridden — replaced with a heightened state of self-preservation”].
The Band listened closely now.
[“They are receiving biological overload signals,”] Oblika continued. [“Impulses to react. To strike. To resist perceived disruption”].
He gestured subtly toward the vast city around them.
[“In practical terms — they are acting out against our activities. Gathering vessels have been attacked. Mineral storage sites breached. Harvesting platforms destabilized. Casualties have occurred”].
The word hung there. Casualties. Intrigued — and sobered — the Band leaned in further.
“So, they’re not just reacting to noise,” Mike said quietly. “They’re reacting to… us.”
[“Yes,”] Oblika replied. [“The Shadow Man’s presence has unsettled the ecological balance. The worms are not coordinated in any strategic sense — but they are agitated. And agitation at scale becomes danger”].
He let that sit.
[“It is, therefore, a race against time. We perform these remaining gigs while conditions are still allowing it. We play for the workers. We reinforce morale. And then we depart Hollien Alpha as soon as possible”].
No grand speech. No sugar-coating. Just a plan under pressure.The table fell silent. Each of them processed it in their own way. The laughter from moments earlier felt distant now.
[“We shall complete the three concerts here at the Swamp Bowl,”] Oblika said steadily. [“After that, we return to a secure location on Hollien and await authorization to proceed with the Tour”].
He let that land before continuing.
[“The Pioneer Corps is stretched thinly. We are currently distributed across eight of our ten Fleets in active deployment. Resources are… strained”].
No one joked now.
[“Our initiative — what we termed the ‘Immunity Campaign’ — was conceived long before the present shift in the fortunes of war. Its purpose was simple: counter the encroaching Shadow entity through resilience, morale, unity”.
He paused, then added quietly:
[“That mission’s credibility is now under threat for a review”].
[“Our relevance,”] Oblika continued, [“is being re-evaluated”].
Silence followed. That was the real tremor beneath the table.
Not worms. Not pirates. But ...Irrelevance.
The possibility that the Tour — their abduction, their transformation, everything — could be scrapped in favor of full military escalation. Open warfare over cultural resistance.
Patrick stared at the table.
“So, we’re a pilot program,” Mark muttered.
“Or a failed experiment,” Neil added under his breath.
Oblika held their gaze.
[“In saying this,”] he went on, softer now, [“your unexpected success is being closely observed. It is… a new phenomenon. A variable not predicted in our initial models, or planning”]. He allowed a faint smile. [“A whisper of something larger”].
Mike watched him carefully.
“Larger how?”
[“Perhaps,”] Oblika said, choosing his words carefully, [“there exists a way to employ you in the war effort on a level beyond performance. Influence is not limited to concert halls”].
There it was. Not just morale. Strategic leverage. Cultural weaponry. Oblika realized, even as he spoke, that he might be revealing more than protocol permitted. But they deserved to know. They were no longer passengers. They were assets. And assets needed context.
[“This information is not widely circulated,”] he admitted. [“But you are entitled to understand the stakes. Tonight, may prove either a validation of this mission… or its final demonstration”]. No theatrics. Just honesty.
[“It could end the Tour,”] he said quietly. [“Or it could secure it”].
The hum of this Spiral City seemed suddenly louder. Fifteen thousand FENGU would gather. The broadcast would reach Earth. The worms were restless, and the War was expanding. And the Band — absurd, brilliant, human — sat at the center of it.
[“The security down at the Swamp Bowl is two-fold,”] Oblika said, his voice darker now. [“To protect you — and prevent any enemy attempts to disrupt the mission… or to kill you”]. He let that sit only a fraction of a second. [“And to fend off the Worms”].
No one smiled at that.
[“I have full confidence the Marines can handle the worms,”] he added. [“So does the crew of the I.A.S. Tevloë”].
TAI inclined his head.
{“I concur with Colonel Oblika, lads,”} he said evenly. {“And so does Captain Glepko”}.
That name carried weight. Fleet weight. Heavy metal in orbit. The Band absorbed it. The comfort of perhaps tracking Orbital guns above. Marines below. Worms beneath. And a new War is beyond.
[“Anyway,”] Oblika said, deliberately lightening his tone, [“I hope this conversation has been useful for us all”].
He glanced toward the surrounding officials.
[“We should eat — lest they assume we have taken issue with the Feast”].
That drew a few reluctant grins. He leaned back slightly.
[“After this, we check into your accommodation nearby. Then we take a return shuttle down to the Stadium to begin preparations”].
He nodded toward the distant landing platform.
[“The shuttle you arrived on is almost certainly already at the Swamp Bowl being unloaded”]. That was practical. And Grounded.
With that, the six of them turned back to their plates. Serpent medallions. Twice-barbecued sausage. Bright fruits. Alien bread. They ate.
They smiled when eyes were cast upon them. They nodded politely to passing dignitaries. But the mood at their table had shifted. They were no longer guests. They were participants. In a war. In ecology, and maybe now in politics. In something far larger than a concert.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONG AGO PREDICTED.
The group located a spare shuttle positioned along the inner landing ring — engines idling, ramp lowered, awaiting their descent to the surface below.
Oblika stepped aboard first, followed by the Band. Several of the FENGU road crew from Jellsius joined them; equipment cases already secured in magnetic racks along the shuttle interior walls.
They would travel to the Vol-Staka Rotunda Stadium together.
Specialist TAI, however, would remain behind in the Spiral City. His assignment was to oversee the Band’s pre-reserved accommodations and ensure their post-show security was airtight. He did not appear displeased by the separation.
The five remaining dancers — along with the majority of the FENGU road crew — were already at the Stadium. Lighting rigs were being calibrated. Sound arrays were undergoing harmonic testing. Pyro modules were armed and safeties. The dancers were running through their choreography across the vast stage platform; their movements sharp and disciplined beneath the high floodlights.
Below them, the Swamp Bowl simmered in a late-cycle haze. The absence was noticeable. The sixth dancer. The unfortunate casualty at Quelmy Towers.
Applications to fill the murdered Dancer ‘Petal’s’ vacant position had already climbed into hundreds. Word of the Tour’s rising popularity had spread rapidly across allied systems. Fame was gravity. But vetting would take time. Thorough screening. Background tracing. No more hidden “twin-players.” For now, they would perform with five.
The ramp sealed with a muted hydraulic sigh. The shuttle lifted smoothly, gliding away from the elegant curvature of the Spiral City.
