Tales from the Service: Sagittarian Stowaways

2949-07-27 – Tales from the Service: Sagittarian Stowaways 

This week I must sadly report that contact has been lost, probably finally, with the remaining defenders of Margaux. Before losing access to the last remaining ground-side comms station capable of reaching the Navy’s Hypercast relay at the edge of the system, General Bell’s headquarters appears to have sent Admiral Zahariev a message to the effect that he intends to surrender his remaining forces to the Incarnation. Given that no reinforcements or supplies have arrived on the world for several months, the situation there must be desperate, and I don’t think anyone can blame him for bowing to the inevitable. 

Margaux has been effectively in enemy hands for at least a month; scouting reports suggest that the major urban areas, manufacturing centers, and primary civilian spaceport have been under Incarnation control for some time, and it seems that the shrinking perimeter around the second spaceport built in the Causey Plana has had little impact on the enemy’s ability to use the planet. 

While many tens of thousands of Confederated service personnel did make it off the planet in the form of the vast numbers of wounded ground troops, dismounted strike pilots, and combat-ineffective rear area personnel, the toll in captured and killed in this losing battle has been, quite frankly, appalling. While I have not seen full casualty figures, it stands to reason that all Confederated services combined lost more than a million personnel on Margaux. True, it is likely the Incarnation suffered at least as badly in human terms, but in terms of materiel, the Incarnation likely suffered less, and they now possess the industrial output of Margaux to rebuild their stockpiles somewhat for the next push. 

While the Raid on Berkant has everyone looking in that direction for the enemy’s next move, I personally suspect this was a diversion. Berkant is, from Margaux, no closer to the inner edge of the Frontier. Given the large amount of Incarnation and Ladeonist espionage here at Maribel, it stands to reason they’re coming here, as crazy as that sounds given the heavy defenses of the system. 

[N.T.B. - For once, I think Duncan is dead on with his military analysis. Margaux is only twenty ly from Maribel, and there’s very little worth invading in between. If the Incarnation means to take the entire Frontier, it needs to take the Fifth Fleet’s supply base, which is right here. 

Since the services are currently disputing over where to put the blame for the Margaux disaster, I figure Nate will strike soon, and strike hard. If I were them, I would.] 

With that grim news out of the way, this week’s entry was submitted by Walther Gray, a Navy Tech with the Seventh Fleet’s repair and salvage flotilla. He and a number of his fellows have spent the last few months repairing the surviving warships from the Lost Squadrons until they were capable of crossing the Gap. These vessels, with their drives in desperate need of total overhaul, are being sent to the rear to various Navy yards for refit. 

Though most of the ships are little more than scrap hulks jury-rigged into functioning for a little longer at this point, the Navy means to put several of them back into the fight, including the two light cruisers Arrowhawk and Whitcomb Scourge. Unfortunately, worn-out hardware isn’t the only thing that makes these vessels dangerous to work on for the salvage techs. While shiproaches, Periclean metal mites, and other organisms are common shipboard pests, evidently the Lost Squadrons picked up a few new forms of vermin from landing on one of the planets in the Sagittarius Frontier. 

“Come on, Lieutnant, I just fixed that relay.” Technician Walther Gray mopped his brow with the only scrap of his sleeve that wasn’t stained with lubricant or cleaning solvent. “Your stat-board must be broken.” 

“The board isn’t the problem, Mr. Gray.” Lieutenant Hilmarsson had never liked Walther, and he needed little excuse to roll out the judgmental, disappointed tone that most officers usually reserved for novice spacers straight out of groundside training. “Look at these readings. If I had to guess, the insulation came loose when you closed up the housing.” 

Walther peeked over the edge of Hilmarsson’s slate computer to see that the diagnostic readings were in fact well out of optimum range. True, nothing aboard Whitcomb Scourge was anywhere near operating at optimum, but he’d just finished replacing nearly every part in the overworked power relay with new parts straight from the fabricator. In theory, it should be outperforming every other part of the poor cruiser’s mad tangle of a power system, not fluctuating wildly between dangerously high power throughput and nearly zero. 

Suppressing a sigh, Walther nodded. “I’ll go back in and check it, sir.” 

Hilmarsson’s only response was to sniff and turn away, jabbing his finger at his slate’s screen.  

Walther massaged his brow and turned back to the open bulkhead panel and the maintenance crawlspace beyond. He’d spent an hour hauling parts down into the ship’s cramped interstices, and six more hours rebuilding the relay module. If the Lieutenant was right, the problem should only take a few minutes to fix, and for once he hoped Hilmarsson’s guess was correct. If it wasn’t, Walther knew he’d be kept on duty until the power relay was in working order. 

