Tales from the Inbox: Sojourn on Seyria

2946-08-21 - Tales from the Inbox: Sojourn on Seyria

After the favorable response both Nojus Brand and I got for posting his last submission some time ago, Nojus has been inundated with requests to send me what he can about several other adventures which did not result in usable footage, and I've been bombarded with requests to put them at the front of the queue. I was not aware that every second expedition (on average) that Mr. Brand embarks on produces insufficient footage to produce a program he's satisfied with. He must be all but buried in stories he couldn't tell in the format of his well-known program.

While Nojus's program and Cosmic Background are not affiliated, we've reached an arrangement that will hopefully make everyone happy. We'll review his tales as they come, on a case by case basis. As Mr. Brand is not a very articulate person in long-form written world, he has agreed to send a recording of himself telling the story and any corroborating evidence he has, and I have agreed to condense these tales down into something appropriate to this text feed. In addition to this, he requested (and received from Ashton) a semi-regular guest spot on our vidcast program. His first appearance should be some time early next month.

I make no attempt to establish the veracity of Nojus Brand's stories; I will however only publish those that are both interesting to this audience, and that seem reasonably likely to be true. We all know that the source of these stories is given to embellishment; even so, many of his most well-known exploits are indisputable, as there is plenty of evidence in the form of drone and camera-pod footage.

In the tale he sent in for this installment of Tales from the Inbox, Mr. Brand explains what actually happened on Seyria, one of the most toxic (to humans) worlds to still sustain macroscopic life yet discovered. It comes to life because, while he returned with plenty of footage, it was not usable to form a clear sequence of events for a vidcast episode that he could be satisfied with.

Nojus hated that Seyria’s atmosphere was toxic. He much preferred to post footage of himself wearing nothing but perfectly mundane clothing, braving the dangerous wildernesses of explored space armed with nothing but his trusty Reed-Soares Portable Survival Utility. Still, hundreds of his fans had requested a trip to Seyria, all of them knowing he’d need to use an environment suit; they wouldn’t mind the change of equipment much. The suit Nojus had chosen to bring was intentionally as minimalistic as possible; that would get him as close as he could be to an unprotected adventure under the canopy of the poison planet’s equatorial jungle.

Seyria had already claimed all four of the drones he’d brought with him. All he had left was a microcamera pod, a hardy little device the size of his thumb which had been recording since he arrived, albeit often from most inconvenient angles. When he didn’t need it for other things, which was rarely, Nojus tried to use his survival utility as a camera monopod, providing the occasional drone-like view of his situation, but such shots were few and far between. Editing his new adventure, Nojus knew, would be a serious chore for his team of underpaid but reasonably competent video technicians.

The viewers had demanded Seyria because, though toxic to humans, it was teeming with life to which the acrid chemicals in the atmosphere were no obstacle. If one could forget such things, Seyria was a verdant, lush place, its warm, humid air containing twice Earth’s percentage of oxygen and ten times its carbon dioxide. As a result, the world was a hothouse, almost permanently clouded and insulated from the cold of space. Seyria was well-known in the Core Worlds as a planet of poisonous air and hideous creatures, and it was to face such monsters Nojus had come.

Despite this goal, so far, the explorer had found little worth the effort. The critters which had made off with his drones had been smaller than himself, and though they’d been brightly colored and covered in an exotic, horned carapace, he’d gotten no usable footage from either the drones or the microcamera. He had spied a few larger beasts in the distance, but they were in each case gone before he could get close enough for a good camera angle. In general, the trip had been, though far from dull, somewhat disappointing.

Nojus reached the lee side of a large rock outcropping, dropping his hard-sided pack of tools and supplies on the only surface he’d seen in hours that wasn’t covered in soft, engulfing moss or hip-deep in muddy water. His suit readouts still showed green, and he had days of nutrient slush left, but he resolved never to agree to suit-only planets ever again. There was something impersonal about taking on the elements of Seyria from the inside of even the flimsiest armor. He was used to doing things the old-fashioned way, the way it was meant to be done.

