Siska stared through the one-way glass at the Dawn Fox, busy at his station. He was certainly younger than she had expected, and rather taller than usual. If he was standing straight instead of  stooping over the workbench, she could look straight into his eyes.

“And has he been there all day?” she asked, slightly incredulous, addressing the nearby techs.

“Almost directly since his shipped touched down,” said a tech, looking bemused. “Came straight in, asked for a large quantity of our freshest samples and,”

Seven was watching the readout scrolling by on a pair of large screens mounted just above the workbench, making an occasional note, or freezing the feed to zoom down into some microscopic nuance.

“Has there been any change?” Siska asked, again addressing the room.

“He got very excited about a small variance between a wild stain and the ‘Sunlit’ modified varieties, but has been mostly quiet.” The small group of Drusk watched as Seven stood nearly motionless, his glorious tail swinging in a painfully slow arc as the scopes chewed through molecular data.

“He is very dedicated, Landwarden.”

“All the more committed to their mistake” Siska shot back, striding through the double doors that opened into the laboratory proper. She could feel her mane standing out, and she didn’t care.

“Dawn Fox, have you identified the flaw?”

Seven turned, surprise evident across his face, one ear drooped sideways. “Flaw? Not yet certainly -- what data we have here certainly doesn’t point toward a flaw -

Siska took a step closer, pleased to see Seven’s ears falter.“When will your answer be actually useful?”

“I’m not sure I --

“You Foxes fly far from home, giving promises of hearty plants and bountiful harvest.” Her lip curled in an unmistakable threat. “Does your wisdom end when things go wrong?”

Seven glanced back at the readout front the CAM unit he had been operating. “I haven’t confirmed anything -- well, except the native ril and modified strains remain exactly as anticipated. Zero genetic drift.

“What good are your words when thirty percent of the arable land on Kest has now seen this “golden” blight?” Siska waved irritably toward Seven.

“Well, insulting my race will do nothing to accelerate our investigation, that is certain.” Seven was now staring at Siska directly, and though his voice was quiet, his posture indicated hidden strength. “Across thousands of Union worlds, there has never been a case of runaway genetic mutation in species we introduce. Not one.”

Siska moved closer still, virtually touching the Dawn Fox, unconcerned by the breach. Seven leaned away, but did not break her gaze. “You Dawn Fox lie.” A nearby Drusk caught her breath.

“I am unfamiliar with your customs here,” Seven said, still maintaining eye contact with Siska’s baleful stare, “but if your goal is to instigate conflict,”

Siska grinned and repeated “Foxes lie,” being sure to emphasize her disgust with the interaction. “Foxes live easily, and do not understand Kest, or our lives here.”

“Siska,” an older Drusk researcher said, a cautioning tone in his voice.

“While I’m not certain, it appears these “blight” plants were introduced quite recently. This is critical,” Seven glanced meaningfully toward the Sr. researcher, “they cannot reproduce, so there has to be some external vector.”

“And it is my responsibility to see this ‘vector’ is removed from this planet.” Siska’s ears we locked upright, teeth showing, muscles tense.

“But you can’t --”

“CAN’T !?” Siska nearly shouted, unable to intimidate using her height, but leaning in anyway. “It’s my responsibility to preserve and protect these lands and my choice is to remove you, and your imposter plants.”

“That would be a serious breach of contact Landwarden --” Seven began.

“You have no say here!” Siska shouted, indignant that it was even a question. “Kest is not yours, and never will be.”

“But I came here to help!” Seven protested. “This ‘golden blight’ might be a real threat to other systems!” Several of the assembled Drusk had backed away, primarily out of respect, and no one wanted to be caught in the middle.

“And we’ll remove this threat, and you, from ours!” Siska yelled, her composure fracturing. “Now get out of our labs before I have you thrown out.”

Seven glanced from Siska, to Kethkal, and around the room. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, icy calm. “I invoke Section 61 of the Allied Union races, and place a quarantine on the Kest system.”