Hefting his toolbag, Walther clambered into the crawlspace, turned on his head-lamp, and began worming his way back to the relay. He’d made enough trips to the place that by now he needed no assistance from the datasphere to find his way. Unburdened by a bag full of either replacement parts or burnt-out components, he was barely sweating when he arrived once more at the pitted housing of the offending power relay. 

Popping the relay’s cover off once more, Walther turned his headlamp up to its maximum brightness and swept his gaze across each of the components he’d just finished installing. Everything, including the insulation sheathing, remained firmly in place, with nothing obviously loose to explain the wildly oscillating readings on the status board. 

“Lieutenant, I’m back at the relay. Are you still seeing those fluctuations?” 

There was only a single comms click as a reply, but Walther knew to take this as an affirmative. Hilmarsson was probably chewing out another tech; he would only bother to interrupt himself if something had changed. 

“Hmm.” Walther swept his light into the bottom of the housing, looking for loose parts or fasteners that might have come free to give him a clue as to what was wrong. As he did, he thought he saw something moving around one of the snaking power cables, shying away from the light. Since he knew the wildly moving shadows cast by a head-lamp regularly played tricks on the human eye, he dismissed the notion that there was anything alive in the relay; after all, he’d just finished tearing it apart and putting it back together. If any pests had gotten in, he would have seen some sign of them over the last six hours. 

At last, Walther spied what he was looking for – a shiny, hemispherical component made of what looked like black polymer sat in the bottom of the housing, almost hidden behind the protruding bulk of the relay’s high-voltage switcher. Wondering what it had come loose from, Walther reached in to grab the offending part, hoping he would recognize it when he had it in his hand. 

The  object resisted his grip as if stuck to the metal below it, but a bit of a twist popped it free. It was lighter than he’d expected, and its curved surface was ridged rather than smooth. Frowning, he brought it up close to his face, engaging the visual-recognition system built into his analysis glasses to identify what he’d found. 

Before the computer could identify what it was looking at, the flat side of the little hemispherical object sprouted an uncomfortable multitude of articulated legs and scurried off Walther’s hand. Shrieking, he staggered back from the relay and fell to the deck. In the narrow beam of his head-lamp, he saw black objects moving silently across the bulkheads all around the open power relay. Not all of them were as small as the one he’d picked up – some were as large as his fist, and unless the shadows were playing tricks on his eyes, the biggest was nearly forty centimeters across. 

Something scurried over Walther’s leg, and in that moment he decided that the problem was no longer his to fix. Not even bothering to pick up his tool-bag, he scrambled on his hands and knees toward the crawlspace passage back to the lit corridors, imagining the swarm of bugs on his heels the whole way. 

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Tales from the Service: The Mereena Sortie

2949-08-03 – Tales from the Service: The Mereena Sortie 

Word has come to us here at Maribel that most of the officers and crew of the surviving Lost Squadrons ships are being transferred to the Seventh Fleet. Since most of these personnel are apparently guests aboard the Seventh Fleet’s cluster of superannuated carriers, their vessels judged combat ineffective, this seems to be a pragmatic move rather than an organizational one. If and when replacement postings are found for them (which might be some time, since they’re all still across the Gap at Sagittarius Gate), it will probably be to replace combat casualties within the Seventh Fleet rather than aboard new vessels. 

What that means for the two surviving cruiser skippers and the dozen-odd destroyer and frigate skippers has not been announced, but it’s likely all the Lost Squadrons senior officers will be given a considerable amount of time to recuperate from the stress of their ordeal before they are given new postings. This might also be an opportune time to shuffle officers like Samuel Bosch out of field commands and to desk postings. He is, apparently, not a terribly popular officer among the senior ranks of the Confederated Navy, despite his commendable efforts at the head of the Lost Squadrons, and it would seem a sensible move to put him on an academy teaching rotation in any case, given his unique experience fighting the Incarnation. 

A squadron of vessels preparing for the Gap crossing departed Maribel two days ago to reinforce the Seventh Fleet. While Naval Intelligence prohibits me naming the size of the force, I am permitted to state that the old battleship Tranquility, freshly arrived only a few weeks ago from the Core Worlds, was the squadron’s flagship. While I’m not sure I’d trust crossing the Gap in a century-old battlewagon that only two years ago was being demilitarized to function as a museum ship, the Navy knows what it’s doing, and presumably the admiralty has every confidence in the ship’s ability to make the crossing. 

