Author's Preface
Human perception of war is alien to us. The same human who, only a day before, kissed his children good night, can kill hundreds without blinking an eye, only to cry a day later because he had to kill so many.
This is an inherent trait of all mammals, since they do not breed a specialized warrior caste. Every worker is, at the same time, a potential warrior and can become a worker again soon after the war.
From an economic perspective, mammals — and especially humans — are superior to us. “
— Krinakt, internal memo regarding human warfighting capabilities, 5 P.I.
“The Battle for Taishon Tar is an integral point in the Aligned Worlds’ creation mythos. Whether such a place ever existed — and if it did, where — remains the center of heated debate within the archaeological community.
The legend evokes numerous parallels to later myths — for instance, the phonetic similarities between Karrn and Krun, leading many experts to conclude that both names in fact refer to the same individual.”
— Excerpts from “The Founding Myth Deconstructed: Lies of the First Years,” Aligned Worlds Press, 15061 P.I.
Gerber pressed the call button next to the door to the quarters of Admiral Browner. It was his first visit. The Admiral had asked him to provide a short briefing about everything known regarding the Shraphen. It was 1500 hours, and in about one hour, Hunter Frox would present a briefing on human and Shraphen similarities. The Admiral wanted to be up to speed on everything.
seventeen hundred, the preparations for the magnetic-thermal cleaning of the catacombs should be finished. If it worked, he’d finally be able to sleep. If not, he’d decided to fall into a coma.
“Enter,” was the only response from inside the quarters.
Gerber wasn’t prepared for what awaited him inside. The always meticulously dressed Admiral was resting in a chair, wearing a blue tracksuit, and pouring Coke into a glass half full of what looked like rum and lemons.
Over the intercom, an orchestral melody played. Gerber knew it from somewhere, but he couldn’t place where.
“Lyra, stop playback, please. Captain, take a chair. Cuba Libre? You look like you’ll need it.”
The Admiral gestured with the full glass.
“Thanks, Admiral, I’m on duty.”
Gerber would have loved to, but he was afraid he’d fall asleep. His day had been long and was about to get much longer. Was it really only five hours since he’d crawled through the damned catacombs between the inner and outer hull?
“We’re all always on duty. You almost died today to some alien fungus that makes zombies out of lizards and spawns rats and spiders from a Lovecraftian nightmare. You deserve a drink, son.”
The Admiral pushed the glass toward Gerber across the desk.
Browner pointed with one hand up toward the intercom. “Do you know it?”
Gerber shook his head.
“It’s called Archer’s Song — Star Trek , an old TV show. I always wished it would be Star Trek . Instead, we got Battlestar —or worse, Warhammer 40K , if we’re not careful.”
Gerber didn’t understand; he’d never watched much TV, and even less old sci-fi.
“The future, son. The future. How old are you—thirty?”
The face of the white-haired man seemed to grow older by the minute.
Gerber sipped from the glass. It was a strong mix, but he instantly began to feel better. “Thirty-five, sir.”
“Hmm. Born when your father disappeared, I see. Well, I was in high school when the Longshot launched. The future looked bright. We were excited. Then we met the Batract. We thought we’d become part of an interstellar federation. Oh, we were excited.”
Gerber wasn’t sure where this would lead, so he stayed silent.
“Then it all went into the gutter. First, that fucking tsunami — a billion dead. Then the war. Thrice-cursed President Russel. I went to his grave to piss on it. You had to pick a number and stay in line. Fucking traitor.”
The Admiral poured another drink for himself; he was really angry now.
Gerber remembered reading about it — every former U.S. citizen who went through the Oligarchy War showed signs of this anger and bitterness. Fallen Empire Syndrome was the unofficial term.
“And now this — we’re really going the rebellion route. Well, at least the Shraphen seem to be okay. Tell me, Captain, what do we really know about them?”
Gerber cleared his throat. “Well, the general facts, as far as we know, are these: they were integrated into the Batract Hyphae roughly two hundred and fifty years ago and started a small uprising on the southern continent about forty years back. The rebels — mostly from the deeply religious packs — stole an old but functioning colony ship and retreated to Sirius. They seemed to be safe there until a year ago, when they were discovered.”
Gerber took another sip. He knew exactly what the Admiral was thinking. Is that gonna be our fate too? Pushed off our homeworld?
He continued, “Before they were discovered by the Hyphae, more and more Shraphen made their way to the colony. Now, about two million people live on it. Initially, the rebels also had great success convincing military and naval assets to defect to them, but that stopped fifteen years ago. The reason is unknown.”
The Admiral swirled his drink, staring with a thousand-yard stare into the glass.