Changing his survival utility from hiking pole configuration to serve once again as a camera mount, Nojus clipped the microcamera into its tip and set it up on the outcropping. It was always recording, so he adjusted its angle to focus on the lush, riotous jungle behind him. “Day three on Seyria.” He said, without using the radio. The muffled sound of his voice would need to be touched up, but that wasn’t his problem. “Nothing too bad since the drones. Really, this place is not living up to its reputation, and if it weren’t for this suit, I’d feel right at home.” He chuckled, for the benefit of the audience. “Hopefully, those of you ingesting the feed will not be quite as bored as I have been today, after my team has fixed up the footage. Sure, this planet is...”

Nojus trailed off, noticing motion behind the camera, in the shadows cast by the outcrop of rock. He held up one gloved hand to the camera, excited. The movement had looked like something big. “Wait just a minute!” He exclaimed, for the benefit of the audience.

At the sound, the thing in the shadows moved again. A long, chitinous limb reached out to find purchase on the rock, not far from his pack of supplies, and a pair of long, trembling antennae unrolled and hung over his head. This, clearly, was one of the monsters Seyria was known for. Nojus hurried forward to grab the camera and survival tool, holding up one hand toward the beast as its triangular, many-eyed head cautiously peeked out of its hole. “I’ll be right with you!” He said, quickly detaching the camera from the multitool and configuring it into a barbed gaff. 

Hefting his newly configured weapon in one hand and pointing the camera with the other, Nojus stepped toward the giant creature, just as it unlimbered its multitude of clicking mouthparts. It was, he could see, undoubtedly predatory, and though it didn’t seem especially hungry, Nojus was right in front of its lair, and not running away; it could almost certainly be goaded into conflict. “Hello there, lovely.” Nojus shouted up at it, as its head rose above him. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you!” 

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Special Announcement: Ashton Pesaresi Interviews Nojus Brand

2946-08-20 - Special Announcement: Ashton Pesaresi Interviews Nojus Brand

On 7 September, Nojus Brand will appear on the Cosmic Background vidcast program for a full-length interview and discussion of the things he saw during his nearly six-month tour of some of the more dangerous worlds of the Coreward Frontier. Nojus is not based here on Centauri, but we hope to have him sit in our studio for interviews in the future whenever he is in the system.

Ashton will be interviewing Mr. Brand, and he has requested audience suggestions as to the topics he should cover. All topics will be cleared with Mr. Brand's media team before the interview.

Nojus Brand is best known for his vidcast program, in which he tackles some of the most hostile and forbidding regions on explored planets. His audience and the audience of Cosmic Background overlap to a large degree, and after the positive reviews that reached both programs concerning his recent unplanned appearance on this text feed under the Tales from the Inbox metatag category, our two programs have decided to establish a more regular collaborations.

A second Tales from the Inbox episode featuring Mr. Brand's escapades will enter the text feed tomorrow at the usual time.

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Tales From the Inbox: First Contact on Makaharwa

2946-08-14 - Tales From the Inbox - First Contact on Makaharwa

Raukrhan watched the Great Old One silently. There was no mistaking what it was; the song-stories said that the Old Ones would come haloed in fire and gleaming to surpass the finery of all the cladelords, and so it had come to pass. Now, the creature hovered lightly over the Razor Plains, the great blasts of its breath flattening even the stiff blade-bushes below it. Dozens of glowing eyes watched in all directions, and not one of them had blinked since Raukrhan had begun watching. 

The Great Old Ones had not come to Makaharwa in at least fifteen generations, but it had been said in all that time that their return was imminent. The story-singers knew that the fickle, changing will of the Highmost Of All Worlds would someday cast its baleful eye on Raukrhan’s people once more, and He would send his servants, the Great Old Ones, to treat, to grant boons, or to destroy, as He had in ages past. In those days, some of Raukrhan’s ancestors had been taken to live among the stars, and it was said that those who had gone were singing still in the heavenly City of Worlds, entertaining the Highmost and his glittering court. 

Raukrhan hoped that, in the craggy vantage he had selected, even the multitudinous eyes of a Great Old One would be unable to spy him. He kept his plumage dulled to match the rocky spire onto which he clung, certain that as long as he was still, nothing in the world could see him. The Old Ones were not of the world, of course; this one might spy him out all the same. It was a risk, but a necessary one, and Raukrhan had volunteered quickly, before lots had been cast. As the rest of the clade had fled into the safety of the sacred grottoes, he had come out alone, carrying nothing except a bag with three days’ food for his vigil. Everyone knew that weapons and totems were no proof against the Old Ones. 