In news nearer to hand, it seems that the ground-side combat services are no longer coordinating their operations with Fifth Fleet command, and have staged a limited but successful raid on the Incarnation depot on Mereena without major fleet support. Mercenary warships, led by the notorious Holzmann, were present, but evidently they were barely needed, with only a single enemy cruiser in range to respond to the raid, and that vessel held back from what would have probably been a suicidal counterattack. This raid captured a significant amount of enemy equipment and a few hundred prisoners, and it is being advertised that the whole supply depot's worth of materiel was destroyed when the raiders withdrew.

Captain Halthora “Hal” Ferro clutched her carbine and tried to focus on the readouts scrolling on her wrist computer’s tiny screen as the dropship thundered down through Mereena’s atmosphere. She could feel the eyes of his subordinates on her, and had to try very hard to look calm and confident while being neither. 

Though only twenty-five T-years old, Hal knew she was older than all but a handful of her junior officers and troops. A Frontier Defense Army company at full strength comprised fifteen officers and one hundred sixty enlisted, and every single one of them was a volunteer. Most of her troops had signed up for three-year terms of enlistment without really knowing anything about what war was, and only a handful of them were veterans, blooded in the charnel-house of Margaux or in the delaying actions which had permitted the evacuations of smaller colonies like Mereena itself. Soon, the bay doors would crash down, and green troops would face the ultimate test. 

Hal wasn’t afraid of dying as such. She’d nearly bought the plot twice already, once during a training operation and once on Margaux’s Causey Plana. Dying, she’d discovered, was the easiest thing in the universe. If she could only die herself and avoid the necessity of ordering her young volunteers to rush in and buy the plot themselves, that would simplify things considerably. 

Unfortunately, Hal knew her duty. As a captain now, she had a headquarters, and a handful of personnel assigned to her as company staff. Her platoon commanders could lead from the front, but she had to stay where the information flow could reach her. 

“Thirty seconds to touchdown.” The dropship’s chipper pilot announced over the intercom, amplified to be audible over the intermittent buzz of the vessel’s nose-mounted autocannon pummeling likely enemy positions. “Opposition on the ground looks light.” 

Hal closed her wrist computer’s protective cover and bowed her head. An old soldier’s prayer came to mind, asking for God’s protection and mercy either on this beachhead or the next. This was the prayer on Hal’s lips when she and three other wounded hauled themselves out of their wrecked personnel carrier during the Botterhill training exercise, and again when the contrails of Incarnation landing craft spiralled down through Margaux’s lavender sky. It had been the prayer looping through her delirious mind after she’d been hit on the Causey, lying half-conscious among the broken rocks during the heat of the day while dead bodies festered all around her. 

The same prayer would have been perfectly serviceable now, but Hal found it insufficient. She wouldn’t be buying a plot on Mereena, nor would she be storming the beaches beyond the Sea of Glass, not today. Some of the confused and apprehensive youths around her, though, would not be coming home. She wanted to pray for their protection, but found herself struggling for the words, even inside her own head. 

The dropship slammed into the ground, rocking everyone in the bay against their restraints, ending Hal’s attempts to structure a prayer for her soldiers. The staccato chattering of the twin remotely operated railguns on either side of the bay doors indicated the presence of enemy soldiers outside. 

Despite her failure to build an appropriate prayer for the occasion in time, Hal raised her head, snapping off her restraints and hefting her carbine as she stood in the narrow aisle. “Welcome to Mereena.” Her officer’s voice turned on automatically, with all its built-in snap and swagger. Maybe she couldn’t really lead from the front anymore, but she could at least be the first one off the dropship when the ramp came down. “Follow me and keep moving.” 

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Tales from the Inbox: Nikruma's Visitors

2949-08-10 – Tales from the Inbox: Nikruma's Visitors

While it's unlikely to be related to last week’s successful raid of the forward Incarnation base at Mereena, there has been very little enemy activity here on the Frontier since the failed enemy raid on Berkant several weeks ago. The heavy losses to Incarnation troops at Margaux, combined with the lesser losses at Berkant and Mereena, will probably take time to replace, as any replacement troops have to be ferried across the Gap. 

In the meantime, my sources in Naval Intelligence have suggested that things will be rather quiet for a little while. The Fifth Fleet is, at least in terms of its main battle line, back to full strength, but with the feud between the Navy and the ground-combat services increasingly being fought on the open datasphere, our forces probably won’t be taking advantage of that lull with any large-scale counter-push. 