Through the viewport, the Swamp Zones stretched outward — dark water channels reflecting fractured light, clusters of mineral platforms jutting from the marshlands like metallic reefs.
Mike watched the landscape in silence. Somewhere out there were deep water tunnels. Caves. It was the Otachoga Region. Juveniles, but perhaps something much, much larger. Mike pondered this and moved restlessly in his seat; all were deep in thought as they took in the views below.
Beside him, Oblika stood with hands clasped behind his back, posture steady.
[“If there is any comfort,”] he said lightly, [“it is that the Swamp Bowl is reinforced”].
Neil exhaled slowly.
“That’s not actually comforting.”
The shuttle began its descent.
Below, the Stadium lights glowed like a beacon against the wet, breathing dark. And the hum — faint but growing — seemed to rise to meet them.
The day was stretching toward long shadows. The Stadium lights were already on — early. The landing lights on the pad below were never off. Safety protocol. Always illuminated against the creeping marsh haze.
The shuttle descended through a thin veil of vapor and touched down with a smoothness that spoke of seasoned pilots. Not even a jolt. Professional hands at the controls.
The place was alive.
FENGU workers were already arriving in steady streams, gathering near the sealed gates, claiming positions in patient clusters. Their garments shimmered in muted tones beneath the artificial glow. Some carried small light wands. Others waved banners bearing the Band’s emblem.
The short ride down had been scenic — deceptively peaceful. Now the scale of the Swamp Bowl has made itself known. The Stadium was not positioned directly beneath the Spiral City as some had expected. Instead, it sat nearer the outer edges of the Swamp Zones — where firmer mineral ground rose slightly above the marshland channels.
Strategic, perhaps. Or simply practical. The entire complex had begun its life centuries earlier as a Temple of Worship, to the Swamp Gods.
The landing pad stood directly before the structure — broad, reinforced, floodlit. From there, it was no more than a two-minute Earth walk to the main access corridor. Past the vast, cup-shaped seating terraces that curved upward in layered arcs, like gigantic petals one had to walk between to access the Stage area.
Fifteen thousand seats. Fifteen thousand voices. Beyond the Stadium’s perimeter lights, the swamp stretched outward into a deepening shadow. Dark water, and low mist. A perfect place to conceal subtle movements beneath the surface.
Mark stepped down the shuttle ramp and inhaled. It was a warm and humid day; his Robes reflected the light from today’s sun, trying vainly to penetrate the day.
“Smells like wet metal,” he muttered.
Mike looked out toward the swamp edge.
“And something else.”
Oblika descended last, scanning the perimeter automatically.
Marine units were already visible — discreet, but present. Armored silhouettes stationed along reinforced pylons. Motion sensors embedded at intervals along the outer barrier. Prepared.
The evening air felt heavy and charged. Not hostile. Not yet. But alive.
The Band formed up on the landing pad as the shuttle powered down behind them.
More FENGU roadies hurried over, some saluting Oblika briefly before moving straight to work. Equipment cases were unloaded in controlled chaos — instrument trunks, cable reels, lighting modules, and sealed crates containing smaller but no less essential pieces of stage machinery.
Patrick moved immediately to one particular case and took possession of it himself. Inside lay his stage mask. ‘The Mask of the Universe’. He did not let anyone else carry it.
They began walking toward the Stadium’s main gate.
A throng of FENGU fans pressed eagerly behind reinforced steel barrier lines, kept at bay by orderly ranks of Marines in dark armor. The fans’ clicking calls rose in a sharp, rhythmic chorus — high, metallic, riotous with excitement.
It stung the human ears. Excitement translated differently here.
From within the Stadium bowl, the throb of bass checks rolled outward in deep pulses. Occasional drum breaks cracked sharply through the air — tight, disciplined strikes from the FENGU sound technicians running calibration tests on Mark’s kit.
The structure itself loomed ahead.
Stage scaffolding networks were already fully erected, framing the span of the performance platform like the ribs of some enormous metallic creature. Banks of lighting units hung in layered tiers, angled toward the stage center.
A cluster of FENGU haulers tugged carefully on tension-ropes to adjust the primary light banks at the stage front, inching them into perfect alignment. And near the central rigging tower stood a small, upright lizard-like figure. This was Aza-Kap.
He held a prism-like instrument above his head with one elongated arm, peering through it with intense focus. His other arm remained stiffly raised, fingers adjusting angle by the slightest degree. He lowered the prism, gestured sharply.
(“A little right! No—back—left more—GOT IT!”) ....
The haulers heard his commands and obeyed immediately. Little Aza-Kap. Their Pyro Wizard. Deeply, and obsessively involved in his responsibilities.
Behind him, stacked in careful arrays, sat the pyrotechnic assemblies. Canisters. Igniters. Launch tubes. Thunder ... waiting for permission.
Mike watched the organized frenzy for a moment.
“Looks like we’re expected,” he murmured.
Beyond the stadium lights, the swamp shimmered faintly in the growing dusk.
“Look! There is Aza… aza…?”
“Kap. Aza-Kap, Mike,” Neil corrected.
“WOW! He looks like he really knows his stuff,” Mike remarked.
“He sure does, Mike — and he hasn’t failed us yet, has he?” Neil replied.
Before they could proceed through the Main Gate into the Stadium proper, a Marine Officer stepped forward. His blue battle armour caught the floodlights, polished and severe. He saluted Colonel Oblika crisply and leaned in with a short, urgent report.
Oblika’s posture changed instantly.
“Aza-Kap?” He asked. The Marine nodded.
They were led a short distance along the side rigging where Aza-Kap stood surrounded by partially opened lighting housings. Up close, the situation was worse.
While checking his pyro inventory earlier, Aza-Kap discovered something deeply wrong. Several of the stage light housings — specifically those designated for the ‘grand finale’ Encore burst sequences — had been tampered with.
Instead of large flash bulbs wired for synchronized illumination. Small explosive devices, Bombs, had been jammed into the sockets behind them. The flip of the finale switch would not trigger light. It would detonate.
Kap had caught it by instinct. Something about the weight distribution inside one housing had fallen off. He had opened it. And found the bomb. Since then, he had been methodically dismantling and inspecting each unit himself. Light after light. Housing after housing. He would NOT entrust this to the roadies.
Not this.
He had verified approximately half of the lighting banks as safe. But, checking them all properly would require another full day.
They did not have another day.