After a long while, the Great Old One effortlessly seared for itself a blackened hole in the Razor Plains and came to a ponderous rest. Even from a distance, Raukrhan could smell the sour stench of burning and desolation carried on the wind, along with the bitter, venomous smell of the Old One itself.

Any hope that the vast being had come only to take ease in a pleasant place was soon dashed; the creature disgorged a number of tiny things, some of which circled in tandem up into the air, while others tottered about on the scorched ground around their parent. The ground-bound things moved with deliberate caution as they fanned out into the Plains in small groups, while the fliers circled restlessly above their sinister parent.  

These fliers, the obvious threat to Raukrhan and his clan, were of a kind with the Old One’s glittering, sinister element. Their odd jerking motion in the air, and their total lack of wings or plumage with which to ride the wind, unsettled him, as did the speed with which they performed their precise aerial dance.  

One by one, these tiny subordinates flew off in all directions. This, the song-stories did not prepare Raukrhan for; the Great Old Ones described by the tale-singers never needed to search for what they wanted. When they came, they simply proceeded toward the object of their desire, erasing all obstacles as if they had never been. Perhaps, in all their ages of service to the Highmost, even Old Ones had become forgetful. 

Almost too late, Raukrhan noticed one of the flitting minions meandering toward him. He hugged the rock closely, watching it go by, buzzing like a gorged rubyfly and bobbing like a piece of foamwood in a rapid stream. It was not much bigger than himself, and seemed to hang in the air upside down, with its swiveling head hanging below its round body and stubby, fruit-shaped bulbs which seemed a disdainful mockery of wings. Such a thing, he knew, should not fly, and yet it soared jerkily through the air. 

Just as it seemed the creature passed Raukrhan’s hiding place without taking notice, it came to a sudden halt, spinning its body in place until it faced him.  Hoping still to avoid notice, the sentry froze and held his breath, even as its hot, acrid breath washed over him. 

The creature barked something unintelligible, its voice tinny and hollow. Raukrhan could no longer hope that he had not been noticed. After he spent a few seconds in silent deliberation, it repeated its noises, dipping lower, until its many-eyed head was suspended directly in front of his own eyes. Seeing that it lacked teeth or claws of any kind, Raukrhan hoped to spook this thrall from the stars – he threw up his feather-crest and cast his wings wide, shifting his plumage from the dull gray-brown color of the rocks to a vibrant pattern of violet and yellow.  

Most of Makaharwa’s more dangerous predators found such a display at least surprising, but this subordinate to the Old One merely backed away slowly, making no move to suggest that it was alarmed. Shifting his colors once more, Raukrhan threw himself at it, clawing at its hardened head with his climbing talons. 

To his relief, the shining creature broke off and gained altitude, though he doubted he’d done any damage. Before it could recover, he leapt off his perch over and sped away into a cliff-hugging dive, hoping to hide among the crags and evade the gleaming horror.  

Evading an Old One, however, proved as impossible as the song-stories claimed. As soon as Raukrhan had leveled off at the bottom of the cliff, the bobbing abomination dropped down in front of him. It had sprouted a new limb since he turned away; the spindly, talon-like appendage joined its round body just above the hanging head. This limb flailed against the air, but not randomly – Raukrhan decided that it was gesturing, a crude mimicry of how Raukrhan’s people might gesture with their clawed wing-digits. The meaning of the gesture was clear - it was pointing at its prey, as if claiming him as its own. 

Raukrhan, imagining the things it might intend to do with someone so claimed, turned and abruptly and dove into the canopy of a narrow, wooded gulch, crashing through the recoiling tendrils of a waterfall tree and taking refuge among its distended roots. 

Still, the questing servant of the Old One followed, slowly lowering itself between the trees. It found Raukrhan easily, and pointed at him once more. This time, he realized, it was not quite pointing at him – it was pointing at his little bag of provisions, dangling from its carry-strap.

Raukrhan hissed at it, looking for another way to escape. He didn’t want to part with the food, but he would gladly trade it for his life. Perhaps the Great Old One had merely come to the world to fill its cavernous belly? If so, it had chosen its location well – the hills around the Razor Plains were fertile foraging ground, and even the perilous plains themselves could be made to yield up a great bounty. Carefully, he lifted the leather loop off his neck and tossed the bag to the horror, hoping that this would satisfy its desires. Perhaps while it investigated the contents, he might make his escape. 

