First Contact

Chapter 158: (Darknyss)

The ship dropped out of jumpspace at the edge of the resonance zone and coasted in-system, its drive dead but the beacon was lit and the ship had power. Council World Security hailed the ship repeatedly but got no answer. Finally they boarded the cargo carrier, in armor and carrying weapons.

The ship was deserted. There was still meals in the mess hall, most of the beds were made but a few were unmade. The lights flickered constantly, the hallways dark. The ship's log started out normally but then recorded crew members coming up missing, strange sightings in the hallways, sounds coming from the vents, until only the captain remained. His last entry was broken, not making sense, only talking about red burning eyes in the dark and the sound of winged creatures fluttering in the cargo hold.

The cargo hold only contained the shipping containers that the ship had picked up on its route. Nothing special. The CouncilSec troops inspected the ship closely but found no hint of what might have happened. The seals were all intact on the cargo containers and many of the containers were slated for the rich and powerful of Council World.

The ship was landed and the containers sent to the correct shipping warehouses.

The crate was large, heavy plasteel, with shipping labels from over a hundred different systems plastered all over it. It was taken from the cargo ship to the warehouse to another warehouse and another and another. Over the course of a week the cargo crate was sent to nearly 60 different warehouses, the computer system losing track of it by Day 4, mistaking it for another crate by Day 6, and finally just ignoring any calls to move it by Day 7 on an auto-rejection notice.

When it had gone for entire day without moving it was pushed to the back corner of the warehouse by computerized lifters. There it sat for almost two months.

Then, a merely six miles away, a mantid diplomat was dragged from the council chambers throwing Gypsy curses on the gathered members of the Unified Civilized Council.

One curse floated through the night are, rebroadcast on Tri-Vid and Displayscreens across the world.

"DARKNESS, DOOM, AND DESPAIR UNTO THEE! BLACK HEART, RED EYES, UNQUENCHABLE THIRST HAUNT YOUR DAYS AND STALK YOUR NIGHTS! DOOM! DOOM UNTO THEE! NO REST FOR THEE, WICKED ONES, THOU SHALT HAVE NO RESPITE! I CALL UPON THE VISTANI BELEAGUERED BY STRAHD TO POINT THE FINGER OF WRATH AT THEE! DARKNESS FROM THE GRAVE, FROM THE CRYPT, THE COLD TOUCH OF DEATH ITSELF UPON YOUR HOUSES!"

To the watching Lanaktallan it was good for a healthy chuckle. The Near Civilized Species looked at it oddly. It had very archaic phrasing and almost like the words carried actual weight. I mean, the words were shrieked out by a giant preying mantis practically frothing at the mouth and that had to count for something, right?

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The Neo-Sapients looked at the gold mantid's bright red eyes, the way her bladearm pointed at the Council chambers, and how she went perfectly still during her pronouncement of doom, and shivered. The foam dripping from her mouth, her bright glowing red eyes, the way she went perfectly still on the Tri-Vid and seemed to stare at you through the screen made your fur stand up and tail curl protectively.

I mean, curses weren't real, right?

But, life went on, since nothing happened.

Or so it seemed.

------------

Ackto'omo was taking physical inventory of the warehouse. The computer inventory system claimed only fifteen hundred thirty-eight crates but the mass counter stated thirty-nine. Which meant both systems kept bickering and arguing and frankly getting on his nerves.

He chewed his ration of nutri-cud and wandered through the warehouse, letting the little device in his hand count the boxes around him since he had trouble counting any numbers higher than 20. He took note that the further back corners of the warehouse the lights were on low power or even standby mode, filling that section with darkness. He sighed. The environmental computer had obviously gotten involved in the bickering between inventory and mass management and was devoting more power to winning the argument than controlling the environmental systems of the warehouse.

Ackto'omo moved down a narrow twisting alley of the stacks of crates. At one point he stopped and shivered, wondering why the computer would pack so many refrigerated crates in one section. The lights flickered and buzzed despite being chemical strips that either glowed softly when electricity was applied or did not.

He was back by a large crate, flat gray durasteel, covered in shipping stickers, shivering, when he noticed that the refrigeration was up so high that he had gray mist to his knees. It didn't help that the majority of the lights were either barely glowing, no longer working, or buzzing and flickering. He rubbed his opposite arms with all four upper limbs, staring at the shipping labels. Some of them were centuries, millennia old, from systems that no longer were even part of the system. He frowned, wondering how the crate had been overlooked for decades.

He turned around and stopped, staring.

