Entry 007 - Sequential

The armored cage landed hard and bounced, spinning through the treeline and grinding to a halt, broken limbs and debris marking  the path of travel. The locator beacon flashed automatically, firing the same data block over and over and over.

Ketra worked her jaw, then clawed at the strap release. The harness went slack with a soft “pop!” and she landed hard on her shoulder, pain radiating outward as she stifled a whine. Ship engines whirred past overhead. Laying quiet for several moments, Ketra kicked one of the protective plates loose and clambered out. At the base of the cockpit module, four of five small photo cores were dark and non-functional. Ketra pulled the last one and locked it into an armored chassis, then installed this glowing cylinder into the field rifle stashed behind her pilot’s chair. She had to lay on her back to pull the safety restraints, left shoulder protesting  each and every movement. But the rifle optic lit blue, diagnostic showing full function.

“At least you work,” Ketra said, wincing again as she shouldered the weapon, reticule dancing wildly as she fought to hold still. The strange engine whirr sounded overhead and she threw herself down, claws digging into turf as both leg and shoulder twinged hard.

After a minute with no surprises, Ketra retrieved her day pack and the ship’s bailout box, an armored case with emergency supplies in case of a remote landing or critical failure.

“...Or hostile invasion” Ketra growled, reading the label aloud. She crawled back inside the armored cockpit, and keyed the ship’s comm device. No lights, no sound, very dead. Her personal  comm was still functional, but she would have to move within tower range before getting anything out. Which meant travelling across open country.

There was a flash in the sky, and Ketra glanced up to see another comms satellite being ripped to shrapnel, distant enemy ships continuing to fire into the spreading debris field. The uplink light on her wrist had been dark since the crash, indicating that orbiting communications were being hit hard.

Ketra hiked for roughly an hour, periodically checking her direction with a simple magnetic seeker, which always points South. Several more of the dark fighters had flown past overheard, but either they were uninterested in a lone Fox, or their sensors couldn’t read between wildlife and the resident races under the tree canopy.

Another hour, and Ketra’s comm device began lighting, indicating a nearby tower. But the signal was oddly weak. She changed headings, jumping between several rocks over a stream, scrambled through a clump of dense trees, and slowly gained altitude as she made her way over a small ridge. Reaching the top, Ketra froze. The tower was now in sight, slender panels glinting in the golden sun. Between her and the tower, in the small valley below, a dark wedge rested on blade-like struts.

Ketra laid out prone, eyes glued to the ship. Had she been seen? Several minutes passed with no sign. Small birds argued in the trees below, and a breeze lifted Ketra’s hair across her face. She brushed it away, gingerly bringing her rifle up. The optic responded automatically, adjusting to her.

The craft looked almost etched -- fine patterns of right angles caught and reflected in the light. It had no visible motive power, save the faintest violet glow of a fabric drive along one bottom edge. Midway along one vertical edge there was a black slit. Possibly a cockpit viewport? Otherwise the ship was entirely featureless. At least visually. No heat signatures, no spectral emissions, except the light from the energized fabric, and no sound.

Ketra laid considering her next move, when she noticed the birds had stopped. She moved to push herself up, and a quiet feminine voice said “Lay still!” Something cold and metallic touched her shoulder, but did not apply pressure.

Ketra obeyed, focused on breathing slowly, her rifle useless beneath her. She could feel someone standing just above, but how had they gotten so close? There was no smell, no warning.

“You are injured.” the voice noted, speaking Galactic Common with fluid ease. Ketra folded her ears back with a tiny nod. Her rifle strap went slack, cut ends sliding away.  “You may stand, slowly.”

Ketra rose carefully, in pain, and wary of the cold point still touching her shoulder. She assumed it was a weapon. From a crouch, she stood, hands held outward to demonstrate compliance.

“Walk five paces south,” said the voice, enunciation strangely perfect. “Do not run.”