... continues Saturdays @ 7pm (GMT -8)

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!”

Several hours in, the guidance system map of the family ranch was steadily filling in. It looked somewhat like an Ank tree; comically heavy trunk with short branching limbs. At least Ketra thought it did. Another square on the grid lit blue, and she glanced at the ship’s chronometer. Close enough. She cut upward thrust almost completely, giddily enjoying the rush as the ship plummeted toward the pasture below.

She touched down moments later, mass compensators again blazing as they fought to convert inertial momentum into waste photons. In her class of twenty, Ketra was one of only two foxes that fried the compensators on the light practice ships during basic training. She was nearly crushed into the cockpit floor as gravity made itself supremely obvious. But she didn’t crash. Now she punished each new ship, despite stern lectures from Andrayne, and milder advice from her Father.

“Darklights Ketra – again?” Andrayne had barked during a recent service overhaul. “Stop pushing so close to the limit!”

“But how do I practice without knowing where the limits are?

Dane Toul glanced around the strut of the heavy transport he was working on.
“A good pilot knows where her limits are. A great pilot always maintain a small distance from those limits.” He motioned towards a set of dials. “Leave room for the unexpected.”

Ketra’s ears wobbled at the memory. Her Father’s reputation for exceptional calm had no bearing when he wanted to make a point. Many Foxes withered under his stare alone. She opened her day bag and retrieved a wrap: delicate herbs, hot roasted waterclaw and savory sauce, all contained in a translucent edible wrapper. Delicious.

Several Ceprae had wandered close to her ship, large heads watching with polite curiosity as the Fox enjoyed her food. While both males and females could be aggressive in the right conditions, Ketra was House Toul. Livestock were integral to their lives, and young Foxes began learning almost as soon as they could walk. The few that had gathered continued to watch quietly, rope-like tails whisking as they chewed mouthfuls of prairie grass.

Ketra ran her tongue around her muzzle, searching for any traces of sauce that may have landed in the wrong place. She smoothed her face with a hand, and then wiped fingers on her flight suit. The exterior speakers on her ship chirped, pulse tones quickly replaced with the flat enunciation of a synthetic voice.

“Alert. Territorial proximity breach, broadcast ID failure. Houses Standby.”

Ketra’s ears twitched, neurotransmitters throwing her into high alert. All systems within Dawn Fox territory, with the exception of some very new outposts had an orbital sensor array. These systems were largely automated, and monitored ship traffic in and out of territorial boundaries, logged broadcast transit data and recorded anomalies. No single ship, almost regardless of size would trigger a Houses Standby alert, which was broadcast planetwide. Every transmitter would receive and announce the message, and this was only in the event of a serious emergency. Some terraforming projects, especially those on high-frequency seismic planets were accustomed to alerts like these, warning of ash storms, tectonic motion, etc. But on Vultayna, the Dawn Fox capital world? It was tested regularly, but a real alert hadn’t been issued since ...

“Alert. Territorial proximity breach, broadcast ID failure. Houses Standby.”

Glancing up, Ketra caught the bright sparkle from one of Vultayna’s orbital compressor gates, glinting in he solar light. Gate construction varied from species to species, and each race had their own particular flavor. These massive often ring-shaped structures orbited a host planet like a moon, providing ships direct interstellar transit access.

“Why don’t Foxes have compressor drives installed into our biggest ships?” a younger Ketra had asked loudly during lecture

“Because,” said the instructor, one ear cocked in feminine amusement, “gathering the resources required would challenge even the most advanced races. Compressor Gates serve many thousands of traveling ships – to confine it to just one is unheard of.”

“But it’s possible?” Ketra had pressed.

”Most anything is possible, and most of that, unlikely.”

A truly massive shape decompressed in the sky, eclipsing the light from Vultayna’s star, shadows suddenly jagged and strange.  The lecture hall memory replayed in slow motion as Ketra took in the ship’s bulk, as smaller vessels decompressed around it, like tiny lakebirds around a fishing platform. There were a series of concussive booms as several of these ships began descending into the upper atmosphere.