“So their rebellion is dead if we don’t help them…”
“Essentially, yes, sir.”
Looking up, Gerber saw a hint of resignation in the Admiral’s face.
“About their biology?”
“That’s where it gets spooky, sir.”
“They’re evolved dogs — or rather, wolves — right?”
“Yes, but not only visually. Even on the genetic level, they’re related to Terran canines. But there’s more.”
The Admiral stood up, pacing the room. “There always is.”
“You might have heard the term Tai .”
“Sure. Karrn uses it often — Shratai or something.”
“Yes, sir. Tais are Shraphen pets. They seem to be related to Homo erectus , or rather an offspring between Homo Naledi and Homo erectus . But we were only able to study pictures.”
“They really have humans as pets?”
“Not humans — ancestors of humans, maybe.”
—————
Rish sat in the Colonial Governor’s office. After the initial standoff, everyone was now positioned around the large central table in an orderly manner. Pack Leader Shruf was still throwing glares at the humans, but he remained silent for now.
The High Commander of the Defense Horde had joined the meeting; his unease with the humans was obvious.
“So you’re telling me all of my Hunters are well and alive?” He couldn’t believe the humans — just like Rish couldn’t.
Lieutenant Koval showed his best diplomatic side. “Yes, High Commander — all but eighteen, as well as your fleet. A bit bruised, but in a serviceable state.”
“The Krunuk was sadly destroyed, but we rescued the crew before the core went critical,” Madsen added.
The High Commander’s ears rose. “But if humans want an alliance, attacking us was the worst way to show it.” He glared at Rish.
“The humans were sent here by the Batract. They had always planned to rebel — but they took their time planning and preparing. They figured out beforehand that the Batract had installed a listening post in their system’s Oort Cloud to alert the Hyphae in case of a rebellion. They planned to find that base and destroy it, then take out all Batract on Earth and in their fleets simultaneously.”
Rish drank a sip of water. Thanks to the Mother protecting us from below — Shraphen glasses, not those oddly shaped human ones that scrape your fangs.
“Don’t tell me you believe those lies, High Commander Ruun! Don’t you see? She’s clearly brainwashed.”
Even the humans must be able to smell Shruf’s hate.
“Be silent or leave, Shruf. Your report said she and everyone else were dead — yet the video report Hunter Rish showed us clearly displays Shraphen alive, and well, I might add.”
The High Commander rose from his seat, baring his fangs. “I’ve had enough of your back-licking methods. Even if someone somehow manipulated Karrn’s first message, it was your duty to find the signs of manipulation that Hunter Tulk discovered — in less than five minutes.”
Tulk felt ashamed as everyone turned to look at him. His tail twitched until Lance Corporal Madsen began patting him on the back.
Odd. Madsen is very quick to touch us. Does she instinctively associate us with dogs? And should I be offended by the comparison? On the other hand, I have to fight the urge to hug Koval, seeing how startled he looked by the High Commander’s show of aggression.
A technician entered the office, carrying a comm device to the Governor, who had silently watched the entire discussion until now.
With a glance toward the High Commander, he silenced him. “Thank you, High Commander. We’ve restored the communication channels — but before we call the humans, I want to hear the end of Hunter Rish’s story.”
Rish was amazed at how much wisdom the elderly Governor carried in his voice. Typical Religious Pack elder.
“Yes, Governor. As I said, the humans decided that this listening post needed to be destroyed. But the fleet was already on its way. The plan was to play for time so the fleet could receive confirmation that they were free to act as planned — but the Hyperion , the ship sent to destroy the base, was assumed to be lost.”
The High Commander nodded at the information given. “So they attacked us to play the role of loyal Batract mercenaries.”
Now the Lieutenant spoke up. “No, we used shock-and-awe ambush tactics to quickly break your troops and only harm them non-lethally. But your forces were too strong, so some of our men had to use lethal force. We’re terribly sorry.”
The High Commander’s ears rose again — this time because he was clearly flattered by the compliment. Nice trick, human.
Focusing on the Governor, Rish got nothing. His stoic demeanor gave no clue about what he thought or felt. His presence was one of full attention — nothing else. Amazing.
“So, with the Hyperion lost, why did you kill the Batract and decide to rebel anyway, given the clear and present threat to your people?” The Governor fixed his gaze on Koval.
“It was Captain Gerber. They were in the infirmary treating injured Shraphen. He was there to gather intel when the fleet’s High Integration Officer entered and ordered us to kill them. Gerber concluded this was a test of loyalty — but you only need to test loyalty if you already suspect something. And if the Batract suspected us, it was better to act quickly and strike then and there.”
