Marius Laverne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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xp_logs2025-05-31 06:03 pm
xp_emplate) wrote in xp_logs2025-05-31 06:03 pm
Incursion: Earthfall - Return to Sender
With the real crew restored, the three X-Men receive a clean bill of health from the ship’s medic. More or less.
"Tertiary infection resolved, associated damage to DNA repaired. Clean bill of health and one nonviable broodling embryo awarded to Mockingbird."
When the X-Men were told the ship's medic would look them over it was unlikely any of them had expected an entity like Sirorsky. It wasn't humanoid. It wasn't even bipedal. Instead, the three of them had been greeted by something that seemed like the result of an intimate liaison between a dragonfly and a toy helicopter: a creature barely a foot long, exoskeleton gleaming with newly replaced segments, and buzzing around the Med Bay like an angry fly.
Its affect, however, proved doctors were the same galaxy-over. Sirorsky had ushered them into his domain with brusque professionalism and barraged the three of them with a variety of scans they were forced to assume were legitimate tests. Marius and Kyle failed to engage his attention, but Bobbi's results had whipped the tiny creature into a flurry of activity. A quick inoculation in the arm, a little numbing spray to her abdomen, and within moments his tiny insectile arms had proven themselves to be the tools of a surgeon. The entire procedure had taken only minutes, including the nearly invisible sutures closing the wound.
Sirorsky extended a vial to Bobbi. Something roughly the size of a marble rolled around the bottom.
"Souvenir?" it offered.
"Implying that I'd want, even need, something to remember this by," she grunted, checking the incision area and blinking in pleasant surprise at the efficiency of the procedure. "More like a trophy of our victory . . . not that I really want that either," Bobbi mused. "But hey, it might prove useful someday, so why not?" She took the proffered vial gingerly for a few moments, as if it could burst back out and re-implant itself inside of her, before closing her fist around it and exhaling loudly. "Thank you, seriously."
"A grateful patient? Most welcome." The medic buzzed a few feet away to settle beneath what seemed to be some form of heat lamp, which began to hum gently. As the sterilisation process commenced Sirorsky moved his tiny mechanical limbs like a grooming bee. "Sutures self-dissolve within 24 hours. Please observe standard hygiene practices and temporarily increase calorie intake to aid healing. Otherwise, no particular aftercare necessary."
"Here, I don't have one of those still in me, do I?" Marius inquired. He jerked a thumb at Kyle. "I know he doesn't . . ."
"Butchery. Do not think evidence of massive physical trauma has gone unnoticed. Was procedure sterile? It was not. Massive cocktail of antibiotics for him is next." The tiny alien reached up to stroke a wing with a silvery leg. "Yourself, no embryo or remains are detected, but dangerously elevated autoantigen levels remain present. Theory: Parasite destroyed outright by robust immune response. For you, steroids to curtail autoimmune reaction and prevent long-term damage. That is last."
Marius turned these terms over in his head. "Huh," he said, "you were right. I suppose I am allergic to space."
"Yeah, procedure was super not sterile." Kyle answered. "One sec, Doc, uh. Is Doctor the right term? I gotta gloat for a second. I was right, space allergy." He patted himself on the back before pulling his shirt back on, having already shown the slowly healing incision site, the pale new skin growing where he'd been accidentally shot, the scratches and bruises from fighting their way to the bridge. "If it helps, and I bet it won't, I heal. Usually pretty fast, and regenerative. I'll take the massive cocktail of antibiotics anyway, because it sure as hell won't hurt." He had avoided looking at Bobbi's vial of alien thing, having already seen his own squirming under his skin. A man had limits in his curiosity.
"Non-negotiable in any case. Early and aggressive treatment is best." The light clicked off. Sirorsky zipped from beneath the lamp and began to putter at a console, its many legs working in a complex pattern. "Such it is with Brood infection. If caught early, treatment is routine antiparasitic measures. As infection progresses more complex treatments are necessary to reverse tissue infiltration and damage to host DNA. Fellow crew were in such a state when they returned to ship. Did not realize Brood had boarded until after they had been put in stasis. Lucky for them – infection halted, excitement missed. Waldo and me, less so. However, easier to repair than organics such as yourselves. No harm done."