Now in front him, completely wrapped in shadow, was a biped! It was taller than him. Wide shoulders, long misshapen face with a wide chin that had a dent in it. Ears flat against his head with a high point. Bloodless lips. Black hair shiny and slicked back with a V in front. Shaped eyebrows over red eyes that...

...red eyes...

"Blah bleh-blah," the biped whispered to Ackto'omo. "Look into my eyes..."

Ackto'omo stared as they eyes suddenly were circles with curved lines that began to spin, pulling Ackto'omo's attention deep in.

"You are getting sleepy. Blah bleh-blah. Very sleepy," the biped whispered, its voice somehow sibilant but resonating deep in Ackto'omo's chest.

Ackto'omo blinked rapidly then relaxed, his jaw opening and his cud falling to the floor.

"Excellent. Blah bleh-blah. Bring your supervisor back here. Remember nothing of me. Blah bleh-blah. Go now," the biped suddenly hissed away into mist, his red eyes the last thing to vanish.

---------------

Warehouse Most High Ru'umutoo sighed as he followed Ackto'omo back into the dark stacks at the far corner of the six square mile warehouse. What the cud swallowing mental defective thought was so important to require Ru'umutoo's direct attention he did not know, but Ackto'omo had threatened to report the problem to corporate, so Ru'umutoo followed the lesser being.

Not that he'd tell the menial Ackto'omo, but he was glad to come along, even the Time Clock VI had gotten involved in the argument over how many crates were in the warehouse, and with the Parking VI starting in with his "Like, what is, like, material things anyway, man..." crap, the whole thing was just getting worse.

Ever since that mantid had been hauled out spitting curses half the computer systems didn't work right.

Not that Ru'umutoo believed in curses. Why, that was as silly as believing that Terrans could perfectly mimic a robot while listening to music.

So he was following that slack jawed cud-dropper Ackto'omo. Back among the refrigerated freight, back where the shipping labels dated thousands of years ago. The lights dimmed and started to flicker, white mist slowly started to rise.

Finally Ackto'omo pointed at the crate. It was massive, covered with stickers and freight seals and shipment stickers. So old the corners and edges of the durasteel were oxidized. Ru'umutoo turned to ask Ackto'omo what was so important about a crate nobody cared about when he saw the other Lanaktallan was just staring off into space, his six eyes unfocused, drooling on the floor.

Ru'umutoo shivered in the sudden chill, looking up and wondering why so many of the lighting strips no longer worked. He felt something brush his rear flanks and whirled around.

To come face to face with a Terran of all things.

The Terran was tall, his features severe and disapproving. His ears were pointed, his hair black and slicked back from the V in the middle of his forehead. He wore formal black clothing with a white shirt, an ornate medallion on his chest. But it was his eyes that Ru'umutoo's attention.

His red eyes...

"Blah bleh-blah," the Terran intoned and Ru'umutoo found his limbs frozen. "Look into my eyes."

The eyes seemed to grow curved black lines in the iris, then expand, then slowly begin to turn, pulling Ru'umutoo's mind into them.

"You are getting very sleepy. Very very sleepy," the figure said.

Ru'umutoo's side and rear eyes closed and he went limp, swaying back and forth on his four legs.

"You are in my power," the figure said. It turned to Ackto'omo. "Excellent, slave. You may return blah bleh-blah to work. Forget all you know of me, all that blah bleh-blah transpired here. You have had a day of boredom blah bleh-blah and leisure."

"I have had a day of boredom blah bleh-blah and leisure," Ackto'omo droned.

"I do not say BLAH BLEH-BLAH! STOP THAT!" the figure snapped. "Begone, mind-slave."

Ackto'omo started to turn around and stopped. "Can I have overtime?" he asked, looking at his supervisor and the Terran. The Terran was menacing a cringing Ru'umutoo with a big rubber arachnid on a string and laughing evilly.

Stopping in mid-action the black figure paused. "Um, yeah, that sounds all right. Totally reasonable," The figure looked at Ru'umutoo. "You will grant him blah bleh-blah overtime and credit him with blah bleh-blah extra rations."

"I will grant him blah bleh-blah overtime," Ru'umutoo said.

"I DO NOT SAY BLAH BLEH-BLAH!"

"Thanks," Ackto'omo said, trotting away.

The figure wrung his hands together in glee, turning back to Ru'umutoo. "You are in my power," he said.

"I am in your power," Ru'umutoo repeated, his voice flat and monotone.

"Excellent. Blah bleh-blah. I will call you... Renfield."

"I am Renfield."