“Alert. Territorial proximity breach, broadcast ID failure. Houses Engage.” Ketra forced herself to move, slamming the cargo hatch closed and keying the ignition cycle. With the core warm it wouldn’t take long, but everything seemed to be happening at a glacial pace. The descending carriers began launching hundreds of tiny craft, smaller even than her ship. They were moving fast.

“Alert. Territorial Incursion, defense action ii--“ the voice decayed into digital fragments as a relay went down. The explosion in orbit looked like a tiny firework, reflecting in the canopy as it sealed closed. Ceprae were scattering in all directions as Ketra’s ship leapt skyward, a rippling boom chasing as shockwaves formed and collapsed on her bow.

All Foxes took a basic air combat course as part of their education. But dogfighting was something Dawn Foxes seldom engaged in. An alert tone blared, warning that her ship was being targeted and Ketra yanked her craft sideways as several unidentified fighters shot past, arcing beneath her as they came around for another try. The cockpit was lit from below as the mass compensators struggled to keep up with her aggressive flying. Ketra flicked the security covers away from weapons control and spun on her axis, the whip crack of the ship’s one laser sounding repeatedly as she found her target.

It was unaffected, the metallic wedge dodging lazily to avoid continuing fire. She dove into a small loop as the weapon lock screeched again, breaking towards the west and engaging again. After several direct hits it finally wobbled and broke away, apparently trying to run. Ketra yelled and accelerated toward it, landing several more hits and severing a large section of hull.  The enemy ship smoked and spun crazily, spiraling downward. Ketra whooped in victory, and then yelled in horror as the ship hit the pasture, engulfing animals and anything around it in a blinding blue-white fireball. Ketra dove her ship lower, and sped over the herd of Cepare she had counted just a few minutes before, senses registering dozens of still bodies. Several enemy craft were also making low passes, staccato howl of weapon fire audible over the wind, ship’s alarms and sounds of panicking animals. Most weren’t firing at her.

“Toul craft ID Seven Xero Seven Delta, get out of the air!”

“Grid Control this is Seven Xero Seven Delta” Ketra shouted, “they are firing on the herds!”

“Land now, LAND NOW! Weapons appear to be heavy projectile -- repeat, energy scattering systems ineffective LAND N--”

“Grid Control ?!” Ketra yelled, corkscrewing between several low hills, heat from the mass compensators making her wince as the system blazed behind her. There was a row of deep red safety cores near her feet, designed to keep pilot and ship safe. She had torn the cover away and pulled them all. Screens flashed multiple overload warnings as the machine flew well-beyond it’s agricultural spec. There was another buzzsaw howl and auxillary lift cut out, and there was a strange oscillating whistle. Ketra glanced up to see several perfect holes in her canopy, and realized her leg was bleeding, flight suit obliterated at the knee. There were several holes in the floor where the projectiles had punched through.

“Grid control wide, control wide -- Seven Xero Seven Delta overload --” she grabbed triggers and shattered another of the angular craft. “Beacon active, beacon active,” she barked and rolled away. More ships were appearing, and her little flyer had a lot more holes. Drives 1,3 and 4 were dark, and the mass compensator frames were vibrating and glowing nearly white hot. Everything smelled burned. Ketra banked, leveled, fired a last volley at an oncoming group and pulled a lever on the floor.

Her ship detonated, fragmenting outward as her armored seat lit with the purple corona of a fabric drive, eject system slowing momentum as she hurtled toward the pastures below.

... continues Sundays @ 8pm (GMT -8)

Ketra was on the flight deck as dozens of Toul foxes disembarked, heading in multiple directions within the large orbital station, shipyard crew in their mechanized gear bustling around performing post-dock inspection checks. She spotted Seven, taller than nearly everyone around him.
He noticed her gaze and made the smallest of bows, turning quickly to stride away towards the section marked “Outward Gates.” It formed the core of the station, impossible to miss.