"Physically, nothing that won't heal it appears," Bobbi agreed, absentmindedly rubbing her wound site. "Psychologically, though, I'm afraid I may need to get a second opinion on that one, doc. No offense," she added. "Though I'm grateful for your assistance, I'd hate to see what would've happened if . . ." She trailed off, looking at the vial again before closing her eyes and pocketing it, coming to the same realization that Kyle had already reached.
Marius clapped his gloved hands together. "Ah, Bobbi, when we return Kyle and I shall induct you into our time-honoured post-mission ritual of becoming irretrievably pissed. Come with us to Harry's. Aches are eased, livers are tested, and we deal with the horrific potential of What Might Have Been through the simple expedience of drinking til all memory of the incident has been thoroughly obliterated."
"What fascinating ways organics spend their time," Sirorsky commented, its voice somehow managing to sound simultaneously tinny and dry. A tray beside its console extended to reveal an ampule. The little bot slotted it into one of its arms – one that appeared uncomfortably long and needle-like, as if specially designed for puncturing. It turned, wings buzzing.
"Now, Wildchild. Receive antibiotics before alien microorganisms dissolve abdominal wall."
Elsewhere, Matt and Namor advise the Starjammers in certain legal matters waiting in their home dimension.
Behind the flickering and pulsing holomap sat what only could be defined as a big fellow. The man, although he was clearly more amphibian, sat hunched to avoid scraping the ceiling as his claws delicately flicked through the ship's databases. He'd been introduced as Ch'od – broad-shouldered, long-tailed, and all corded strength under moss-colored scales. He moved like a man used to being too big for the room, careful with every shift, all gentleness over force.
“The Imperium,” he rumbled, voice edged with something brittle, “likes its stories clean. Officially, the Brood were wiped out years ago. Eliminated, archived, mythologized. Makes the empire look tidy. Makes rebellion look like a bad memory.”
His tail flicked once against the deck. “They’d rather call us liars than admit they’ve been breached. Especially from us. We’re not exactly in their good graces.”
Ch'od turned to the red-haired human opposite him, head tiling with faint curiosity. Behind the pair lurked Namor, imperiously overseeing the exchange. The computer intelligence called Waldo hummed overhead, hanging like a chandelier gone wrong – sleek alloy limbs folding and unfolding in lazy arcs, eyes blinking in asynchronous clusters. His voice, when it came, was far too cheerful for the implications of his data.
"Technically, the Starjammers are classified as Class-IV insurgents, multi-sector pirates, and persons of high strategic risk under Article Seventeen of the Throneworld Concordat on Interstellar Sovereign Continuity!”
"If we show up in their space," Ch'od said bluntly, "they’ll fire first and edit their logs later. But someone has to report what we found. So — Friend Murdock." He leaned forward, voice softening. "Is there any provision in your Terran legal traditions for enemies of the state bearing unignorable truth?"
This wasn't his specialty, but really, he should be used to this by now. Matt nodded slowly. His mask was off now that things were fairly over with. "There is precedent, a lot of precedent, of using people who are incarcerated in prison to get information from other prisoners in exchange for leniency in their own sentencing. The problem is, if a criminal reports a crime, even if they are not the ones committing the crime they are reporting, they will likely be arrested anyways. There is precedent, though, for things like hostage exchange, whether it be knowledge or something else," he was mostly thinking out loud, exploring various legal paths out loud.
The robot trilled, delighted. "Oh! Under Imperial judicial schema there is a precedent for testimony from Class-IV insurgents! It’s called the Frr'dox Clause! Last invoked, hmm, two monarchs ago during the Nest Wars. Highly irregular. The witness was dismembered publicly and then posthumously honored for gallantry. Mixed results!"
“Enough.”
Namor stepped from the shadowed edge of the chamber, arms tucked primly behind his back, presence equal parts composed as unyielding.
“Law is not a wall to stand behind. It is a tool used by those with power to shape what’s remembered and what’s erased." He fixed Matt with a gaze that was, oddly enough, encouraging. "Give this Throneworld something they cannot ignore. A truth too large to edit out of the story."