So, he made a decision. Every unit he had not personally inspected had been clearly tagged. Those banks would remain dark. The finale would run at half an illumination. No full burst. No maximum light storm. But no detonation either.
(“The show goes on,”) Aza-Kap said quietly, adjusting his prism device and snapping another housing shut. (“Just… not as bright.”)
Oblika’s eyes darkened. Deliberate and calculated sabotage. Not worms. Not ecological agitation. This was human-scale malice. Or Vastian. Or Pirate. Or Maestro?
Mike swallowed slowly.
“So,” he muttered, “someone really doesn’t want this gig happening.”
Oblika did not smile this time.
[“No,”] he said evenly. [“They do not”].
Behind them, the gates were beginning to open. The clicking of the FENGU crowd intensified. Inside the Stadium, the bass calibration thudded again. And beyond the outer floodlights, the swamp lay quiet. Waiting.
The Main Gate of the Swamp Bowl groaned open at last, and the FENGU workers began to pour inside — a low, clicking tide filling the vast interior tier by tier. The sound rolled upward into the rafters and drifted back down again like restless rain.
The Marine Officer who had delivered the warning moved off with controlled urgency, issuing quiet directives into his wrist comm. If the threat sharpened, every Marine on site would know within seconds. No one was treating this as a rumor anymore. The danger is shaped now. With Intent. Weight.
The Rotunda and Plaza were older than the city’s current memory. Long before seating terraces and sound towers, Ardoccan adventurers had made pilgrimage here, offering tribute to the Water Spirits said to dwell beneath the shallows. The swamp had always been part of the ceremony.
Now the stage stood directly above those same waters.
It rested on massive cement pylons driven deep into the marsh bed decades ago — pillars poured in an era of optimism and rarely inspected since. Beneath the boards and lighting trusses, beneath the cables and amplifiers, black water moved in patient silence.
Worm territory.
On either side of the ancient rotunda, two immense wing-shaped terraces rose in sweeping arcs — modern additions grafted onto sacred geometry. The site had evolved over centuries: from temple to civic forum, to spectacle arena. And now, once again, it was a place of worship — only the object of devotion had changed.
From the heights of Spiral City, far above the mist line, the entire complex resembled a colossal shirt laid flat against the wetlands. The twin terraces flared like raised collars. And at the throat — pulled tight over the dark — the stage formed a gleaming knot.
Three long ramps extended from that knot into the crowd below; narrow causeways thrust boldly into the sea of bodies on the floor level. Perfect for triumphant parades. Perfect for intimacy. Perfect exposure. The audience continued to flood in. The pylons held. The swamp remained quiet.
For now.
The five surviving FENGU dancers never left the stage.
Rehearsal bled seamlessly into performance. Their bodies did not distinguish between preparation and spectacle — the motion was continuous, disciplined, and ritualistic. They were accustomed to endurance sets lasting more than eight Earth hours. Two hours following a light warm-up was nothing. Breath is steady. The steps were precise. Faces are unreadable. They thought of their dead Dancer, ‘Petal’, but one could not tell, as it showed not in their performances. They did not know how close they had come to vanishing in light.
Backstage, the Star Band waited in professional stillness. Instruments tuned. Cables triple-checked. Power isolated and rerouted. Sound and mix engineers locked in at their boards. The road crew — all veterans moved with quiet efficiency.
Everything was ready. Everything was safe.
Now.
But the question hung in the rafters was heavier than any lighting rig: Who planted the bombs? One of the crew? A compromised tech? Or the Maestro himself — a final calculated act before his evening Soiree at the Quelmy Towers unraveled into chaos?
No answer surfaced. Only silence.
The devices had been hidden inside the lighting sockets — timed to ignite when the full rig powered for the encore sequence. Maximum illumination. Maximum voltage. Maximum casualties. A perfect ending. If not for Aza-Kap.
He had noticed the anomaly in the housing — the slight irregular weight shift, the misaligned casing seam, the scent of burned composite insulation that did not belong. He had followed instinct instead of protocol.
And because of that: The stage did not erupt.
The rig did not fall. The dancers did not burn mid-spins. The Marines did not have to fire into a panicking crowd. The concert will be held. Half-illumination.
Controlled grid. No encore surge.
Aza-Kap stood off to the side now, posture neutral, expression unreadable beneath scaled calm. Hero of the Day. MVP. Or M.V.R -Most Valued Reptile. He did not bask in it.
Because something else still pressed against the underside of the night. The ancient rotunda rested on pylons driven deep into the swamp bed — old foundations, older than city maps admitted. Beneath them lay saturated earth, pressure pockets, forgotten channels.
And deeper still: Territory. The swamp remained quiet. Too quiet.
The crowd's energy swelled toward ignition. Marines scanned thermal feeds. Engineers monitored load stress. The FENGU dancers entered their opening formation without hesitation.
Above: music about to begin. Below: something listening. Nothing had exploded. Nothing had collapsed. But the inhale was ending. And somewhere under the pylons, the water shifted.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
High above Hollien Alpha, cutting a silent arc through planetary orbit, drifted the I.A.S. TEVLOE. Once a cargo freighter. Now something else.
Her hull still bore the broad plating of a transport vessel, but beneath the refit lay Ardoccan war-grade systems: reinforced core shielding, dual heavy-mount rail cannons recessed along the ventral spine, modular missile bays concealed behind cargo armor, and engines that could outrun most patrol craft in a straight burn.
Support came in many forms. Transportation. Sustenance. Housing. And protection. Very serious protection.
Her detection arrays were tuned not merely for orbital traffic but for surface disturbances — electromagnetic spikes, unauthorized power signatures, and most importantly: Seismic anomalies. The swamp basin around the Swamp Bowl was under constant scan.
On the bridge stood Captain Glepko. Battle-hardened. Encased in black Ardoccan combat armor polished to a muted shine under the console glow. The armor was not ceremonial. It was powered, tactical, and active. He wore it because he never assumed safety. Not for himself. Not for his charge. The Star Band performed under his jurisdiction. That made them his responsibility.
He had been about to retire to his cabin to record a summary entry in the ship’s log — a controlled sabotage incident detected, neutralized, threat of origin unknown — when his second-in-command stiffened at the primary sensor station.
“Captain.” One word. Sharp.
Captain Horo Glepko did not turn immediately. He watched the forward Holosphere first — the blue curve of Hollien Alpha turning slowly beneath them.
“Report.”
“Subsurface tremor signature,” the XO said. “Not tectonic. Not mechanical. Patterned.” Glepko turned now.