Seven located the berth where the Bright Dancing Beam was currently loading; datacard scanned, cargo tagged, and introductions made. There was a Lacroix fox on the crew, and Seven spent several minutes politely deflecting eager conversation on how he “really should have won” and “how females were given too much advantage with the current scoring rules” and so on. Realizing his welcome had perhaps worn thin, the fox pulled his helmet off, worked the kinks from his ears, and held it out.
   “Would you sign it for me?” The shorter fox produced an industrial marker from somewhere and grinned, ears folding sideways in silly appreciation.
Seven stared at the helmet, then after several moments took it and the marker, signing “SEVEN” in curly script across the left side.
The deckhand beamed, slamming his prize back down over his ears and marched off to continue preflight. Seven stared after him, a detached annoyance shouting nonsense in the back of his mind.
Several hours later, that same helmeted deckhand called from just inside the ship, indicating they were nearly ready to launch. Seven glanced up, and noticed a ship hanging a little ways out, lights glinting against dark hull, as if queued for docking. But there was no queue.
A cargo tug flew past, and when Seven looked again, the dark ship was gone. He shook his head, scanning the massive transparent wall that showed part of the gate aperture controls, and faced outward into deep space. There was nothing there. “Caught a reflection there friend?” The deckhand asked cheerfully as Seven came up the ramp.
“Did you see--?”
”Absolutely,” said the fox, not even looking where Seven had gestured. “Happens to me all the time. You get this weird superimposed image of another ship on the far side of the central docks, and disappears as soon as the angle changes!” He gave Seven a knowing smile.
Seven glanced back towards the spot where the ship had been, unsatisfying and empty. But he followed the deckhand’s lead to the crew cabins, which turned out to be rather nice. Keying up the differential images of the Kest crop samples, he resumed searching for any difference that could provide a clue.

Back down on the Vultayne’s surface, Ketra glared out into the rain as the heavy main doors slid open, cool air and mist swirling in and momentarily frosting the canopy of her ship. Idling in low power, the ultrasonic transducers kicked over, atomizing the unwelcome water with a soft fizz. She usually enjoyed summer’s flag and the quickly changing weather. It was the end of bright season ... and today was a counting day. The rain always interfered with ship sensors, never mind what the manufacture claimed.
Bolted to the adjacent wall were dozens of tall metal cabinets, with drawer upon drawer upon drawer of tools, parts, and small equipment, just about everything needed to repair and maintain the machines, transports, and three ships her family kept. Covering several thousand hectares, her family’s ranch was one of the larger in House Toul, and renowned for the herds of domesticated Ceprae that roamed the pastureland. And Ketra needed an accurate headcount.
One of the cabinet doors was slightly ajar, and Ketra hip-checked it closed as she passed.
“Really?” she said, voice reverberating in the large space. “Andrayne gets after any fox who desecrates his holy space.” She grinned in spite of herself. Andrayne was ten cycles older, and took his responsibility as chief mechanic extremely seriously. Day bag stored securely, she locked the compartment for quick cargo and keyed the access panel to begin startup. Climbing into the cockpit, she hummed along with the slow rhythmic snick of the photocaps as they dumped energy into the core drive. Ketra glanced at her reflection and made a face, ears folding in consternation. She’d had her mane trimmed just days before, and it still would not cooperate, sticking out in weird places. At least it was mid-week. No trips to the city planned.
Multiple rows of status lights went from red, to amber, to blue, and then she noticed the storage cabinet she had closed earlier. The door was slightly open.
There were no sounds except the familiar hum and ripple of a ship engine. Ketra stared at the cabinet for a moment, then at her instruments. Even in pre-flight, the proximity sensors would indicate if someone else was nearby. The twins had been starting impromptu games of hidden-tail: one fox would hide, waited to be missed and then attempt to startle those who came searching.
Ketra’s tail whisked irritably behind her seat. It was too early for this.
Her steps were drowned out by the spooling drive as she slid off the ladder and crossed the space to the cabinet. In one fluid motion she jerked it open, the door bouncing off the adjacent panel with a metallic thwack. Photocells, heavy fiber cabling, bottles of lens-safe solvent, and a small welding unit, partially disassembled. Ordinary.
Ketra made a noise partway between sigh and a cough, mentally scolding herself. Nothing was wrong. But something felt off. Like the feeling when nighttime eyes glow between faraway trees. Maybe the door bounced open? She pushed the door closed, latch engaging with a polite snap.
“Hanger craft to grid 44 airborne, requesting proximity clear.” Ketra keyed her transponder as the canopy glass lowered and pressurized. Technically her craft was spaceflight capable – in reality, it required heavy auxiliary power systems and an expensive core upgrade to even achieve low orbit. Naturally she had begged her parents for these perks almost as soon as she was allowed in the cockpit.
“When you’ve earned enough to purchase your own ship,” her father said, tail twitching in mild amusement.
”But --“
“And reach twenty-four cycles! What’s young fox going to do with her own ship?”
Ketra didn’t know, though she made sure to keep an up-to-date list of reasons. Just in case he changed his mind.
The final diagnostic cleared blue, and Ketra slammed both control arms forward, both thrust pedals mashed to the floor. The effect launched the ship upward at a sharp angle, like a ball kicked by a terrestrial giant. Mass compensators blazing, Ketra leveled off just a few hundred feet up and began a slow arc west as she plotted the first sensor-active pass at low speed, guidance enabled to increase sensor resolution. The job was quite boring. But it was hers, and she’d do her best.