Ch’od’s tail gave a thoughtful flick against the deck, scales rasping faintly.
“Well,” he rumbled, "Those feathered fiends are holding someone we want back." His gills flexed in what might have been a sigh. "Our captain. No charges. No trial. Just vanished. Their high command doesn’t even admit he’s alive. But we’ve got proof. That would be hard to scrub, even for the Imperium. We hand it over, loudly, and maybe . . . "
"Anything loud enough, public enough and with the right spin . . . you don't need precedent necessarily, you only need proof and public favour," he nodded towards Namor, "Robin Hood is a myth from Earth of a group of thieves that rob from the rich to give to the poor. There's been many versions over the centuries, but the core remains the same, he leads a group of outlaws against the sheriff who is taxing the people until they starve for a new king. Even though he's breaking the law himself he's a hero, whereas the sheriff, who is the law, is the villain."
"Myths," Namor said, "How charming. The first lie any empire teaches is that its people cannot breathe without the crown." His gaze slid past the holomaps, the steel of the bridge, and out toward the burning Nevada desert. "Forget folklore. Consider leverage. I surely left enough of Admiral Samedar intact to negotiate. One leader for another."
Ch’od’s shifted his bulk eagerly. "I like it. We’ve got something they can’t bury. Samedar’s tagged — Imperial registry, command-grade DNA. Flash that through the right channels like your Hooded Robin, and the Throneworld flinches. They can respond to public outcry or deal with us."
Waldo dropped from the ceiling, limbs flaring with glee. "I can hijack seven beacon relays before they finish their morning propaganda cycle. Just feed me a message."
They both turned to Matt.
"Let me get my computer," Matt said, already pulling earbuds from a small pocket in his uniform. "And Namor? Not all governments are totalitarian dictatorships or monarchies."
"Shame on me for forgetting, however briefly, that you are a man of faith, Advocate Murdock – if not in gods, then in systems." Namor exhaled sharply. "This Imperium, clearly the former in your dichotomy, is no outlier. Every state, no matter how just its anthem, is one crisis away from . . . well."
He left that open for interpretation, shooing Matt with a flick of his fingers. "Go. Let us arm our new allies with a fiction dressed in enough truth to burn. And their enemies? Let them choke on it."
Clint and Molly aid the travelers in some final repairs, and receive a little bonus in return.
"Revise opinion, Hepzibah must," opined the skunk-like female as she observed Molly and Clint. "Inherently hopeless with technology Terrans are not. Only our Corsair."
This got a shrug from her cybernetic crewmate. After his blade-first introduction to them, the humanoid had formally introduced himself as Raza Longknife. "'Tis a captain's duty to fly and fight. Let him venture not into C'reee's domain."
The white, mink-like creature known as C'reee glanced up from the control panel and made a comment that sounded like a piano falling down a flight of stairs.
"Again," Raza added.
Molly made a face, both from the chunk of something unidentified she noticed on her shoulder, and the smell. "This place smells like a gym bag and a spider had a baby," she said. Her eyes flickered up, taking a glance at the white . . . whatever it was before her attention was drawn to the drive interface. It looked alien, yet not, especially when it had stuff written in English on it.
"Oooh, shiny. What is that?" she said.
C'reee chittered a response. Raza nodded at the complicated device resting in the cradle of one panel. "Ah, you see the controls for our navigation and propulsion system. 'Tis a bit tricky. The option to pass through fourth space was fully integrated into the ship. Not just the controls, but the technology required for the calculations, aye? 'Tis a system far beyond the standard. 'Til all this we never dared engage it."
Hepzibah's broad tail fluttered as she chuckled. "Captain feared flipping the wrong switch would leave Starjammers smeared across the multiverse. Yet alive we are, organs still intact. Work out such things do. The day they do not, never will we know."
Clint resisted the urge to Yoda back at the skunk woman and, instead, turned his attention away from the wires he'd repaired and finally reattached. "So your captain - Corsair - he's from Earth. That's why there's post-its everywhere with English on them?" He stood up and stretched his back, then checked with the ferret-like creature who'd been really good about directing him toward other areas that needed repairing. "Where is he?"