---------------------

The massive crate was moved into the abandoned tunnel network beneath the Council City, underneath the storm drains, the monorails, the private monorails, the executive monorails, the old storm drains, the sewers, the abandoned sewers, the undersewers, the wreckage of old new new york, more storm drains, a dwarven labrynth, a dragon's cave, six dwarves and a pale Terran woman working in a diamond mine, two more undersewers, the emergency shelters, the forgo...

...look, it was under the city, shut up.

Ahem.

The crate was unpacked to reveal a large pipe organ with several RealBone(TM) skeletons tied to the pipes, a coffin on an RealStoneTM Obsidian block, a small zero-point reactor cunningly disguised as a discharged and useless depleted zero-point reactor, a fancy bed, several paintings, and then wood paneling on the tunnel walls.

The dark figure stood in the middle of it all when the two robots had finished putting everything the way it was supposed to be. They were waiting to be paid. The turned and looked at the Lanaktallan who, for some weird reason, had been named "Renfield" by the Central Naming Computer, and then back at the Terran.

The figure drew itself up, wrapped its cloak around itself, and suddenly puffed into black mist. The two VI robots looked at each other, blinked, and found themselves on the streets of the city above, laying in an alley, ragged clothing on their bodies and stained shoes on their feet, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes (which weren't even a thing), to the complete confusion of both the LawSec who found them and the robots, who's last memory was standing in the charging cradles playing blackjack.

The police marked down the odd occurrence, fined the robots for unlawful wear of shoes, filed the case with the Central Computer, and forgot about it.

---------------------

Da'amoo was the Most High of the City Maintenance Guild, who ensured that the pipes were all connected, that the street lights were lit, the traffic lights directed traffic, the sewers umm... sewaged, and the cud-gutters were always clear.

Well, to be perfectly honest with himself, Da'amoo had to admit, he really didn't do anything but show up at his office, stare out the window or play with some of the pretty neat niknacks his predecessors had left behind, or play games on his desk computer. The VI pretty much ran the show, which was fine with Da'amoo.

He'd paid handsome bribes and kissed plenty of hind-hoof to get that position, so of course it was only natural that he spent most of his time staring at the clouds or playing the entirely fascinating card games and match games that curse spitting Mantid diplomat had left behind.

Currently he was staring at the hologram of a Terran male entirely wreathed in flame, admiring the way the flame rippled and ebbed and flowed, how realistic it looked, how amazingly calm the human was.

Imagine being that calm while on fire. No concerns, just 'excuse me, I appear to have burst into flame', no panic or yelling at others for assistance, just the calm acceptance of the universe, Da'amoo thought to himself. He looked back down at the game he was playing, which thankfully didn't have a timer.

He'd grown attached to the game. Bright shiny gems that needed rearranged so they were in rows of three or more. Each time he won, he got to ask a scantily clad Terran female questions about her life, maybe meet her in a new location.

It was delightfully subversive and probably violated multiple decency and inter-species interaction laws, but he was a Most High, and if he wanted to follow the advice of a pink Terran panty fairy, well, then he would.

So there.

He had just managed to make a date with the fiery redhead who made such horrible verbal statements that Da'amoo shivered with the illegality of them. Verbal assault, right in public! How delightfully subversive! His appointment reminder pinged and he sighed with frustration looking up at it.

The only problem with being the Most High is beings kept coming in wanting to kiss his hind hoof. Didn't they know he had better things to do?

The name was unfamiliar and strange: Dark'nyss Dementi'a Ravenwa'ay

Well, that wasn't typically Lanaktallan, although Da'amoo appreciated the aesthetic of the apostrophes in the name.

Well, it wasn't for an hour, and the little 2.5D recreation of the Terran redhead was lighting what he'd learned was 'a smoke' and asking him if he wanted to do a line of 'coke' or not.

The appointment wasn't for an hour. It couldn't hurt. He activated the VR features of his datalink and the red haired Terran girl held out a mirror for him with white lines on it. Snorting them made a real tingle spread through his body as the program NOTAVIRUS.EXE raced through his implant.

He sat back, chatting with the red haired Terran. She was so fascinating, wanting to hear about his day, agreeing with him and teaching him terribly profane and insulting things to call his coworkers and underlings.

"Basic Bee-yotch" was an insult he repeated several times, popping his jowls. It made him chuckle.

Regretfully, he told the red-headed Terran he'd 'smell her later' and logged out of the game. He sat back and waited for his appointment to knock on his door.

He frowned when he saw mist slowly raise up from the floor, a black mist that smelled of ozone and something slightly cloying. His officer flickered and suddenly was replaced. Instead of the book cases groaning with plas-backed legal tomes there were strange books jacketed with red, blue, green, black, tan animal skins, all with gold letters. His functional desk had been replaced by a massive carved and inlaid wooden monstrocity covered with things such as glass jars of ink, bird feathers, rolls of parchment.