Raids like the recent sortie to Mereena will probably continue, but it should be noted that the Navy had little involvement in that effort. Most likely, the FDA and Marines will continue to plan their own operations moved by the Marines’ own starships and the ships of mercenaries like Sovereign Security, and the Navy will plan its own operations with minimal participation from the Marines or FDA, except for the native Marine contingents aboard Navy warships.  

[N.T.B. - There’s no telling how long this lull will last, but I hate to think of what’s happening to the Confederated citizens held by the Incarnation in penal labor colonies such as the one on Meraud. These degenerates have no regard for human life that doesn’t have a chip in its head monitoring its thoughts, and even if those captives play by Nate’s rules, they’re going to find ways to make all that manpower build something to help their war effort.] 

While it’s not exactly close to the front lines, I’m seeing several interesting reports out of the Tkachenko system of increased military presence. The system’s only habitable (barely) planet is the infamous Botched Ravi, a place which attracts a lot of datasphere attention but very few tourists. 

One of our regular readers, a gentleman named Nikruma, sent in this account of strangers appearing at his settlement deep in the Ravi outback. While he suspects that these are Confederated military personnel, he was unable to determine who they were or what they were up to. 

Nikruma peered through his peep-hole at the pair of off-worlders standing on his porch. Though they’d taken care to buy rough local-cloth attire, their straight-backed stances and the Core Worlds-style wrist computers half-hidden by their loose sleeves told him they were no locals. Slowly, he raised his high-powered chemical-cartridge scattergun to the soft wood panel in the middle of the otherwise sturdy and relatively Ravi-proof door. Off-worlders always meant trouble on Botched Ravi. 

Unaware they were being watched, one of the men stepped forward to knock on the door again. “Anyone home?” He had mastered the lazy Ravi drawl, but even asking if anyone was home was a dead giveaway all its own. A Ravi native would know the futility of such queries; few Ravi homesteaders would ever open their doors for an unexpected visitor. 

Still, sitting behind the heavy door and thick masonry walls of his little house, Nikruma was curious. These men were Core Worlders with at least a little bit of discretion, and that made them all but certainly not any of his old enemies. Beyond revenge for the intrigues of decades past, however, he couldn’t think of any reason for the visit. 

Of all the settlers on the Svendsen Plateau, his home lay the farthest from of the tantalum and tungsten mines which drew most off-worlders in the region. His plot of land, extensively surveyed several times, had no mineral deposits worth speaking of, and the road dead-ended at his plot. Only rocky slopes of the plateau’s margin lay beyond his property markers. 

Ravi generally punished curiosity among its homesteaders, of course. Anything glittering on the horizon was either a mirage or the lure of one of the planet’s carnivorous flora. Pained cries on the wind either meant that something had been caught out in a nearby razor-dust storm, or that one of the local predators had learned to mimic the pained cries of a recent human victim. Little about the planet rewarded exploration. For someone like Nikruma, that was part of its charm. 

“Look, there’s nobody home.” The second man outside put his hand on his fellow’s shoulder. “Let’s just leave a note and get going.” 

“Just... point the crawler in the right direction and go?” The first man shook his head. “That’s a damned good way to get stranded out here, and you know what they’ll say upstairs if they need to send someone after us.” 

Though the pair went through the pretense of continuing to speak in feigned Ravi accents, Nikruma recognized the snappy cadence of spacers – military spacers at that – underneath. Only someone steeped in the culture of the Confederated military services referred to their superiors with a euphemism like “upstairs.” This didn’t mean they weren’t trouble, of course. Botched Ravi had no military value whatsoever, even with war raging in the Meriwether region less than three hundred light years away. 

The two glared at each other for a few minutes, then the first man produced a stylus and a pad of pressure-paper, scrawled on it for a moment, then tore off the top sheet, stuck it in the doorjamb, and turned to leave. The pair were already discussing how they’d navigate their vehicle across the notoriously gulley-creased plateau as they descended the stairs. 

Sighing, Nikruma replaced the safety on his scatter-gun, lowered the barrel, and unbolted all three of the mechanical locks on the door. Curiosity got one killed on Botched Ravi, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take at least one of the strangers with him if that proved to be the case.  

As he opened the door, the pair turned around. Both took involuntary half-steps back at the sight of the scatter-gun, though it wasn’t even pointed at them. That reaction alone told Nikruma they weren’t Confederated Marines, though the first man certainly had the stature for it. 