"He is currently a guest of the Imperium's carceral hospitality," replied Raza as C'reee let out a string of syllables that indicated the small creature had a certain opinion about that topic. "'Twas a miscalculation honestly made. We came into possession of a certain piece of merchandise. There was a disagreement with the purchaser."
"Stolen from Z'nox raiders fair and square," Hepzibah complained with a flash of teeth. "That it had been stolen from same buyer first, how were we to know? Quick return we must make, even more pressing than before. Disease allowed to spread unchecked in slave pits. Brood infection, a catastrophe would be."
The white alien chittered again. It sounded disapproving. Raza gave it a nod.
"I ask your pardon for our lack of manners," said the cyborg. "We are in your debt. Is there anything we might do to repay your assistance? Monetary compensation 'twould be offered, but at present we find ourselves disadvantaged-"
"Broke," Hepzibah clarified.
The organic half of her shipmate's face showed just a hint of irritation, but Raza did not rise to the bait. "Is there aught else we might provide?" he finished.
Molly's eyes brightened. "Hmm . . ." she said.
"I mean--technically I guess, don't worry about it because we're heroes and blah blah blah blah but I would LOVE to see the schematics of your warp drive. It's probably way too advanced for like our everyday earth but . . . I'm familiar with Asgard tech so like . . . it wouldn't totally be gibberish."
"If it is thy wish," replied Raza, although the look on Hepzibah's indicated Molly had asked the equivalent of being allowed to see the schematics for a Toyota Tercel.
Based on Hepzibah's expression, Clint guessed the warp drive was probably the least of the things they could have asked to look at, but Clint couldn't fault Molly for requesting to see it. He'd actually really like to see the schematics for their cryo tech. "Hey, the warp drive - is that what's used for dimension hopping, or is that for faster than light travel? Because . . . honestly, both would be amazing to see, but dimension hopping would be great for us to take a look at, too. We can do it right now, but it's a little . . . involuntary sometimes and not well controlled all the time."
C'reee twitched its pointed snout at Clint, then let out a string of fluting noises. These went on for some time.
"Thou art most welcome to that as well," Raza translated, "but the dimensional drive is ill-understood, even by C'reee. 'Twas indeed an experimental creation of the Imperium, and its energy source entwined with the warp system. 'Tis a thing we durst not use in any but situations most dire, though now that circumstances have seen it so C'reee and Waldo assure us we may return from whence we came. Perhaps 'tis this last detail that appeals?"
The ferret-like alien had already moved to a circular display and was rapidly tapping in commands with two of its four feet. A holographic image appeared, layered with a score of unfamiliar symbols. C'reee tapped a few more times and a few of the symbols changed to English.
"Technology is iterative," Raza continued as his shipmate chirred, "and C'reee knows not what terrestrial foundations or materials thou hast to build upon, but perhaps parts of it may be of use. He appreciates others of a scientific spirit."
"So if blow yourselves up you do, to blame he will be," Hepzibah said cheerfully.
Molly nodded slowly, trying to understand what Raza was saying. "So . . . yes we can have some fancy tech?" she said. You'd think being around Asgardians would make it easier but it'd been awhile. She felt a little rusty.
Raza nodded, the light briefly catching on the lens that replaced his left eye. "Aye."
C'reee's arms danced across the console one final time, and the display abruptly deactivated. An object roughly the size and shape of a compact slid from the panel. The alien seized it between its forepaws and waddled it over to Clint.
Chirping solemnly, C'reee held out the disc in offering. Even on its hindlegs the engineer only came up to Clint's knees.
"A holo-display," said the cyborg. "Some terms and formulae have no Terran equivalent, C'reee believes, but perhaps it shall serve. Take it with our thanks."
"Sweet - thanks!" Clint said, accepting the holo-display and showing it to Molly. He handed it over so she could start checking out the specs. "I'm glad those Brood guys weren't any good at pretending to be . . . not-Brood. And that we could get your AI back up and running again. Hopefully everything's chill enough from here on out - and best of luck breaking your captain out of that hard labor camp!"