“Bring it up!” Glepko ordered.
Duly done. The seismic feed bloomed across the bridge display — concentric pulses beneath the swamp basin. Too rhythmic to be natural. Too deep to be infrastructure. And moving. Vectoring toward the rotunda pylons.
“Depth?” Glepko asked.
“Below foundation grade. Beneath known municipal records.”
Of course it was. Another pulse rippled across the map. The amplitude increased. Down below, at the Swamp Bowl, nothing had happened yet.
The lights were at half-grid. The Marines were scanning outward. The crowd's energy was climbing toward ignition. The FENGU dancers were mid-transition into their opening formation. They had no idea. Glepko’s jaw tightened.
“Correlation with earlier anomaly?”
“Negative, sir. This is new.” New. Or awakened?
“Magnify.”
The feed sharpened — a shape formed in the tremor data. Not a single mass. Multiple and large. They were Co-ordinated.
Glepko made his decision instantly.
“Notify Hollien surface command and Vol-Staka council. All Ship’s stations to alert posture. Surface strike readiness Level Three. Do not engage without my command.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“And patch a secure line to the Marine detachment on site, AND Colonel Oblika. he’ll need to know.”
His eyes never left the moving pattern beneath the swamp. The sabotage had failed. The bombs had been discovered. But something else had been waiting.
“Log entry can wait,” he murmured.
Below them, the concert was seconds from ignition. Above them, a warship had just gone live. And beneath the pylons — The water shifted again. Harder this time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was subtle at first — a fractional tightening of step intervals, a sharper extension of limb, a quicker snap in the rotation of their torsos. But the change propagated outward like a signal pulse. The five FENGU dancers increased their tempo.
The backing musicians felt it immediately. The drummers answered first. Their palms and sticks struck harder, faster — complex interlocking rhythms folding into one another like overlapping heartbeats. Low drums thundered beneath the stage decking. Tight skins cracked sharply above it.
Then the horn blowers joined. Long curved instruments flared outward, releasing brassy, spiraled notes that cut through the swamp air and ricocheted off the ancient rotunda walls. The tones were not merely melodic — they were declarative. Some Instruments were of Earth’s origin, as Oblika had been stealing Instruments, not just for the Star Band, but ALL Musicians in these shows.
The FENGU Dancer’s support band — strings, oscillation boards, strange Hollien wind harps wired through half-power amplification — surged in layered harmony.
Volume climbed. Not reckless. Controlled. But rising.
The half-illumination grid cast angled beams across the dancers’ bodies, leaving parts of them in shadow while their movements strobed through gold and indigo haze. The reduced lighting created something almost ritualistic — not a concert. Be it a ‘seduction’ for some, while a ‘summoning’ for others. The crowd leaned forward as one organism.
The Marines along the stage ramps felt the vibration through their boots.
Up in orbit, seismic monitors spiked again. Down below, the stage began to hum.
The FENGU dancers pivoted into their second formation — tighter, lower to the platform; heels striking in synchronized percussive impacts. Each impact landed at an exact counterpoint to the deep drums. Strike, Strike,Strike.
Beneath the rotunda, the pylons absorbed the resonance. In the swamp water, small ripples began radiating outward from the foundation perimeter. No one in the crowd noticed. Not yet.
The tempo climbed again. The drummers doubled their patterns. The horn section shifted to a higher register — sharper, more piercing. The dancers leapt. When they landed together — the stage trembled. Not violent. But distinctly. Several Marines glanced at one another.
On the TEVLOE’s bridge, Captain Glepko watched the seismic readout spike in near-perfect synchronization with the rhythm from below.
“That’s not a coincidence,” he said quietly.
The pulses beneath the swamp were responding. Or matching. Or answering.
Onstage, the five dancers entered full performance state — no longer rehearsal energy, no longer measured pacing. This was an endurance ritual. This was an ignition.
The crowd began to chant in rhythm. Boots stomped. Hands clapped. Tens of thousands of bodies would create harmonic pressure against old pylons driven into older ground. Above: music accelerating. Below: something accelerating back. And still —Nothing has broken the surface. Yet.
The plan was simple. It was for the 'Star Band' to step right out onto the stage behind and alongside their dancers, as a signal of unity during a recent Show tragedy, as well as capitalize on the momentum the first Act had created and ride the energy of the crowd to greater heights. No division between species. No separation of spotlight.
Backstage, they waited in disciplined anticipation. They were not idle. They watched it. They assessed. They studied crowd energy, rhythm patterns, and the density of motion in each seating quadrant. The sprinkling of Ardoccan officials sat elevated in their reserved section — sparse but visible. The majority of Ardoccans present were Marines, posted along ramps and perimeter lines.
Colonel Oblika stood near the rear curtain. Arms folded. Mandibles still. Then his wrist Netcom vibrated. Encrypted and Ship-to-surface. He stepped aside into the shadow of a lighting truss and raised the device close to his jaw.
[“Oblika here”]. He listened, holding the Netcom device like a treasure. His mandibles snapped involuntarily.
[“WHAT?! A signal… close by too!”]. Bridge noise bled faintly through — clipped voices, sensor tones, Captain Glepko’s controlled cadence.
[“It cannot be… they were mostly annihilated. I killed one myself when much younger”]. More data is streamed in. Vector maps. Depth readings. Magnitude of projections. Oblika’s posture stiffened.
[“Heading towards where… the Stadium?!”]. His gaze shifted instinctively toward the stage floor.
[“The Marines, do they know?”]. A Pause.
[“GOOD. Getting their intel now… good. They will be ready; we will be needing them after all”]. Another spike of information. His eyes widened.
[“Do I stop the show? … It’s up to me? … THAT big a signal? Dammit!”].
He turned slightly away from the band, who were still watching the dancers and gauging the crowd’s tempo. A choice. Panic thousands — or risk thousands.
[“Okay… we’ll stop the first act. Throw in an interval. Assess the situation. Listen and observe… from our perspective. Right ... Right ...I’ll keep you on the line”] He forced a steady tone.
[“It’s going good here… No… just a glitch. A few bombs, that is all. Nothing a little sabotage won’t spoil… a few Bombs, you know ...YES, I AM being serious! It was detected. I will update you later”].