“Don’t tell me you damned fools brought a crawler to Ravi.” Nikruma scowled at them. “Damned fools. It’ll be dead in a week. Take it back to your ship and buy something practical before you get caught in a storm.” Anyone familiar with Botched Ravi knew that the only practical vehicle was one with simple wheels, pulled by an animal or the simplest of mechanical engines. The sensitive electronics and finely machined parts of any sophisticated vehicle would never survive the planet’s razor-edged dust. 

“Well, uh...” The second man, the smaller one, glanced at his partner, then shrugged. “We weren’t planning to be here too long.” He dispensed with his feigned Ravi drawl. “We’re trying to get to a place called Dead Dario Canyon. It’s very important.” 

Nikruma’s scowl deepened. “Why in all creative hells would you want to go there?” 

“Science experiment.” The bigger man muttered the response so quietly that it was barely audible over the whistling breeze in the eaves of the house. 

“Ravi’s no place for damned academics.” Nikruma waved his gun. “Get off my property.” The only way to get a ground vehicle to Dead Dario Canyon was to drive it through Nikruma’s land, and he wasn’t about to let them do that. Perhaps they could get there going the long way around to Route 51A at the base of the plateau, but their vehicle would break down before they got halfway. 

“Our... superiors said you might say that.” The nig man pointed down to Nikruma’s feet, where their note fluttered against the polymer-amalgam panels of the porch floor. “Hopefully that will change your mind.” 

“Eh?“ Nikruma, leveling the gun on the two men, knelt to pick up the piece of paper. Below a brief scrawled sentence about some bureaucratic matter that meant nothing to him, the man had written a credit sum – a sum with five zeroes. “This some kind of scam?” 

“No scam. Help us get to Dead Dario for our... experiment, our people pay you that much, and we leave. We might be back, but we’ll stay clear of your house and livestock. You don’t ask questions, we don’t say anything to the neighbors.” 

Nikruma narrowed his eyes. “And if I refuse and call the sheriff?” 

“Then we have to show him a bunch of documents, and he’ll make you let us through without the credits. The money is... let's say we prefer not to show anyone anything official.” 

Nikruma scowled, then nodded. “All right. Get your damned machine and meet me over there.” He pointed to the top of a knoll a hundred meters from the house. Military men skulking around his land was bad news, but with a few hundred extra credits padding his bank account, he could afford to beef up the house security. 

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Tales from the Inbox: A Novel Pest

2949-08-17 – Tales from the Inbox: A Novel Pest 

Nojus here. Duncan’s been spending the past few days wrangling with Naval Intelligence over some stories he wants to publish, and so far he hasn’t gotten clearance on any of them. 

Last week’s account of probable military-related skullduggery on Botched Ravi has led to a number of questions related to the planet being directed at me. To answer most of the common ones: yes, I have been to Botched Ravi, and yes, there is at least one vidlog from the planet on my datasphere hub, but it’s nearly ten years old. As my adventures go, Botched Ravi was rather middling; the planet itself seemed to be trying harder to kill me than the wildlife. No, I didn’t happen to tangle with a Songbird. Despite the reputation of those interesting beasts, they’re vanishingly rare, and the local administration doesn’t exactly help you find them. Yes, the Reed-Soares Personal Survival Utility works fine on Botched Ravi (just don’t try to mold its shape during a razor-dust storm). 

I don’t know why you lot insist on sending me questions through the Cosmic Background datasphere hub – I’m still maintaining mine, after all – but in the interests of not getting Duncan mad at me, I’ll answer the other common question, namely, why I think the military is interested in Botched Ravi. I think it’s a perfect place to test new military equipment. Anything that lasts ten days on Ravi without breaking will survive six months of heavy fighting anywhere else. 

While Duncan has been fighting the censors with his handful of stories, I’ve been trying to find evidence for this account. Maribel is always having problems with invasive pests accidentally introduced from other Frontier worlds, but you’d think the local news media would be covering something as big and ugly as the anonymous sender describes. I can find no evidence beyond what was sent to us – a brief text account and a few snippets of low-quality flat-capture video – so some skepticism is in order. 

The source indicates that the real names of the participants are not used. 

Ryleigh got out of her aircar and keyed the release for the cargo compartment at the vehicle’s rear. As an exterminator, she didn’t get many emergency calls in the middle of the night, but Mr. Clemensen had sounded frantic, even when she’d named her off-hours rate. 