"Well-wishes and encouragement accepted, is," chirped Hepzibah. She smiled big.
"If die a fiery death you do not, host you again sometime, we would be pleased to."
"Tertiary infection resolved, associated damage to DNA repaired. Clean bill of health and one nonviable broodling embryo awarded to Mockingbird."
When the X-Men were told the ship's medic would look them over it was unlikely any of them had expected an entity like Sirorsky. It wasn't humanoid. It wasn't even bipedal. Instead, the three of them had been greeted by something that seemed like the result of an intimate liaison between a dragonfly and a toy helicopter: a creature barely a foot long, exoskeleton gleaming with newly replaced segments, and buzzing around the Med Bay like an angry fly.
Its affect, however, proved doctors were the same galaxy-over. Sirorsky had ushered them into his domain with brusque professionalism and barraged the three of them with a variety of scans they were forced to assume were legitimate tests. Marius and Kyle failed to engage his attention, but Bobbi's results had whipped the tiny creature into a flurry of activity. A quick inoculation in the arm, a little numbing spray to her abdomen, and within moments his tiny insectile arms had proven themselves to be the tools of a surgeon. The entire procedure had taken only minutes, including the nearly invisible sutures closing the wound.
Sirorsky extended a vial to Bobbi. Something roughly the size of a marble rolled around the bottom.
"Souvenir?" it offered.
"Implying that I'd want, even need, something to remember this by," she grunted, checking the incision area and blinking in pleasant surprise at the efficiency of the procedure. "More like a trophy of our victory . . . not that I really want that either," Bobbi mused. "But hey, it might prove useful someday, so why not?" She took the proffered vial gingerly for a few moments, as if it could burst back out and re-implant itself inside of her, before closing her fist around it and exhaling loudly. "Thank you, seriously."
"A grateful patient? Most welcome." The medic buzzed a few feet away to settle beneath what seemed to be some form of heat lamp, which began to hum gently. As the sterilisation process commenced Sirorsky moved his tiny mechanical limbs like a grooming bee. "Sutures self-dissolve within 24 hours. Please observe standard hygiene practices and temporarily increase calorie intake to aid healing. Otherwise, no particular aftercare necessary."
"Here, I don't have one of those still in me, do I?" Marius inquired. He jerked a thumb at Kyle. "I know he doesn't . . ."
"Butchery. Do not think evidence of massive physical trauma has gone unnoticed. Was procedure sterile? It was not. Massive cocktail of antibiotics for him is next." The tiny alien reached up to stroke a wing with a silvery leg. "Yourself, no embryo or remains are detected, but dangerously elevated autoantigen levels remain present. Theory: Parasite destroyed outright by robust immune response. For you, steroids to curtail autoimmune reaction and prevent long-term damage. That is last."
Marius turned these terms over in his head. "Huh," he said, "you were right. I suppose I am allergic to space."
"Yeah, procedure was super not sterile." Kyle answered. "One sec, Doc, uh. Is Doctor the right term? I gotta gloat for a second. I was right, space allergy." He patted himself on the back before pulling his shirt back on, having already shown the slowly healing incision site, the pale new skin growing where he'd been accidentally shot, the scratches and bruises from fighting their way to the bridge. "If it helps, and I bet it won't, I heal. Usually pretty fast, and regenerative. I'll take the massive cocktail of antibiotics anyway, because it sure as hell won't hurt." He had avoided looking at Bobbi's vial of alien thing, having already seen his own squirming under his skin. A man had limits in his curiosity.
"Non-negotiable in any case. Early and aggressive treatment is best." The light clicked off. Sirorsky zipped from beneath the lamp and began to putter at a console, its many legs working in a complex pattern. "Such it is with Brood infection. If caught early, treatment is routine antiparasitic measures. As infection progresses more complex treatments are necessary to reverse tissue infiltration and damage to host DNA. Fellow crew were in such a state when they returned to ship. Did not realize Brood had boarded until after they had been put in stasis. Lucky for them – infection halted, excitement missed. Waldo and me, less so. However, easier to repair than organics such as yourselves. No harm done."