Ketra obeyed, slowly putting distance between her and (presumably) the pilot of that ship. There was a knife strapped to her ankle, but the thought made her nervous. Close or hand-to-hand combat training beyond defense basics was uncommon, usually only studied by PhySec or military recruits. She reached five steps and stood motionless.

There was a soft noise as something landed by her feet. A small case, with the same patterning as the ship’s hull. Ketra did not move.

“Open it. Apply one patch to your injury” The voice said, as if narrating an instructional lecture.

Ketra did not move. “Why should I?”

“Do you ... prefer additional  blood loss?” Her assailant queried, tone rising in curious mechanical arpeggio.

Ketra could feel her torn flight suit and fur beneath were wet, sticking together. “I can turn?”

“Yes. Do not approach.”

Ketra rotated, still keeping her hands open and involuntarily caught her breath. The figure was pure white, human and unclothed, with those same right-angles traced across torso, arms and legs. It had no eyes.

“Apply one patch to your injury” it said again. The voice came from somewhere around the neck, its mouth and jaw did not move. The body was nearly featureless.

Ketra stared for several moments, taking in the long black hair, which seemed to move of its own volition. Fragments of a training about human culture flickered through Ketra’s mind, where they had carved a soft white stone to resemble mythical humans, said to have lived long ago.

“You are still losing blood” the statue said, pointing a slender finger at Ketra’s leg. A segmented arm, also pure white, snaked around its torso and mimicked the motion.

Ketra forced herself to look away and down at her feet. She picked up the case and it split apart, as if anticipating her touch. Inside were neat rows of ultra fine mesh squares, pure white contrasting starkly with the container. Ketra carefully removed a square and held it up, sparkling in the sunlight.

“Apply it now.”

Ketra snarled, displaying her teeth, hair expanding to full volume. “You shot me.”

Another segmented arm appeared, trailing lazily though the air. “We did. This is  ... our trade.”

“Trade?” Ketra bit out, confusion in her voice. “What are we--“

“Safety.” The statue reached down and lifted the rifle. My ship was damaged -- you would fired on me.”

Ketra didn’t reply. The complete lack of vocal emotion so oddly out-of-place. One of the mechanical arms came around and flicked the release on the rifle optic. The statue gripped the opposite end, and casually torn the unit in half, metal and lens fragments raining to the ground. “Now we can leave.” It paused.

Ketra’s eyes moved between her rifle, now leaning out of reach against a rock, and the talking statue. As it spoke, small red rings of light would appear and wink out, hidden within its hair. “Will you repair yourself?” It again indicated the white patch Ketra still held.

They looked like eyes. Ketra gingerly pulled the leg of her suit away, fingers wet and bright blue. The blood would oxidize and slowly turn red as it was exposed to atmosphere. The exit wound was ugly, trailing bits of fur, muscle and skin. She touched the square to the edge, and yelped. Individual threads spread across her leg, knitting back and forth. She gasped at a spike in pain, and then laughed as it disappeared. The white patch spread and solidified, covering the wound in what appeared to be white porcelain, cool to the touch.

“Beautiful.” The statue’s extra arms retracted, somehow disappearing into its “body.” Red eyes winking out, it turned and jogged away, fluid movements almost silent as it made a straight drive for the idling ship.

Ketra tested her weight on her leg. It held painlessly, though her fur and suit were stained vivid blue. She grabbed her rifle, prepared to aim manually. But there was no power.

The white statue reached the ship, turning back toward where Ketra stood and held a glowing cylinder aloft, before placing it on the ground. It was Ketra’s photocell.

Ketra watched the ship rise, the valley glowing gold in the late afternoon light. It streaked away toward the northern horizon, away from Toul holdings, heading for the ocean.

Struck with a sudden thought, Ketra pulled her knife from its sheath and carefully drew the point across the white substance, careful to protect her leg. The point slid effortlessly, and left no marks. Suddenly her comm device lit up.

“HOUSE TOUL EMERGENCY BAND, PLEASE KEY CONFIRMATION & STATUS!”