... continues Fridays @ 7pm (GMT -7)

 Ketra was unimpressed. "Weird. Yes. That's one way you could describe it." Pausing, she added, "House Lacroix certainly has claws into aerospace on this planet. Is that how you cleared a boarding card?"

Seven held her gaze, but felt his ears fighting to rotate away, tipping downward in a universal sign of discomfort.
 "I am being deployed on emergency assignment to Kest-7." He spoke quietly, glancing around. When Ketra made no sign he added "The Drusk prime world."
 "Oh, I saw that on the feed – mid-cycle or so? But why you?"
When Seven didn't respond, Ketra turned and addressed a muscular fox leaning over a control surface. "Andrayne, you have command." He stood straight and nodded.

Ketra gestured for Seven to follow. "C'mon, we'll use the mission room." He stood and followed Ketra across the bridge and through a heavy doorway, into a room configured for briefing crew. The main screens displayed flight data and system metrics in rows of tranquil blue text. The door motored closed, and Ketra gestured for Seven to sit.
 "But you're twenty-two," protested Seven.
"And I represent House Toul" she retorted. You're no older than I am."

 "But I am faster." Seven finally took a seat, feeling his ears fold completely. He glanced away, teeth hooked over lower lip.
"It was a draw." She took a quick breath. "Why are they sending you?"
Seven shook his head, answering in a small voice. "The treaty established with the Drusk includes several modified variants of native plant species, particularly ril, which is a staple crop." He paused, and Ketra cocked her head.
 "Kest-7 is a significantly harsh environment – my work has been sequencing variants that can thrive without the specialized techniques they use. Less than nine percent of the entire planet is arable, if we could overcome that limitation ..."
 "But why you? We've traded with dozens of systems – plants are what we Foxes export."