"Physically, nothing that won't heal it appears," Bobbi agreed, absentmindedly rubbing her wound site. "Psychologically, though, I'm afraid I may need to get a second opinion on that one, doc. No offense," she added. "Though I'm grateful for your assistance, I'd hate to see what would've happened if . . ." She trailed off, looking at the vial again before closing her eyes and pocketing it, coming to the same realization that Kyle had already reached.
Marius clapped his gloved hands together. "Ah, Bobbi, when we return Kyle and I shall induct you into our time-honoured post-mission ritual of becoming irretrievably pissed. Come with us to Harry's. Aches are eased, livers are tested, and we deal with the horrific potential of What Might Have Been through the simple expedience of drinking til all memory of the incident has been thoroughly obliterated."
"What fascinating ways organics spend their time," Sirorsky commented, its voice somehow managing to sound simultaneously tinny and dry. A tray beside its console extended to reveal an ampule. The little bot slotted it into one of its arms – one that appeared uncomfortably long and needle-like, as if specially designed for puncturing. It turned, wings buzzing.
"Now, Wildchild. Receive antibiotics before alien microorganisms dissolve abdominal wall."
Elsewhere, Matt and Namor advise the Starjammers in certain legal matters waiting in their home dimension.
Behind the flickering and pulsing holomap sat what only could be defined as a big fellow. The man, although he was clearly more amphibian, sat hunched to avoid scraping the ceiling as his claws delicately flicked through the ship's databases. He'd been introduced as Ch'od – broad-shouldered, long-tailed, and all corded strength under moss-colored scales. He moved like a man used to being too big for the room, careful with every shift, all gentleness over force.
“The Imperium,” he rumbled, voice edged with something brittle, “likes its stories clean. Officially, the Brood were wiped out years ago. Eliminated, archived, mythologized. Makes the empire look tidy. Makes rebellion look like a bad memory.”
His tail flicked once against the deck. “They’d rather call us liars than admit they’ve been breached. Especially from us. We’re not exactly in their good graces.”
Ch'od turned to the red-haired human opposite him, head tiling with faint curiosity. Behind the pair lurked Namor, imperiously overseeing the exchange. The computer intelligence called Waldo hummed overhead, hanging like a chandelier gone wrong – sleek alloy limbs folding and unfolding in lazy arcs, eyes blinking in asynchronous clusters. His voice, when it came, was far too cheerful for the implications of his data.
"Technically, the Starjammers are classified as Class-IV insurgents, multi-sector pirates, and persons of high strategic risk under Article Seventeen of the Throneworld Concordat on Interstellar Sovereign Continuity!”
"If we show up in their space," Ch'od said bluntly, "they’ll fire first and edit their logs later. But someone has to report what we found. So — Friend Murdock." He leaned forward, voice softening. "Is there any provision in your Terran legal traditions for enemies of the state bearing unignorable truth?"
This wasn't his specialty, but really, he should be used to this by now. Matt nodded slowly. His mask was off now that things were fairly over with. "There is precedent, a lot of precedent, of using people who are incarcerated in prison to get information from other prisoners in exchange for leniency in their own sentencing. The problem is, if a criminal reports a crime, even if they are not the ones committing the crime they are reporting, they will likely be arrested anyways. There is precedent, though, for things like hostage exchange, whether it be knowledge or something else," he was mostly thinking out loud, exploring various legal paths out loud.
The robot trilled, delighted. "Oh! Under Imperial judicial schema there is a precedent for testimony from Class-IV insurgents! It’s called the Frr'dox Clause! Last invoked, hmm, two monarchs ago during the Nest Wars. Highly irregular. The witness was dismembered publicly and then posthumously honored for gallantry. Mixed results!"
“Enough.”
Namor stepped from the shadowed edge of the chamber, arms tucked primly behind his back, presence equal parts composed as unyielding.
“Law is not a wall to stand behind. It is a tool used by those with power to shape what’s remembered and what’s erased." He fixed Matt with a gaze that was, oddly enough, encouraging. "Give this Throneworld something they cannot ignore. A truth too large to edit out of the story."
Ch’od’s tail gave a thoughtful flick against the deck, scales rasping faintly.