He gasped, seeing that the walls were covered in red velvet and there were pictures of Lanaktallan all staring down at him, wearing the sashes of his ancient predecessors. There was the Lanaktallan who had determined that shaving two tenths of a second off of the crosswalk safety zone only increased accidents by one one millionth of a percent but resulted in a five ten thousandth of a percent increase in productivity. There was the Lanaktallan who had proven, mathematically, that Lanaktallan with white socks were inferior to those with black sock.

Gasp. There was the Lanaktallan who had codified the bribery systems! Staring at him! Disapprovingly!

One the walls were gas powered lamps shining yellow light into the office. His beautiful window was covered by heavy velvet drapes.

The lights flickered and slowly dimmed until Da'amoo was in complete darkness. He felt himself start to tremble in fear.

He wished the blue haired Terran girl was here.

From the darkness came a whisper. "Blah bleh-blah" in a hushed tone that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Da'amoo whimpered in fear.

The door burst open, revealing that the standard hallway of duralloy, featureless except for the stencils of whom worked behind each door, had been replaced by a hallway of red velvet and black satin, with more portraits of Lanaktallan, these ones leaning out of the carved wooden picture frames to stare disapprovingly at Da'amoo. Only the hallway was lit and the shadows slowly built as the lamps dimmed.

Black mist swirled down the hallway, to the door, flowing up in a cloud until it dissipated.

Da'amoo wet himself.

He stared at the suddenly opened door, the shadowed hallway still brighter than the dark room. In the doorway stood a dark figure, a biped, thin at the bottom, broad shoulders, a high collar, shiny black hair slicked back, burning red eyes, and a pale face that was misshapen even for a Terran. As Da'amoo watch the figure suddenly moved backwards, into the hall, steadily dwindling as it rapidly swooped away, vanishing into the darkness.

The lights came back on, showing the hallway as it was. The red carpet was gone, the wood paneling replaced by the duralloy walls, the pictures of stern looking predecessors missing again, the handing light sources that had been of black metal with flickering lights replaced with the normal round convex lights.

There was no sign of the black clothed Terran with the red eyes that had been in Da'amoo's office only a second before.

The door slammed shut. A plasteel door again instead of the heavy wood panel.

His office was back to normal, brightly lit and modern looking.

That still didn't stop Da'amoo from screaming when he finally found his voice.

He was still screaming when MilSec busted into his office. They had to sedate him and take him home where his servants put him to bed.

He took almost three weeks off due to 'emotional exhaustion'.

And spent all of them with the Pink Panty Fairy and the Terran females she introduced to him to calm his nerves.

------------

As the Renfield began to hammer upon the ivory keys of the great musical organ, Darknys's Ravenway'y held up his long, thing, spidery fingers and wiggled them in mid air, his carefully sculpted face lit with malevolent glee as he sat on the stained crate before the ancient typing machine. He gazed with his red eyes upon the mechanical keys as he set his gnarled fingers, tipped with curved black nails, upon the keys and began to rapidly type, the keys hitting the bare roller as the ancient organ music, predating even the Great Glassing, swelled and ebbed in the echoing sewers beneath the Council City.

Deep in a castle in Transylvania, TerraSol, an exact replica began to hammer out the message being typed thousands of light years away.

UNCONVENTIONAL WARFARE OPERATIONS PROGRESSING. HAVE MANAGED TO ESTABLISH INFILTRATION ROUTES INTO MULTIPLE MOST HIGH RESIDENCES. STAGE ONE HAUNTING WILL BE ENGAGED WITHIN FOUR PLANETARY ROTATIONS. BLOOD FUEL ADAPTATION IS SUFFICIENT TO EMPOWER AGENT.

Satisfied with his message, Darknyss stood up, swirling his black cape about himself.

"Abra-capocus!" he intoned. He turned into a great winged bat with a human head, and flapping his wings with a smug self-satisfied expression, he flew down the tunnel.

---------------

CONFEDMILINT

Oh, crap. Dammit.

---NOTHING FOLLOWS---

TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

What? It makes me nervous when you say that.

We're a nervous people, man. I mean, we're silly, yeah, but we're really nervous.

You're totally freaking me out, man.

Don't be doing this on Intra-System Ice Cream Celebration Day, man!

WHAT! WHAT IS IT!?!?!?!

IS IT A SPIDER? IS IT A HISSING SPIDER? OH GOD, IT'S A HISSING BLUE FUZZY SPIDER ON MY HEAD ISN'T IT!

OH GOD!