"There is a mutation."
Ketra's smirk vanished, ears snapping upright. "That's impossible. It's been hundreds of cycles – our crops do not change!"
 Seven nodded, holding up his palms in a placating gesture. "It is impossible – I've been through the entire sequence multiple times, confirmed with the best sequence engineers in our House. Look,"he keyed his handheld, shunting data to the nearest screen. "I looked up your family's ranching accomplishments before our match, you've seen these yeah?" Staple Vultanye crop reference entires scrolled slowly past. Ketra nodded.
 "And this," he opened a paired entry, "is the Ril crop we developed alongside the Drusk engineers."
 Ketra peered at the screen. "Have you met them?"
"Yes, just once briefly" Seven said, pulling a face. "They are ah, intense." He rubbed his shoulder. "Their grip is really something else."
 "But these are identical," Ketra laughed.
"They are, look" Seven touched a key, and one of the images came to life, magnified cells busily doing plant cell things. The other image remained completely still, though it was obvious the frame was advancing.
 "All we know is the affected samples turn bright yellow, almost metallic, transforming at the cell level. There is no living sequence left – the structure remains inert."

Ketra stared at the display, saying nothing for several moments.
 "The Drusk have demanded all colony operations halted, and to interview me on planet."
"And House Lacroix agreed?" Ketra's face wrinkled, showing teeth.
 "The Drusk are threatening to rip our colony installation from it's foundations, and the treaty with it. They have implied it was ... intentional. Nearly an act of war."
 This time Ketra's ears fell. "But that not –" she broke off, searching for a phrase, "The Union has thousands of of settled projects, there is no chance that claim stands.
 "No, but with Kest-7 so close to our shipping lanes in that region,"
"They're throwing you off the cart," Ketra finished, now looking angry.
 "Not exactly, but the pressure on my House to resolve this is, well ..."

"All passengers we are approaching low-orbit, gravitational alignment in nine, eight, seven,"
Ketra cleared the screen. "I have to get back on the bridge. You're transferring to the orbital gate – there's a ship departing for Kest-7?"
 "Officially just delivering supplies, the Long Dancing Beam I think."
Ketra stopped fidgeting with a datacard. "I hope you'll be able to find ... something. But why'd you tell me?"
 Seven stood and shrugged, keying the door open. "Well. You did almost beat me. That earns a bit of trust in my House. And you asked, so ..."

"Commander Toul, please report to bridge central," came Andrayne's voice over the ship's address. Seven followed her back onto the bridge and resumed his seat, staring at the report he'd already been through a dozen times. There had to be some factor, a variable others had missed, and yet there was nothing.

 ... continues Fridays @ 7pm (GMT -7)

Kest was a strange system. Bright twin stars in wide orbits, largely non-viable planets save one, orbiting nearly between the two stars, and producing the local phenomena called Undying Sun. Standing on the surface of Kest-7 as the warm storm season gives way to summer, nights grow shorter and steadily disappear as the twin suns light the planetary surface nearly all season.
For the Dawn Fox Union this offered a tantalizing potential for a truly incredible growing season. But Kest-7 was not exactly a welcoming place ...

Ship's Manual
Brightest Empress of Summer Soul
Galactic Standardized Time

Time measurements, references and notation is presented as follows: Galactic Cycle > Stellar Orbit > System Orbit > Terrestrial Rotation > Subdivisions

Because of the extreme duration of galactic orbital motions, GST serves as true date/time chronological function. For example: noting time as observed from the North American continent of Earth would be written as: 1.0111 > 397 > 12722 > 227 > 17:05:01, or translated for our human readers,5:05:01 PM, August 15, 2721.

Typically about when humans gather for an evening meal.

Points in galactic time can also be notated as a simple decimal, 1.0111 0000 0000 2100 3030 0072 1022 7761 5312, with spaces added to increase readability. Few interstellar races care to use this numerical shorthand, and leave this to computational machines. Based on current measurements, the galactic body has completed 1.0111 rotations since standardized record-keeping became possible.

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Siska stepped from the final ledge, landing with a heavy thump as her leg servos dissipated excess energy. Several nearby Drusk field hands nodded respectfully as she approached.

"You found it here as well?"