The shining creature barked again, equally unintelligibly. Its single talon picked up the bag, then held it out, as if to give it back. Raukrhan hissed at it, not understanding the otherworldly creature’s ways, and not wanting to try. The Old Ones were beyond the comprehension of all but the Highmost, and only madness could be the reward of such curiosity.

The servant of the Old One persisted, pointing with its single claw to itself, to Raukrhan, then into the distance, where its sire lay in a circle of devastation. It offered the bag, then again. Raukrhan, despite his best efforts, began to see the edges of its purpose; it wanted him to return with it, and was offering him something if he obeyed. He had no choice; the Old One’s thralls could certainly hunt him to the ends of the world, and if he did by miraculous fortune evade them, they would just as likely search out his clade-mates, since the sacred grotto was only a day’s flight away. Whatever its purpose, he was the sentry, the one who had accepted the risk; it was his responsibility to suffer whatever the Old One willed, in the hope that it would spare the others. 

Fear twisting his insides, Raukrhan snatched the bag back. The silvery creature rose past the treetops, and Raukrhan clambered up after it and took to the air, following the bobbing, shining servant back to its titanic master.

He wanted to flee once more, but he saw it was no use; more of the flying servants watched from a distance on all sides, and the tottering groundlings had gathered to watch his approach as well. As it went in the stories, the will of the Highmost, enacted by the Great Old Ones, could not be thwarted.

Today's entry is a rare treat - Raukrhan's account is the only case I've ever known of a first contact event for which both the explorers' and the natives' perspectives are recorded. The highly sensationalized exploration of Makaharwa, the so-called Chromatic Planet, is likely well known to this audience; Raukrhan is to date the only one of the planet's native inhabitants to agree to leave the world and return to the Core Worlds. Raukrhan's tour of the Core Worlds was far less sensationalized than the explorers' efforts to catalog the planet's diverse and beautiful ecosystem, likely for security reasons.

All the information I can find says that this account was likely dictated to a human assistant some time in mid-2943, shortly before Raukrhan returned to Makaharwa with a second research expedition. His impression of human arrival matches neatly with the impressions of several other pre-technological sapients encountered on the Coreward Frontier, and it is curious how nearly identical these legends are iacross wide areas of space. Perhaps in some long-forgotten era, the people of Makaharwa and the other inhabited worlds of the Frontier had dealings with the Xenarchs? I can find no research conclusively showing this to be the case, but a quick datasphere search shows that I am hardly the first person to speculate along these lines.

If there are any among the audience with additional light to shed on why these legends might be so similar, by all means send it along - I would be happy to present that sort of content on this feed.

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Tales from the Inbox: Last of the Silent

2946-08-07 - Tales from the Inbox: Last of the Silent

Today's entry comes to us from Lukas R., a freelance explorer contracting to support the Naval Survey Auxiliary. Lukas returned from one of his trips with an unexpected passenger. Mira Silent, as this passenger became known, is now a fairly prominent musician and entertainer at Mirabel. Lukas assures us he secured her permission to send in the story. Evidently, she never talks about the sort of people that populated her world; I suspect she didn't know herself. Either she was the last child of a small remnant group that survived whatever disaster befell the city, or she was a child brought along on a group expedition to recover or plunder the site, and her elders met a grisly fate. Either way, she never knew the dreary ruin Lukas describes when it was full of life.

While I have no proof of any of this, I can find no obvious reason to doubt his account. Mira's datasphere hub neither contradicts nor corroborates Lukas's tale.

Lukas stared into the fog, waiting for his survey drones to return. No sound broke the oppressive stillness of the dead city, not even wind hissing through the open windows of the corroded prefabricated buildings. The only motion in view was the gentle fluttering of scraps of torn cloth hanging from some of the windows.  

Though Frontier legends spoke of the existence of the Silent Planet, Lukas hadn’t known what “silent” would mean until he found the place. Even a flock of bird-like creatures soaring in close formation through the misty sky made no noise as they passed over the dead towers. Each time he shifted his footing on the roof from which he’d deployed his drones, the groaning of the pitted sheet metal seemed a roaring intrusion. 