He ended the side-channel but kept the line open. Oblika exhaled slowly. This gig had been cursed from the beginning. Sabotage in the lighting grid. Unstable foundations. And now— A subsurface signal large enough to wake up orbital weapons. If they survived tonight without further incident, the final two shows would be cut. Cancellation tonight, was no longer thinkable. A coordinated effort was clearly underway to hamper this tour.
But the shows must go on. For the mission. For the band. For their fans. For the war effort. He reactivated the link.
[“Can we count on help from above, if all hell breaks loose down here?”]. A beat. A concerned Oblika was looking for a promise of last-ditch intervention. Then Captain Glepko’s voice — calm, armored in confidence.
["Thank you!! You have an Ordinance trained and ready! We'll keep on going till dawn then..."]. Oblika heard those words ring in his head. Ordnance trained and ready. He closed his eyes briefly.
[“Thank you. My friend”]. He straightened. We’ll keep on going till dawn…
Out on stage, the FENGU dancers were still in full acceleration. The Star Band stood ready to step forward. The crowd roared. Above them, a warship aligned its weapons. Below them, something moved toward the pylons. The interval will be called.
And Oblika had just decided to gamble.
The FENGU dancers don’t trigger the rupture. They prime the ground. The FENGU dancers hold their final pose — chests rising; limbs extended like living sculptures carved from motion. Their final sequence of crescendos — fast, precise, electric — and then they peel away in a disciplined retreat as the last drum strike echoes through the rotunda.
Lights dim. Crowd roars. Primed and ready to burst. A beat of darkness. Then—The ‘Star Band ‘are on!
A low guitar hum rolls across the Swamp Bowl like distant thunder moving over open water.
Backstage, the four human rockers step forward in unison. Patrick first, wearing his magnificent Mask- polished, angular, reflective — catching stray beams of half-powered light and fracturing them into sharp glints. The mask is no mere costume piece. It is a symbol. Survival. Continuation.
They’ve been called the “Star Band.” Not anymore. Tonight, they stepped into a fresh name.
‘THE STAR BURSTS’ ... Thus, giving them an Identity.
The name hangs over the stage in bold luminescent lettering.
Lights blaze on.
Not full grid — half the housing remains dark after the sabotage discovery — but even restrained; the illumination is formidable. Controlled beams sweep the rotunda. Shadows and light interlock across dancers and musicians alike.
The colossal speaker towers do not hesitate. They erupted. A wall of sound explodes outward into the swamp’s gathering dusk — bass rolling like artillery across waterlogged ground, guitars tearing through humid air, drums snapping sharp and commanding.
The first cover anthem crashes into life. No introduction speeches. No easing in. Just power.
‘FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK (We Salute You)’...
The opening riff detonates across the Swamp Bowl like artillery fire.
The colossal speaker towers hurl sound into the growing darkness. Bass rolls through the rotunda’s ancient stone. Drums strike with percussive authority — sharp, militant, defiant. The crowd explodes into synchronized motion. Hands and stumpy wings thrust skyward. Voices roar Earth-born lyrics into alien air. Boots pound. Thousands of impacts per second.
The FENGU dancers surge back into formation, weaving through the musicians. Their ritual precision is now fused with raw rock aggression. Their movements are sharper, more feral — hips snapping to snare cracks, heels striking at counterpoint to cannon-beat rhythm.
Precision meets ferocity.
Patrick leans into the mic. The Mask of the Universe gleams — fractured light scattering across its surface like miniature supernovas. Reflected beams ricochet into the audience. Faces flash, silver, white. Eyes blink against brilliance.
The chorus hits. The crowd detonates again. Half-blinded by the reflected lights, intoxicated by vibration and volume, they turn almost savage in their enthusiasm.
Then—The sound. A unified, continuous click. Tens of thousands of FENGU mandibles snapping in rhythmic unison. Not applause. Not chanting. A biological percussion wave.
Click-click-click-click-click—Relentless. It merges with the drum line, becomes a living extension of the beat. The stage trembles.
Marines along the ramps brace subtly, adjusting stance against the tremor building beneath thousands of feet. They were on edge-expecting trouble, but unable to tell where it would come, or when. Colonel Oblika watches from the wings, jaw tight; Netcom still warm in his grip. His eyes flick to the stage floor between bass strikes.
Above, in planetary orbit, Captain Glepko tracks the seismic feed as it spikes again in violent symmetry with the song's tempo. The surface vibration is no longer cleanly separable from the subsurface signal. Two patterns. One organic. One not. Now it's overlapping.
“Correlation threshold exceeded,” his XO murmurs.
Below the rotunda, beneath the pylons driven deep into the old swamp bedrock— The responding pattern changes. It accelerates. Not random. But in rhythm. The cannon-fire bridge of the song builds. Drums pounding like distant bombardment. Patrick raises his fist. The Mask flashes again. The crowd answers with a thunderous surge of clicking. The water beyond the outer pylons begins to pulse. Each drum strike sends concentric rings outward—Vibrations. Music has made the water move. Not ripple. Nor Pulse. But between the strikes, something pushes back. A deeper, slower thud. Heavier. Far older.
Onstage, no one has noticed yet. But the Marines feel it through their boots. Oblika sees a faint tremor in a hanging cable.
Glepko’s tactical display flares amber.
“Movement vector confirmed,” the XO says quietly.
“Approaching foundation perimeter.”
The final pre-chorus builds. Guitars are rising. Crowds at full frenzy. Boots hammering ancient stones.
Below—Something enormous shifts direction. And it begins to rise.
The song drives toward its final assault. Drums pound like war hammers. Guitars screaming high and metallic. Bass shaking the ribs of the rotunda. Neil’s voice cuts through it all—raw, triumphant and unrestrained.
The crowd is no longer cheering. They are participating. Boots and their claw-wear hammer on naked ancient stones. Beaks click in relentless waves. Claws and wings slash the darkening air. The sky has gone into a deep cobalt now, streaked with the last embers of Hollien’s sinking sun.
The final build. Drums roll... Guitars sustain, and Neil raises his arm --
“For those about to rock ...!” And then, the Cannons FIRE!
‘BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!’
Massive concussion blasts erupt on cue from the stage-mounted artillery simulators, angled safely skyward beyond the rotunda. Shockwaves punch outward across the swamp. Flashes of controlled flame burst in rhythmic sequence. Smoke plumes rise. The sound is colossal. It slams into the crowd like a physical force. And they answer with a deafening, unified clicking roar. Their first song ends in thunder.
Silence follows—Only for half a heartbeat. Then the Swamp Bowl explodes in cheery clicks. The ‘Starburst Band’ is grinning like conquerors.