“Yes Landwarden," said the male, indicating a spot of shimmering yellow in the field of green. Neither Drusk made eye contact, as was customary for those of lower station. Siska made an irritated noise deep in her throat, striding toward the spot indicated. These ril fields were situated within the Pale Stairs, a natural formation of deep, terraced canyons, one of the few places on Kest sufficiently protected from the brutal summer heat to consistently support crop plants. And while the starchy cereal grain was a small part of the Drusk culinary menu, it primarily went to feed livestock. Siska bent and pulled a small rectangular knife from its sheath on her arm, the ceramic blade almost painfully white in bright sun.

"How many are there?" she asked, using the blade to pull the plant stock close without direct contact.

"Eleven confirmed Landwarden, as of the last hour."

“Sterilize, standard radius. Do it quickly." Siska severed the stalk gently, keeping the plant and buds intact. This she placed in a clear envelope, prominently marked XX – a universal sign for hazards. Held in the sunlight, the formerly green stalk was bright yellow, almost gold, as if the microscopic veins had been turned to liquid metal. Bent past tolerance, it broke and crumbled in several places, sparkling fragments catching the light as they moved. Siska stowed her sample and watched as additional field workers arrived with field gear. The pungent smell of incinerating crops rose with the wind. It had been nearly a month since the first "yellow mutant" had been found among the ril crop, and it was spreading fast.

“You found more?” a mature-looking Drusk quizzed as Siska slammed through the doors into the laboratory, flicking the envelope onto a clean table. His ears pointed toward Siska in polite attention.

“It’s in the lower canyons, we can assume the entire Stairs are affected.” She clicked her teeth together, shaking her head in an attempt to calm her mane. It remained at full attention. Instead, she pressed a fist between her brows.

“And I have nothing that will lift your day. Look,” he pointed to a map projected on the wall behind her. “The first sample we took from the grasslands up toward the pole.”

Siska growled again, fist still obscuring her brow. “And it’s already ... halfway across the continent!” She finished, slamming her fist into the wall, making the display jitter and distort. “Have we learned anything Pelcorian ?!”

“Yes, we did learn one thing,” the older Drusk gave Siska a an understanding look. “Here,” he retrieved the sample bag from the table and opened it, tapping the yellow stalk out onto his rugged palm.

“No, wait!” Siska gasped, horrified. “You’ll contam --”

“Landwarden.” The older Drusk’s lip curled, then relaxed, hiding his large canines. “It is safe, look here.” He deposited the crumbling stalk on a clear tray, and slid it into a nearby imager, spinning several dials to bring up a substantially magnified view. Pelcorian added a single drop of water to the sample, and magnified several more times, revealing the celluar structure of the stalk. The cells glittered strangely under the bright light, but were still and inert.

“Near-completely vitrified,” he said, indicating a cell. Even cut as it was, these should still be trying to maintain normal functions the plant needs, but now?”

Siska glared at the still image for several long moments. “You are absolutely sure?”

The older male stifled a laugh. “And risk our years and years of progress made here? Impossible! Samples showing signs are already too far gone, but it does not propagate this way. There must be another mechanism we have yet to find.”

“But still only the hybrid crops the Dawn Foxes were so eager to propagate?” Siska asked, tone implying she already knew.

Pelcorian hesitated a moment. “That we have observed. But without knowing what source this process has,” he indicated the magnified sample, “it could easily have spread already. The crop plants are variants of our native species, after all.”

“So they will fix it” Siska said, harsh finality in her voice. She turned and strode from the room, Pelcorian calling “but how will you accomplish this?”

But she was already out, striding across the open field toward the expansive low building that contained her private quarters. She closed the door, disconnected the external braces on her legs and hung them on the wall. She straightened, staring into the mirror, unmoving. Silent.

Seven purposefully did not glance around as he felt dozens of curious Toul foxes peer in his direction. Ketra had deftly blended her surprise and his unusual name into her final pre-flight calls, switching off the PA as she confirmed with the city’s launch controller.

“Main sequence start, liftoff in 15, 14,” she glanced toward Seven again she continued counting. A deep resonant hum grew in the background, becoming dominant as the subtle flicker in equilibrium let them know the ship was already airborne.