Finding the Silent Planet had been an accident, just as it was in all the stories. The world didn’t appear on any navigation chart, and he’d stumbled upon it in a nameless system while performing an asteroid-mining survey. Most likely the builders of the four and five story towers of prefab modules had intended their colony to be hidden. Perhaps they had been Penderites or practitioners of some other isolationist philosophy, seeking to cut off all contact with the Core Worlds. Perhaps the town had been a hideout for pirates and their families, or perhaps a damaged colony ship had limped into the system, stranding a few unfortunate settlers in its enduring, oppressive silence. 

Though there was no way of knowing how long it had been since the builders had left or died out, Lukas saw nothing to indicate human habitation within the nameless town in his own lifetime. Neither had he seen any human remains – the inhabitants had vanished without a trace, leaving him to guess at their fate. Even decayed and moldering, the ruins hinted at a colorful, vibrant community, at a life interrupted. It was as if a city of thousands had simply walked out into the mist, never to return. 

The hum of the returning drones deafened Lukas, though the machines were considered quiet and unobtrusive anywhere else. After each of the three fist-sized machines circled its owner and docked to the charging ports on his pack, Lukas turned around and clambered down the way he had come. The pack's computer would soon spit out a map of the ruins, hopefully pointing the way to any easily-salvaged valuables the lost inhabitants had abandoned. The timetable on his contract prevented him from staying planetside long enough to perform a full search of the ghost town. 

In fact, as Lukas stepped over the ruins of some sort of polymer-printed furniture, he wondered why even people with something to hide might have come to such a dreary place. There were dozens of genuinely pleasant worlds on the Frontier just as secluded as this one, without its dreadful, dead aspect. Despite this, thousands of people had lived, worked and loved – and apparently died – in the shifting mists and constant stillness of the Silent Planet. He couldn’t imagine anyone, even religious ascetics, choosing such a life if they had any other choice. 

As Lukas returned to the crumbling pavement of street level, he spotted movement in the corner of his eye, in the shadows of a yawning doorway. Grabbing at the carbine slung under his arm, he leveled the weapon at the disturbance and brought the lights on his suit to full power. The harsh blue-white beams found nothing within but the far wall and a few rotted heaps that might once have been furnishings. 

Shaking his head, Lukas brought up the map his survey computer had rendered to orient himself, heading toward the location determined to be the highest likelihood of portable valuables. The silence was getting to his nerves, but there was a simple explanation for it: the world had a fairly standard biosphere, save that none of the wildlife had ever learned to use human-audible sound. 

Lukas had only moved a few meters down the weed-choked thoroughfare before he spotted motion again. Something withdrew around a corner ahead of him as he approached. Carbine ready, the explorer activated his helmet recorder and followed the disturbance. Despite his uneasiness, Lukas knew good data on the planet's wildlife might be as valuable as any salvage. Whatever it was seemed skittish, so he probably wasn’t in any danger. 

"Let’s have a look at you." 

Immediately Lukas regretted voicing the thought; even a whisper under his breath echoed thunderously off the weathered walls looming on all sides. In an instant, the dreary, damp atmosphere became forbidding, even hostile. Lukas wondered if it would be wiser to abandon his hopes of easy profit and head back to his landing craft. After all, the legends said the Silent Planet was cursed; even if he didn’t personally put much stock in such mysticism, the legend might have arisen from very real danger. 

Turning around to head back to the edge of the settlement where he’d landed his spacecraft, Lukas found himself face to face with a tattered black cowl. He yelped in surprise and fell backwards, dropping his carbine to the moss-covered pavement. 

The figure didn’t react to Lukas’s alarm except to beckon with one shrouded arm. Lukas followed its gesture and saw something slither into a shadowed alley. He didn't get a good look at it, but he sensed he didn’t want to – the hooded being might have saved his life. Lukas nodded silently, trying unsuccessfully to see the figure's shadowed face. 

Satisfied, the figure dropped its arm and, leaning heavily on a walking-stick made out of a bent piece of piping, hobbled away down the lane. Not even the foot of its cane made any noise on the crumbling pavement. Forcing himself to be quiet, got back to his feet and hurried to follow. 