Though Clemensen hadn’t said specifically what the problem was, Ryleigh had cleaned a nest of whittlerbugs out of his flat six weeks previously, and expected that this was more of the same. Though not native to Maribel, whittlers had become one of the most common household pets on the planet. It seemed that every third cargo ship from their native Berkant carried another handful of mating pairs, which rode to private homes in the belongings of careless spacers. Clemensen, as a spaceport cargo inspector, was more careful than most spacers, but he still sometimes brought his work home with him in unpleasant ways. 

As Ryleigh removed two boxes of equipment from the aircar, a door banged open behind her. She turned to see Clemensen, clad only in shorts and a velvety bathrobe, rushing out to meet her. “I’m glad you could make it so quickly.” The man ran one hand through his thinning hair, eyes wild in the harsh lights of the roof landing pad. “It’s worse than I’ve ever seen it, and it all happened so fast.” 

“It’s no problem.” Ryleigh shrugged, closing the aircar’s storage bay. At the hourly price Clemensen was paying, she’d work all night and into the next day to rid his residence of the pests. Unfortunately, even a major infestation of whittlerbugs rarely took more than two hours to handle. “Just show me where the problem is.” 

The man nodded, then led Ryleigh back into the building and down two flights of stairs. He seemed to pause at each corner and landing and peek around it, as if hoping not to run into any of his neighbors. Ryleigh didn’t blame him for his concern; nobody liked living next to an infestation, and his social credit would be damaged for a long time to come if anyone knew. 

As Clemensen fumbled with the security lock on his front door, Ryleigh set her burdens down and pulled her imager from its holster. She was required by local law to record images of every infestation before she eradicated it, though that data would be purged of anything traceable to Clemensen before she sent it on to the planet’s health administration. Maribel’s government liked to track the progress of its many invasive infestations, and given how quickly some of them had adapted to become sneakier and more resistant to basic extermination tactics, she thought this only too reasonable. 

When at last the door clicked and swung open, Clemensen peeked in, then stood aside. Ryleigh set her imager to constant record, then crossed the threshold, sweeping it from side to side, though there was no obvious sign of the pests’ presence. “What am I looking for?” 

“It’s... I... Look in the kitchen.” Clemensen’s voice quavered. Ryleigh didn’t remember him being this unsettled the last time she’d cleaned out his place, but stumbling on pests in the middle of the night would do that to a man sometimes. 

Ryleigh shrugged and crossed the sitting room, remembering her way around. Clemensen’s flat was of the sort fashionable on Maribel – it was dominated by the sitting room laid out for entertaining, and from that sprouted the other accommodations, including a proper old-fashioned kitchen rather than the high-tech half-kitchen common in most small domiciles throughout the Reach and a spacious washroom. 

Reaching the doorway into the kitchen, Ryleigh didn’t see anything amiss, save the disorder suggesting the man had been interrupted in the middle of fixing a late-night snack. That didn’t mean anything, though, since the light was on; whittlerbugs hated bright light. “What am I looking for?” 

“You don't see-” Clemensen, still at the front door, seemed to realize he was likely to attract attention to his problem by shouting in from the entrance, and crept inside. “You don’t see anything?” 

“No?” Ryleigh opened a few cabinets and stuck her imager into each, trusting it to beep if it encountered any sign of an infestation, whittlerbugs or otherwise. “Where did you see them?” 

“Them?” Clemensen almost choked on the word. “You think there might be more than one? Oh dear.” 

Ryleigh turned to the man, finding him white-faced at the notion. For the first time, she began to realize that the late hour was not the only cause for the man’s flustered state. 

“Ah! There!” Clemensen pointed over Ryleigh’s shoulder toward the kitchen celing. She turned just in time to see something large vanish into an alcove above the heat-plate's vent hood. Though she hadn’t gotten a good look at it, the nauseating, many-legged impression its movements offered made her glad she hadn’t. The creature was at least as long as her forearm. She’d never seen anything like it in eight T-years of extermination work, and she knew immediately why the concept of “them” had so worried her client. 

“What are you going to do?” The man seemed to expect Ryleigh to battle the creature as easily as she had flushed out the mating pair at the center of his recent whittlerbug infestation. 

Ryleigh stepped backwards, putting an arm out to force Clemensen to do the same. “Mr. Clemensen, perhaps we should discuss that outside.” She held the imager on the spot she’d seen the critter long enough for it to beep an alert and capture a few infrared images. “In the future, when you call me, do mention if the pests are of...” She glanced up at the shadows where the creature doubtless still lurked, suppressing a shudder. “Unusual size.” 

 

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