Sweat and Adrenaline. Light flashes across Patrick’s ‘Mask of the Universe'. They are back in it. Fully burning and eager. They feel no fear, nor any foreboding. No sense of gravity for what could lie ahead. They are intoxicated – By Volume, by survival, by the roar of fifteen thousand screaming their names. And by their recent Fame.
The second guitar riff starts before the smoke is fully cleared. They do not pause; they do not breathe. They launch straight into the next anthem.
Behind the stage, Colonel Oblika does not cheer. He watches the smoke drift across the stage floor. The cannon concussions registered on his internal sense like something else entirely. Out in the Swamp –The cannon blasts did more than entertain. They penetrated. The water surface beyond the pylons shudders. Not from the shockwave—from below.
On the TEVLOE’s bridge, Captain Glepko watches the seismic display spike violently at the moment of cannon fire. Amplitude doubling. Depth signature rising.
“Impact response confirmed,” the XO said.
Below the rotunda, something enormous recoiled—then corrected. Then continued onwards.
Onstage, the ‘Starburst Band’ launches into the second song with hardly a pause.
The ‘Starburst Band’ are already deep into the next riff of their second Song that night. ‘SILVER MACHINE’; laughing, shouting possessed by their own brilliance. The crowd surges harder; the stage vibrates deeper. And for the first time---A fine crack appears along the base of an ancient pylon. Small, almost invisible ...but spreading. The music does not stop. The night does not pause. But the swamp has answered the cannons. And it did not salute back ...
The Band does not stay anchored to the main platform. They advance.
Lead singer Neil strides boldly down the middle ramp, microphone in hand, coat flaring behind him as the second anthem roars through their speakers. To his right, guitarist Mike takes the eastern ramp, fingers blazing across the fretboard as he walks. To his left bassist Patrick moves down the western ramp, the ‘Mask of the Universe’ flashing in fractured beams of stage light.
The crowd surges forward in a tidal swell of bodies and clicking beaks and mandibles, but the reinforced steel-mesh barriers—installed earlier at Colonel Oblika’s insistence—hold firm and check the onrush without visible aggression. The placement is tactful, subtle, and effective.
Now the Band is at eye level. Close enough to see individual faces. Close enough to feel breath and heat!
The connection between Earth Musicians and the FENGU masses becomes electric, almost volatile, as if the very air between them is ionized. Hand/claws and stumpy wings stretch towards them. Lyrics, or what passed for them, are shouted directly into Neil’s face. Patrick leans down, mask gleaming inches from grasping claws. Mike bends into a solo that screams across the swamp basin. New energy crests again ...
Above, the I.A.S TEVLOE continues its orbital sweep. Then – a Contact!
“Surface anomaly detected,” the Sensor Officer reports.
Far out in the deeper recesses of the swamp, beyond the rotunda outer pylons, a solid mass appears on the seismic grid. At first it registers as singular—dense, slow-moving, and deep.
Then two more signatures join it. The three shapes oscillate.
Their readings fluctuate in volume and density, expanding and contracting as if their mass is not fixed but shifting. They do not conform to tectonic signatures. They do not match mechanical profiles.
On the monitoring screens they appear unstable, writhing, almost breathing.
“Non-conforming objects,” the XO says quietly. “Variable geometry, Suggestive of organic composition”.
The masses change shape again. Merge slightly. Separate, then advance. Their trajectory aligns unmistakably toward the Stadium and its foundations.
On the bridge, Captain Glepko’s voice hardens.
“Confirm Vector.”
“Confirmed. Direct approach to the Stadium and the Pylons!”
Below, the Music pounds harder. Neil reaches the end of the centre ramp and drops to one knee, belting the chorus into a sea of upturned faces. The crowd roars back in ecstatic unity. Behind the stage, Colonel Oblika feels it first—not through instruments, but through instinct. A low-frequency vibration trembles through the ramp supports and into his boots.
Out in the swamp, the water no longer ripples. It bulges—driven by a huge hump of some kind. Three long disturbances cut toward the rotunda, carving dark furrows beneath the surface as if something massive is displacing entire channels of mud and water.
On the TEVLOE, alarms escalate from Amber to Red.
“Vertical acceleration increases,” the sensor Officer reports. “Impact with foundation projected in ---.” The estimate never finishes ...
Back on the ramps, Neil throws his arms wide, soaking in the frenzy, completely unaware that the swamp beyond the lights has begun to churn in widening, violent spirals. The three masses are no longer deep. They are rising. Faster... the pylons begin to resonate. Not from Music, but from below. And this time—the swamp is coming to the stage.
On the bridge of the I.A.S. TEVLOE, Captain Glepko no longer watched. He acted. He snapped open the encrypted Netcom channel to Oblika below and cut directly through secondary relays.
“Oblika. Emergency frequency. NOW!”.
Backstage, Colonel Oblika’s device shrieked with priority override. He answered instantly.
“Oblika here”. Glepko’s voice came clipped and absolutely.
“Three warning shots. Spread patterns. One ‘Earth mile’ from the stadium perimeter. FIRING IMMEDIATELY!”
The Colonel did not protest or argue. No time allowed that; he was expecting trouble and could read the signs. His worry was for his Band ...his friends.
High above Hollien Alpha, the TEVLOE rolled slightly in orbit, ventral batteries aligning with precise geometric coldness. Targeting arrays locked onto three converging subsurface vectors racing toward the rotunda, its foundations and well over fifteen thousand souls!
“FIRE!!” ... Three orbital lance rounds, fitted with disrupter Heads tore downwards.
They struck the swamp one mile out in a triangular spread. The night detonated!
Onstage, the Band faltered for a half beat—thinking it was part of the show. They thought Band that this was an immense Pyro. Special effect? An unknown portion of Aza-Kap's magical Pyro. Technical genius? But this was far beyond the scope of their Stage Show effects. This was something far different ...
The Crowd was over-awed by this dramatic spectacle and delighted to think it was all part of the Show! They even roared louder. Until the Power and sound went out!! Then silence prevailed ...their moods crashing in an instant!
They witnessed huge Blasts from across the tops of their heads on the terraces. To harmlessly sweep across the Stage and the water’s top, then detonate far out into these Swamps ...throwing immense columns of steam, mud and water and great flashes of green light skyward in three towering geysers as shockwaves blasted outward across the basin. Next followed by the concussion, as it rolled the Swamp Bowl like distant thunder multiplied by war. Then Panic set in ...