After a few turns through the labyrinthine ruins, the figure ducked through a tattered cloth curtain covering a doorway, and Lukas, not without reservation, followed. Inside, behind a neat stack of ancient-looking plastic canisters, he found the embers of a small fire glowing in a scavenged metal bowl, their heat keeping the dampness at bay. Soot-stains on the ceiling above suggested the place saw regular use as a shelter, and a pile of cloth near the fire probably served as bedding. 

 The cowled figure dropped stiffly into a seated position near the fire-bowl and cast back its hood. In the red glow of the embers, Lukas saw his rescuer’s face – a woman's, angular and painfully thin, her mouth twisted into a permanent scowl by a wide scar across her lips and left cheek. Lukas guessed based on her limping gait that the scar was only the beginning of her ailments, even though she didn't look a day older than thirty. 

Lukas approached the fire cautiously. The woman had no obvious weapons, but that didn’t mean she was harmless. "Who are you?" 

The woman took a few seconds to remember her voice before she answered in a smooth, melodic voice softer than the most careful whisper, and totally at odds with her battered appearance. "I am... Mira." The name seemed to be something dredged up from a vast distance. "I am the last." 

“I’m Lukas.” Lukas sat down opposite Mira, setting his weapon aside. “What happened here?” 

The woman only shrugged – whether out of ignorance or apathy, Lukas couldn’t say. “This world ever hungers. Do not feed it. Even the mists sometimes devour.” 

Lukas shuddered, remembering the unmentionable thing he’d glimpsed slithering into the shadows. There might be treasure in abundance on the Silent Planet, but he didn’t fancy tangling with whatever had shredded Mira’s flesh. “I don’t plan on it.” 

Mira laughed quietly, though her mouth could not form a smile to accompany the sound. “Others like you have come. Loud, awkward, confident. They rarely leave.” 

“Then why are there no spacecraft?” Lukas held up his wrist unit, activating its screen to show the map his drones had created. Even the pads of the colony’s crumbling spaceport lay empty save for a few hulks picked clean of parts long before the colony’s end. If Mira was telling the truth, there should have been dozens of abandoned ships around the dead city. 

Mira leaned forward to scrutinize the map, grasping Lukas’s wrist with one painfully thin, long-boned hand. Despite the poverty of her situation, the folding screen on the wrist of his suit didn’t seem to surprise her. 

After a few moments, she let go and returned to her previous position. “I cannot say. Perhaps in time even machines become food.” 

Lukas looked at the map himself, looking for structures that might be plant-choked spacecraft which his drones had misidentified. After a few moments, though, he decided such analysis would have to wait until he was safely back in orbit. If the planet’s ecology did eat spacecraft, he was operating on borrowed time. “Thank you for your warning, Mira. I think I’ll leave, and you’re welcome to join me.” 

As Lukas stood, Mira stood also, taking up her bent walking-stick once more. “Join you?” 

“Yes. I can take you off this world.” He tapped the location of his ship on the map. “Can we get here?” 

Once again, the woman scrutinized the map. “I can help you reach your ship, but why would I leave?” 

Lukas shook his head, incredulous. "Why would you want to stay?” 

“Because I am the last.” From the look on her face, Mira seemed to find this question as ridiculous as he had found hers. 

“You’ll still be the last when you leave.” 

Strangely, this answer seemed to satisfy the crippled survivor. “Perhaps that is so.” She raised a hand to her face, running her fingers along the scar marring her otherwise noble visage. “Or perhaps there will be another to take my place.” 

Lukas suddenly felt uneasy at the idea of having Mira aboard his ship. What if she wasn’t what she seemed? What if she was as broken mentally as she was physically? Still, he had offered, and couldn’t bring himself to take it back. 

In Lukas’s hesitation, the last inhabitant of the Silent Planet made her decision. “I will go with you, spacer Lukas.” As she spoke, she seemed to stand up straighter than before, as if remembering that she was a human, not a mere scurrying prey animal for the planet’s skulking terrors.  

Lukas nodded, shouldering his carbine. He kept his reservations to himself; he had offered her an escape, and he could not now recall his words. 

“Follow. Be absolutely quiet.” Raising her hood once more, the scarred woman hobbled toward the curtain-covered doorway and back out to the misty street. 

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