The Lieutenant was clearly proud of Gerber’s decision, even if it meant full-on war with the Hyphae. But Rish understood enough of humans to know they would rather fight to the end than live under oppression forever — just as the Shraphen did.
“He tried to argue that humans never kill injured enemies — that it’s a cultural taboo for us. But the Batract just started threatening sanctions. That’s when he pulled his gun and shot the fucking lizard, right in the head.”
Madsen ended the scene, clearly enjoying the mental image. She was still patting Tulk. Fascinating — neither of them seems to notice it.
“There’s one question remaining: who stopped Karrn’s and your reports, and sent the false one?”
The Governor slowly tapped his claw on the desk. “This whole situation is obscure, but I believe the humans don’t want to harm us — mostly because I can clearly see how attached they are to us.”
He gave a quick smile to the Lance Corporal, who had just realized she’d been petting Tulk. Her face turned as red as nightshade blossoms, and every Shraphen in the room could smell her embarrassment.
“I have decided to call the Human fleet, and to allow you and your scouts to stay here in the bunker in the meantime.”
—————
Captain Gerber was just leaving the Admiral’s quarters when the ship’s alarm went off.
“All senior personnel to the bridge. Yellow alert — I repeat, all senior personnel to the bridge.”
Gerber moved quickly toward the elevator. Just as the doors began to close, a hand stopped them. Admiral Browner entered — perfectly dressed in his navy uniform.
How did he do that? That wasn’t more than fifty seconds.
The Admiral grinned at Gerber. “Training. And when you reach Admiral, you learn to stop time.”
How can he read minds now, too?
“No,” was all Browner said.
The elevator lights were no longer the ordinary white ambient hue but now had a yellow tint, signaling alert status.
When they reached the bridge, Captain Carmichael stepped out of another lift.
“Status report.”
“Fifteen bogeys on long-range distance point one-five light-years. Same trajectory as Hyperion . Presumed Batract,” came the voice of the sensor technician.
Before anyone could respond, he added, “Status change — twenty bogeys… no, twenty-five… no — many, many bogeys.”
The technician’s console beeped constantly, adding enemy ship after enemy ship to the list of detected objects.
Fuck.
“Final count: three hundred and forty ships. Estimated arrival time, thirty-six hours.”
Everyone on the bridge fell silent. The only sound was the humming of hidden ventilators and cooling systems. Gerber could feel a knot forming in his stomach. Three hundred and forty ships… dear God.
The console started beeping again — the third time in as many minutes. Dear God, what’s happening here?
“Status change — more bogeys incoming. Many, many targets.”
He didn’t register the sensor tech consciously; he already knew. Another three hundred and forty ships. There was some connection between that number and the Batract, but he couldn’t concentrate.
“That’s all wrong… why…” He just couldn’t figure out what was so wrong about this picture.
“Admiral, Captains — I have important information from the Renown .”
Even Lyra’s voice sounded stressed. Was this simulated so she wouldn’t sound so artificial in high-stress situations?
“Lyra, we have more important things to concentrate on.” Admiral Browner’s voice no longer held a trace of the tired, nostalgic tone he’d shown earlier in his quarters.
“Admiral, we decoded the Hyperion’s transmission. It is related to our situation.”
This was news. Whatever the Hyperion had sent must have been big — the transmission had been running for ten hours now. Her fusion core was damaged; she might not have had the energy to create the stabilizing field to leave transit. What was so important that she’d come all the way from Sol…
“Sol — fuck, why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Gerber’s sudden outburst made him the center of attention on the bridge.
“Admiral, the Batract are coming from the direction of Earth — but why? What was a fleet of more than a thousand ships doing at Sol? And why are they following one ship to Sirius?”
The sound on the bridge escalated again. On the comms, there was almost pure chaos — the whole fleet was asking for orders and sharing sensor data. On the engineering console, Chief Ferguson threatened a tech with keelhauling if he didn’t fix the magnetic field coils immediately and according to spec. Tactical was running readiness simulations with the other ships of the fleet.
It wasn’t panic, but it was close to chaos.
“That’s it. Stop — everyone.”
The Admiral spoke in a normal voice, but the silence radiated from him like a wave. Even the Chief on the far side of the bridge stopped swearing.
“Carmichael, prepare a report on the readiness of the Argos , and burn that Batract shit out of the catacombs — now. Comms, relay all fleet-related messages to Simmons; he’s bored anyway, and fleet organization is a CIC area.”
The admiral inhaled, but wasn’t finished. “Lyra, prepare a report on the Hyperion ’s message. Send it to whomever it concerns — and me, of course. Simmons? Simmons?”