But on the TEVLOE’S monitors, the three anomalies did not scatter. They accelerated!
“Warning shots ineffective Captain, the XO reported. “Targets increasing speed. They will be upon the Stadium in seconds!”
Glepko did not hesitate. He drove his next order through the NETCOM.
“They are coming straight at you! ALERT the Marines! Back of stage horizon, coming in fast...first visible breach---open fire. No restraint. Give them hell!”
The Star Marines had heard the call—and some had even sensed the presence of danger far out in the swamps. Their own short-range monitoring systems had picked up seismic anomalies too, but without overhead recon intel, they were limited in seeing so much at ground level. The call from the TEVLOE and Colonel Oblika relaying crucial information changed all that. They had pro-actively posted squads around the perimeter of stage edges that overlooked the Swamps. They were waiting. Locked and loaded.
At the crashing of the incoming rounds—they all instinctively ducked for cover-but were up post detonation and ready for action. They heard Oblika’s relayed orders. Although he was not in command of them, they had enough respect to understand his experience.
Behind the stage, Oblika spun towards his own command unit, some Marines as liaisons, others from the TEVLOE.
“All Marine Squads, Swamp horizon at rear perimeter—weapons hot! First movement, you fire! Targets unknown, but hostile ...engage immediately!”
Marines pivoted as one toward the dark waters beyond the pylons. Safeties disengaged. Heavy rifles braced along defensive rails. Targeting beams flicked on and began scanning the surface tension of the swamp.
The water was no longer still. It was swollen. Waves crashed against the Stage edges—as the turbulence created by the Incoming rounds threatened to swamp the stage, sweeping Band Members, dancers, their crew and Marines alike away.
“Oblika!” Glepko barked through the channel, “Stop the gig. Cut the power to the stage. Evacuate NOW!” The rotunda shuddered.
Neil was still mid-chorus on the centre ramp. Patrick’s Mask flashed under pulsing lights. Mike’s solo screamed. They had no idea.
Oblika’s mandibles snapped shut with decision.
“Stage control—cut power! Kill the grid! EVACUATE THE RAMPS! MOVE!
The lighting grid flickered. Speaker towers screamed with feedback as power began dropping out in seconds. Half the Stage plunged into shadows. Crowd confusion rippled outward ... Another tremor hit! --Not from above, but from below.
The swamp surface behind the stage bulged upward in three massive, advancing ridges that tore through water and mud like submerged battering rams.
“CONTACT!” A Marine shouted. The first shape broke the surface.
“OPEN FIRE!"... Laser and ballistic streams tore into the rising mass as the power grid failed completely and the music died mid-riff. Darkness swallowed the stage, and the Swamp erupted.
The three large bulges could now be made out against the final glow on surface waters of the setting sun. They madly raced straight at the stadium and its support pylons. Ballistics of all varieties shot out across the water from dozens of Mrine positions, some out in the open, others firing heavier weapons from concealed positions off the sides and in over-looking towers.
TEVLOE’s overwatch was almost too late for direct support. But they would try.
On the ground, the Marine laser blasts were ineffective; they almost irritated these Anomalies rather than disperse them. These Marines needed something heavier than the popguns they were using against Monsters. They were grossly underequipped for this job! Their inexperience would fail them today.
These three bulges of power headed straight at them, then divided before impact ...the main one heading for the closest Pylon support, down the middle. The two smaller ones peeling off to the sides. This was an organized attack front. Almost upon their perimeter line, a lucky strike from two converging streams of fire broke apart one of the two smaller bulges, showering pieces of it into the air. It seemed to make a collective ‘hissing’ noise, as hundreds of large rope-like chunks spun up out of the water, glowing as they burned and somersaulting like thrown snakes head over tails ...on fire. This was the ‘First Blood’!
Too late, the outer perimeter has been breached. The Central Bulge racing at the Stage’s edge is the bigger of all three. The futile Marine Fire screen has little effect as the giant bulge rises above the water, and it is the appearance of a huge Worm, red, gnarly and extremely aggressive. The Marines fell back from the stage edges. They only number little more than one hundred and were spread very thin. Unable to hold the invading forces from the swamps, and unsure what exactly they were even fighting, they improvised to fall back to the Main Gates and maintain a line there.
There was always chaos in Warfare. The smoke, crashing waters from Starship gunfire, Fleeing FENGUs, the orders lost by pandemonium. The shouts and screaming, terrified clicking from thousands of leaping and herded Monkey-Parrots in full flight. Orders impossible to make out. Organization is no longer possible to follow.
The giant worm breaches fully and slams against a Pylon. Then it rears up and impacts upon a section of the closest Terrace seating. Cracking it away to spill hundreds of FENGU worker fans onto both the Stage and leaving many tumbling into the swampy waters now pouring in. The Stadium was beginning to break apart, falling masonry crashing down from the highest parts.
Neil is knocked over by the initial tidal flow from the explosions out in the swamp. He regains his feet and turns; he begins to run back up the ramp and towards the stage. This is when this centre ramp breaks in half and collapses under Neil’s legs. Again, he is up, dazed and panting with anxiety, now running for his life. He makes it back to the main stage in time ...moments to spare before the largest worm ever seen, surges upwards and crashes down upon the stage edges. Panic reigns all about him, he sees Star Marines racing past him, shooting behind them as they run. Terrified. Looking at the Drum –set fleetingly, Neil has a glimpse of Mark still on his Drum stool—falling through the platform supporting his drum station and disappearing into a chasm! Vanishing into the floor, in a swirl of glittering Robes and his long, dark hair ...it all looked like it was happening in slow motion and silence ...
The Marines had mostly formed up down at the Main Gates, and were now putting down a spirited Fire, blasting away at a different menace ...one of the anomalies was a huge, writhing mass of medium-sized worms. They were the species called Purple ‘Sentry worms’, and the Ball of many thousands of these was unravelling and coiled upwards like King Cobras, ready to strike. The Marines blew many of them into Smithereens! Many were just standing there, asking to be killed. Their agonized and frenzied attacks were making some lash out at the struggling FENGUs in the water, as others advanced onto the stage, Hissing and inflating themselves. The FENGU’s screamed, their blood mingling with the muddied waters of the swamp, and the spilled entrails of dying Sentry worms. The Marines sent many of these bloated twenty-footers to oblivion!