“Well,” he rumbled, "Those feathered fiends are holding someone we want back." His gills flexed in what might have been a sigh. "Our captain. No charges. No trial. Just vanished. Their high command doesn’t even admit he’s alive. But we’ve got proof. That would be hard to scrub, even for the Imperium. We hand it over, loudly, and maybe . . . "
"Anything loud enough, public enough and with the right spin . . . you don't need precedent necessarily, you only need proof and public favour," he nodded towards Namor, "Robin Hood is a myth from Earth of a group of thieves that rob from the rich to give to the poor. There's been many versions over the centuries, but the core remains the same, he leads a group of outlaws against the sheriff who is taxing the people until they starve for a new king. Even though he's breaking the law himself he's a hero, whereas the sheriff, who is the law, is the villain."
"Myths," Namor said, "How charming. The first lie any empire teaches is that its people cannot breathe without the crown." His gaze slid past the holomaps, the steel of the bridge, and out toward the burning Nevada desert. "Forget folklore. Consider leverage. I surely left enough of Admiral Samedar intact to negotiate. One leader for another."
Ch’od’s shifted his bulk eagerly. "I like it. We’ve got something they can’t bury. Samedar’s tagged — Imperial registry, command-grade DNA. Flash that through the right channels like your Hooded Robin, and the Throneworld flinches. They can respond to public outcry or deal with us."
Waldo dropped from the ceiling, limbs flaring with glee. "I can hijack seven beacon relays before they finish their morning propaganda cycle. Just feed me a message."
They both turned to Matt.
"Let me get my computer," Matt said, already pulling earbuds from a small pocket in his uniform. "And Namor? Not all governments are totalitarian dictatorships or monarchies."
"Shame on me for forgetting, however briefly, that you are a man of faith, Advocate Murdock – if not in gods, then in systems." Namor exhaled sharply. "This Imperium, clearly the former in your dichotomy, is no outlier. Every state, no matter how just its anthem, is one crisis away from . . . well."
He left that open for interpretation, shooing Matt with a flick of his fingers. "Go. Let us arm our new allies with a fiction dressed in enough truth to burn. And their enemies? Let them choke on it."
Clint and Molly aid the travelers in some final repairs, and receive a little bonus in return.
"Revise opinion, Hepzibah must," opined the skunk-like female as she observed Molly and Clint. "Inherently hopeless with technology Terrans are not. Only our Corsair."
This got a shrug from her cybernetic crewmate. After his blade-first introduction to them, the humanoid had formally introduced himself as Raza Longknife. "'Tis a captain's duty to fly and fight. Let him venture not into C'reee's domain."
The white, mink-like creature known as C'reee glanced up from the control panel and made a comment that sounded like a piano falling down a flight of stairs.
"Again," Raza added.
Molly made a face, both from the chunk of something unidentified she noticed on her shoulder, and the smell. "This place smells like a gym bag and a spider had a baby," she said. Her eyes flickered up, taking a glance at the white . . . whatever it was before her attention was drawn to the drive interface. It looked alien, yet not, especially when it had stuff written in English on it.
"Oooh, shiny. What is that?" she said.
C'reee chittered a response. Raza nodded at the complicated device resting in the cradle of one panel. "Ah, you see the controls for our navigation and propulsion system. 'Tis a bit tricky. The option to pass through fourth space was fully integrated into the ship. Not just the controls, but the technology required for the calculations, aye? 'Tis a system far beyond the standard. 'Til all this we never dared engage it."
Hepzibah's broad tail fluttered as she chuckled. "Captain feared flipping the wrong switch would leave Starjammers smeared across the multiverse. Yet alive we are, organs still intact. Work out such things do. The day they do not, never will we know."
Clint resisted the urge to Yoda back at the skunk woman and, instead, turned his attention away from the wires he'd repaired and finally reattached. "So your captain - Corsair - he's from Earth. That's why there's post-its everywhere with English on them?" He stood up and stretched his back, then checked with the ferret-like creature who'd been really good about directing him toward other areas that needed repairing. "Where is he?"