Gerber was sure Simmons materialized behind the admiral. “Yes — here, sir.” He handed the admiral a pad.
“The report on the fleet’s evacuation capabilities you requested, sir — with estimations on the Shraphen’s capacity.”
The admiral just stared at Airman Simmons, then said, “Good, about time you finished it. I was just about to ask you to prepare it — you’re slacking, Simmons.”
“Sorry, sir — won’t happen again.”
With those words, the airman saluted and headed for the adjacent CIC.
The admiral looked at Gerber. “Sometimes he scares me.”
Then he noticed Frox, standing silently in the corner of the bridge, wide-eyed, clearly overwhelmed by the busy atmosphere — and probably by the human scent of stress.
“Frox, come with me. We have a situation and need to cut your briefing short.”
The young Shraphen tucked his tail between his legs even further.
Frox just nodded and followed the admiral.
Without turning around, the admiral shouted, “Gerber — you too.”
Gerber was still deep in thought, running through different possibilities and implications for why the fleet might be at — or near — Sol. Every explanation he came up with was logically flawed.
As they reached the CIC, Frox instinctively moved toward a corner; he clearly didn’t like attention. Gerber decided to help him out by standing beside him, serving as a familiar face in the crowd.
Before the briefing could start, Lyra’s voice came over the intercom. “Magnetic-thermal cleaning about to start. I repeat — magnetic-thermal cleaning about to start.”
Gerber expected the same feeling as a transit start, but then remembered the magnetic field wouldn’t touch the ship’s inner sections. What he did notice was a rising whistle that climbed in pitch until it was no longer audible.
“Spulenfiepen, Admiral — we expected it.”
Chief Ferguson had joined them in the CIC, working from the fleet engineering station.
“What?” Neither Browner nor anyone else understood the Chief.
“ Spulenfiepen. It’s German — the coils are whining because the magnetic fields make them resonate at a frequency audible to us. We expected as much.”
“Did you account for Shraphen's hearing as well?”
It was the first time Frox spoke up — the memory of the ship’s whistle clearly overcoming his anxiety.
“Yes, Hunter Frox, I calculated the resonance so it wouldn’t reach harmful levels for Shraphen.”
Lyra answered before Chief Ferguson could.
In the holo-display, a view from outside the ship appeared. At regular intervals along the elongated hull, openings became visible — stark black holes contrasting against the shimmering gray metal surface.
Decompressed gas vapors vented steadily from them.
“Why didn’t you just blow them out?” Frox asked, his confidence slowly returning. Gerber noticed that the Shraphen’s tail was still tucked, but his ears were already upright.
“It’s just a one-bar difference. You could seal a hole in the hull with your finger without getting sucked out,” Ferguson explained. “But now the hull and the water in the tanks are heating up rapidly. We’re gonna steam and boil them out. No one infests my baby.”
On the display, a scale appeared showing the hull’s temperature — about one hundred and fifty degrees Celsius and rising steadily. From the open vents, steam began to pour out, freezing just a few meters from the hull. Then they noticed movement within the holes — Batract spawn. Of course, they would flee.
When the hull reached five hundred degrees, the vents looked like geysers ejecting white-hot steam kilometers into space. Then, at twelve hundred degrees, the steam suddenly ignited. The hull was glowing in a white-orange hue, with the spawn leaving only occasional black ash stains against the otherwise spotless surface.
“We’ve reached supercritical water oxidation. Everything in the catacombs is now reduced to almost base elements. What you’re seeing is an optical illusion — the glow of the hull reflecting in the steam. We have to shut it down in ten seconds, or the salts in the biomatter will start damaging the hull too much.”
Ferguson’s explanation was the “dumbed-down for officers” version, as he’d once put it — but it described the event perfectly. The Batract spawn were nothing more than base molecules now. Good riddance.
Gerber enjoyed the scene. Watching those monsters roast on the glowing hull touched something animalistic deep inside him. His time in the catacombs seemed to have harmed him more than he’d initially thought.
When the show was over and the steam stopped venting, he forced himself to focus on the here and now again. It was hot in the CIC — really hot. His uniform was drenched in sweat.
Next to him, Frox was panting heavily. Gerber opened the small fridge in the CIC’s coffee nook and handed him a bottle of cold water.
“Circulating kinetic gel again, sir — it’s gonna get cooler soon, Admiral,” Ferguson reported, glancing at the exhausted admiral sitting at the situation table, cooling his head with a water bottle Simmons had handed him.
“Admiral, the first googly eyes report no spawn or Batract activity. It worked,” Lyra announced.