Mike had begun to run back up his own ramp towards the stage like Neil had. He made it back, skipping past half dozen obliterated Sentry worms that had blocked his escape—and while avoiding the gunfire of the Marines. Miraculously, he was not hit! That part of the Stage edge now cracked off—slipping into the mirk and acted as a slide.
Over on Patrick’s ramp, structural collapse occurred. Neil looked across and saw the demise of his Band, and the perils thrust towards his friends. Patrick was knocked off his ramp as the section he was on broke and tumbled him and his dazzling and gleaming Stage Mask, casting its reflections in a thousand pinpoints of light across the backs of thousands of fleeing FENGUs as he and it, fell. Some of the FENGU ‘Road crew’ grabbed for Patrick, one securing his Mask. Patrick’s full ZART-caused facial disfigurement was now on full public display. But no one gave a damn. Patrick grimaced as he twisted his foot abnormally. His pained expression even making his pronounced hooked nose and Jutting chin seem all the more ridiculous to behold. Vanity no longer counts at this moment. All were fighting for their lives!
On the TEVLOE, Captain Glepko wrestled with the dilemma of firing so close to the Stadium and risked a clear shot on the main Anomaly if he had a clear shot at it. The Marines and the TEVLOE’s own security detail would have to hold out against the smaller anomalies. He would take on the ‘big fish’, or whatever it was- lest he annihilates the Band and thousands of the Audience.
The giant worm receded back into the swamp and seemed to be preparing itself to jump out at the stage once more. Another of these Anomalies was a large mass of smaller Worms that pulled back some hundreds of feet, to re-group, dragging several carcasses of drowned FENGUs with them, and savoring their attack. Also to pick up new members coming into the fray. It was a long shot, but Glepko had to chance it.
“FIRE!!”
The round came fast, landing offshore of the crumbled Stage edges. Later than needed, closer than tolerable. But arrive it did. Exploding almost on top of the Stadium.
A bright blast that sent a wall of water upwards—and dense clouds of illuminated worms, lit up by the thermal energy of a detonation. A thunderclap ‘Whoosh-BOOM’! announced its arrival, and the concussive shockwaves knocked all upright being flat onto the floor—or picked them up and hurled them a great distance. Prone FENGU fans crashing down by the hundreds into the Swampy waters ...Worms eager and ready to latch onto them, dragging them underneath liquid to drown them for food later ...
Many FENGU crowd members got the worst of this and were vaporized. Others were tossed skywards like so many Marigold seeds blown from one’s hands ...tumbling into the air. Mike Parris was also among this population. Heavier- he has not flown so far. A stunned Mike was thrown thirty feet or more backwards—to slide across the Backstage stadium and crash directly into an aghast Colonel Oblika!
The force of Mike getting tossed into Oblika was enough to bowl him over like a skittle. Mike was rendered unconscious as he struck the solid Armor of his Ardoccan Friend. Oblika rose up, raising his Arm-claws in Rage, letting out a scream of anger and outrage—then he picks up a discarded Laser rifle dropped by a stricken Marine ... and races directly towards the biggest threat, the giant worm itself.
Neil was nearby but had witnessed all these scenes while trying to shake the fog from his ears. A singer, now with possibly blown ear drums—not good! His last memory was the glorious vision of Oblika, his friend, advancing like a sprinting Athlete...leaping over the limp and crumpled body of Mike, Oblika, the soldier /warrior of old returning in his late-middle age again. Blazing away as fast as he could—direct hits landing on the rearing Worm in front of him and blowing off great chunks out of this monster! Its blood ran as it hissed. Neil sat, then stood up ...and threw his Microphone full force at the Beast, screaming as he did.
This is it. Neil struggled to stand after his heroic throw. And found himself sliding to one side of the stage as it sank into the mire ...and being eyed by the enraged worm, now agonized by Oblika’s effective firepower. It reacts. Towering high up into the air as like in a death plunge. It reached across to where Neil was groggily swaying, and with a quick sweep, it grabbed him in its mouth, enveloping Neil’s upper body, plucked him up in an instant into its saurian jaws!
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Screamed a horrified Oblika. Ceasing fire for a moment.
Holding Neil aloft momentarily, with just his flailing legs sticking out of its cavernous mouth, then it bites harder. Clothing is severed, skin is broken and sliced away, and soft tissue is sawn through. It shakes its head, connecting rows of razor-sharp teeth through Jeans, tee-shirt and Bones. The creature held Neil high in the air, tilting its head back and allowing streams of Pink and Red Blood to run down its throat and neck. It held him in a frozen second—Oblika resumed firing...hit after hit after hit---yelling as he fired! Then it was over—a hard bite driven by pain, severed Neil’s torso at the waist! The remains of Neil, legs and lower torso, flop onto the Stage in a grisly heap of steaming meat and blood-stained Jeans. Neil has been devoured. Gone.
Fully witnessed by Oblika and maybe a struggling Mark-now climbing back out from the hole where his shattered drum set collapsed through it. All who saw this, the cowering dancers, some Road Crew, a handful of Marines under cover--were numb.
The Monster reared back and flopped into the swamp waters again—followed by a hail of Gun-fire traces from Marines joining Oblika ...presumably to swim away and die of its wounds. Second Blood to the worms.
A stunned Patrick was being carried now by four FENGU road crew, rescuing him. They made their way backstage as fast as possible. Mark stumbled out of his hole and vomited. He called Oblika to retreat to the back changing area with a few other fugitives, one part of the Stadium that seemed solid still. Mike lay prone and knocked-out cold by Oblika’s Battle armor.
The Band is as destroyed as that of the Stadium structure itself. The worst is over. Marines held the Main Gates—but it was overrun by many thousands of Fans still pouring out of the Stadium. It made their defense impossible- so reformed—they advanced into the ruined Stage area and continued to lay down a spirited fire upon the remaining Worms. FENGUs screamed, and many were still drowning, being helped by worms dragging them down.
...No one was able to prevent the sad remains of Neil getting hooked by a mid-sized worm that survived the gunfire—and slowly dragged his legs and torso, blood trailing in a track from his exposed entrails, towards the Stage’s edge, down the slide of the cracked part—and pulled slowly into the Mud and blood-churned waters.
Patrick’s ‘Mask of the Universe’, the showstopper ...was last seen that night, slowly sinking into the shallow waters of the flooding Stage floor. Trampled by panicked and fleeing fans ...
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THE END OF CHAPTER XIX (19) - (‘BATTLE TESTS’).