"He is currently a guest of the Imperium's carceral hospitality," replied Raza as C'reee let out a string of syllables that indicated the small creature had a certain opinion about that topic. "'Twas a miscalculation honestly made. We came into possession of a certain piece of merchandise. There was a disagreement with the purchaser."
"Stolen from Z'nox raiders fair and square," Hepzibah complained with a flash of teeth. "That it had been stolen from same buyer first, how were we to know? Quick return we must make, even more pressing than before. Disease allowed to spread unchecked in slave pits. Brood infection, a catastrophe would be."
The white alien chittered again. It sounded disapproving. Raza gave it a nod.
"I ask your pardon for our lack of manners," said the cyborg. "We are in your debt. Is there anything we might do to repay your assistance? Monetary compensation 'twould be offered, but at present we find ourselves disadvantaged-"
"Broke," Hepzibah clarified.
The organic half of her shipmate's face showed just a hint of irritation, but Raza did not rise to the bait. "Is there aught else we might provide?" he finished.
Molly's eyes brightened. "Hmm . . ." she said.
"I mean--technically I guess, don't worry about it because we're heroes and blah blah blah blah but I would LOVE to see the schematics of your warp drive. It's probably way too advanced for like our everyday earth but . . . I'm familiar with Asgard tech so like . . . it wouldn't totally be gibberish."
"If it is thy wish," replied Raza, although the look on Hepzibah's indicated Molly had asked the equivalent of being allowed to see the schematics for a Toyota Tercel.
Based on Hepzibah's expression, Clint guessed the warp drive was probably the least of the things they could have asked to look at, but Clint couldn't fault Molly for requesting to see it. He'd actually really like to see the schematics for their cryo tech. "Hey, the warp drive - is that what's used for dimension hopping, or is that for faster than light travel? Because . . . honestly, both would be amazing to see, but dimension hopping would be great for us to take a look at, too. We can do it right now, but it's a little . . . involuntary sometimes and not well controlled all the time."
C'reee twitched its pointed snout at Clint, then let out a string of fluting noises. These went on for some time.
"Thou art most welcome to that as well," Raza translated, "but the dimensional drive is ill-understood, even by C'reee. 'Twas indeed an experimental creation of the Imperium, and its energy source entwined with the warp system. 'Tis a thing we durst not use in any but situations most dire, though now that circumstances have seen it so C'reee and Waldo assure us we may return from whence we came. Perhaps 'tis this last detail that appeals?"
The ferret-like alien had already moved to a circular display and was rapidly tapping in commands with two of its four feet. A holographic image appeared, layered with a score of unfamiliar symbols. C'reee tapped a few more times and a few of the symbols changed to English.
"Technology is iterative," Raza continued as his shipmate chirred, "and C'reee knows not what terrestrial foundations or materials thou hast to build upon, but perhaps parts of it may be of use. He appreciates others of a scientific spirit."
"So if blow yourselves up you do, to blame he will be," Hepzibah said cheerfully.
Molly nodded slowly, trying to understand what Raza was saying. "So . . . yes we can have some fancy tech?" she said. You'd think being around Asgardians would make it easier but it'd been awhile. She felt a little rusty.
Raza nodded, the light briefly catching on the lens that replaced his left eye. "Aye."
C'reee's arms danced across the console one final time, and the display abruptly deactivated. An object roughly the size and shape of a compact slid from the panel. The alien seized it between its forepaws and waddled it over to Clint.
Chirping solemnly, C'reee held out the disc in offering. Even on its hindlegs the engineer only came up to Clint's knees.
"A holo-display," said the cyborg. "Some terms and formulae have no Terran equivalent, C'reee believes, but perhaps it shall serve. Take it with our thanks."
"Sweet - thanks!" Clint said, accepting the holo-display and showing it to Molly. He handed it over so she could start checking out the specs. "I'm glad those Brood guys weren't any good at pretending to be . . . not-Brood. And that we could get your AI back up and running again. Hopefully everything's chill enough from here on out - and best of luck breaking your captain out of that hard labor camp!"
"Well-wishes and encouragement accepted, is," chirped Hepzibah. She smiled big.
"If die a fiery death you do not, host you again sometime, we would be pleased to."