“Very good. Help the other ships with their field calculations so we get my fleet mushroom-free,” the admiral barked, visibly annoyed to be soaked through his uniform.
“Already done, sir. The fleet is waiting for your orders — but we have a problem. The Rosalind Franklin won’t survive this method.” Lyra’s neutral tone carried a faint note of concern.
“What? Why?” The admiral was wide awake now.
“The infestation there is much more severe than in all six other ships combined, and her inner and outer hulls aren’t as thick as ours. She’s not a warship — basically four supply tenders welded together. The heat and pressure would tear through the inner hull even at 500 °C. But that’s the minimum temperature needed to ensure no spawn survives.”
Lyra paused to let the officers keep up, then continued: “In addition, the infestation has already started to evolve. We’re getting reports of spawn using acid to melt through the inner hull. Shraphen and Marine commandos are holding the line — but not for much longer.”
The admiral looked over the assembled officers. “Suggestions?”
“Evacuate. Pull the fusion core and tow it into the gas giant’s shadow — let it freeze to death and fix it after the battle,” Ferguson said coldly. “We’ve got only thirty-six hours until a thousand enemy ships start kicking our asses. We’ve got bigger problems.”
“The Rosalind Franklin is a massive space asset and could evacuate more than thirty thousand people if needed,” an officer Gerber didn’t know interjected.
“At the moment, it’s a battle zone, and we won’t have her cleaned up in thirty-six hours. So she’s a burden. Those ten thousand Shraphen could help us better down on the planet, securing the colony.”
The admiral breathed a heavy breath. “Chief Ferguson is right — we can’t clean her up. Pull the core and tuck her into a shadow. I’ve gone through the numbers already: we can’t evacuate.”
The admiral let his words settle. The decision was a hard one; he had hoped the fleet could simply evacuate the planet and leave, but the numbers were devastating.
“With or without the Franklin , all our ships combined can carry at best 250,000 people. Now, does anyone here feel good about leaving 1.8 million people to their deaths? Because I don’t have any illusions: this fleet is coming to eradicate those people down there.”
Frox made an unintentional, silent cry — the realization of the enemy fleet’s intentions finally hit him. He looked like a beat-up puppy.
Frox stood there, his fur damp from the heat, still panting, a computer pad in his hands where he had prepared his briefing about the mystical, ancient bond between our two peoples. His tail was firmly tucked between his legs; his ears folded back. He realized everything he knew was about to be wiped out.
Everyone looked at him: some with slightly cloudy eyes, some slowly shaking their heads.
—————
Rish’s world collapsed to a single point — a single number: 1,020. The number of enemy ships on their way to wipe out the human fleet and Taishon Tar.
The Governor had made the call to the human fleet in orbit only ten minutes ago. She had been sure then that everything would be fine — that the humans and her people would work something out and destroy the enemy in a heroic battle. How many ships could the Batract realistically have here, on the outskirts of their space?
Now she knew. One thousand and twenty. The humans had thirty. The Veyr had fifty-nine. 11.5 to 1.
No chance.
Then she realized — the humans didn’t have to stay. They will leave us here. For sure.
In her desperation, she looked back up, searching for some kind of hold — for strength.
Next to her, Lieutenant Koval looked at her. His face was one of silent determination. He’s willing to fight. He really is. Maybe the others are too?
“Thank you, Admiral, for your report. I just have one small request.”
The Governor seemed to be the only Shraphen in the room not close to despair — well, except Krun. He wore the same expression as Koval.
“Anything, Governor.”
Rish noticed that the admiral on the screen looked exhausted. Then she saw Frox in the background, drinking from a water bottle. She couldn’t help but smile.
“I understand we can’t ask you to stay and fight, so I ask you — in the name of all Shraphen here — to at least take some of our youngest with you and save them.”
Rish almost fainted at the admiral’s next words.
“We can take up to thirty thousand to Earth.”
They are leaving us here.
Even Koval seemed surprised by the admiral’s decision.
“Thank you, Admiral. We have about twenty thousand children; the rest will be females. You’re saving the last of the free Shraphen.”
The Governor was clearly grateful. Rish knew that once the shock wore off, she would be, too. The humans were friendly — even welcoming — but they were aliens after all, and no one could expect them to lay down their lives for a lost cause.
“We’re grateful for you saving them. When do you expect to leave, Admiral?”
Now the admiral’s expression turned puzzled. “Leave? No — you misunderstand me, Governor. We’re sending them to Earth aboard the Marie Curie . She’s a hospital ship. The fleet stays.”
Rish couldn’t believe her ears.
“We’re defending this colony — until the last man, if need be.”