Seven glanced at one of the large displays scattered throughout the bridge section, indicating altitude, airspeed and rate of climb, showing they would reach the orbital platform fairly quick.

“Hey, you’re Lacroix,” said a bright voice. Seven finally glanced around, eyes meeting a young fox who’s ears barely came to his waist.

“Yeah, I’m House Lacroix.”

”How did you beat my sister? She’s the fastest fox I know!

”Seven’s tongue flicking briefly between teeth, not entirely sure how to proceed. Instead he asked, “What’s your name?

The little fox made a face, as if this was perhaps the silliest question ever. ”Lemonett Toul,” he said, holding up a small clawed hand, thumb and index finger extended. “I’m six.”

A hand Seven recognized came down on the little fox’s shoulder.

”Lemon, remember what your Ma said about guests?” Ketra glanced down at the small fox, who looked suddenly sly. He grinned and trotted away, glancing over his shoulder as he made his way towards the stairs.

Ketra clicked her teeth, rolling her eyes before returning her attention to Seven. “So,” she lowered her voice, “ah, what is so shockingly important that made you hitch a ride on a family ship?” She gestured vaguely toward the bridge. “You can’t be here just to gloat -- you didn’t even win.”

Seven forced his ears to remain upright as he held her gaze, silently cursing his singleminded father. ”It probably does look a bit odd, I guess ...”

Ketra merely raised her eyebrows, ears at attention.

Ketra woke late the following morning, crawling from under the simple cover to stand blinking in the warm light diffusing through the large windows. Noises drifted up from the main floor below, and she moved mechanically toward the basin in the far corner, wincing slightly. Even with sparring and competing for several years, matches still left her brutally sore.

Nearly all fox residences have plumbing in each room. Ketra splashed water on her face and shook, stared at her reflection for several moments, then punched the shower activator. Sounds of rainfall and curls of steam rolled around the partition, and Ketra stepped gratefully into the downpour, heat washing stiff muscles. There was even a small bar of Pasture Scrub, a natural fat soap from the western Toul region where her family owned property. It also smelled amazing. Re-washing her hair and rinsing thoroughly, Ketra stepped back through the partition humming to herself and shut off the valves. Next she bent into an odd curve, paused and released into a wild shake that sent droplets flying in all directions. City smells drifted in from a nearby window. Mostly pleasant.

Ketra studied her now-damp reflection for several moments, tamed her hair but opted to leave it loose, and wriggled into a loose sleeveless shirt and light mechanics pants. Peak casual comfort. She winked at her reflection, cocking an ear for effect. “Yep!”

Out in the hall of the apartment-like building, Ketra followed her nose to the large galley kitchen.

“Ketra you’re up! Give me a quick help?” Katani Toul was a tall fox with prominent facial markings, easy smile and a notch in one ear. She nodded toward an enormous mixing machine, dry ingredients staged around it, waiting. Competing families often gave gifts to competitors and area staff, and Ketra’s family was known for baking.

“Yes ... if I can command our orbital lift today” Ketra grinned, showing white pointy teeth.

Agreed,” Katani said, after considering several moments. “Andrayne was looking to rotate the flight deck. Recipe is on the table there” she gestured with a large spatula. “You know what to do.”

Ketra beamed and dug into her task. Members of other contestant families came and went in the huge open kitchen as she blended ingredients, adjusting as she went to finish with a very large elastic ball of dough. There were hundreds of foxes just from House Toul, and the kitchen and adjoining dining hall humming with activity. She unhooked the mixing bowl, locked into the wheeled cart and shuffled over to the proofing cabinet. A puff of humid air greeted her as she slid bowl in, cart and all, smelling of yeast and CO2.

“Wha --!”Ketra stepped backward, colliding with another fox. Plates and cups went flying, the reinforced ceramic making a tremendous clatter without actually breaking. Heads turned, and Ketra’s fur rippled, ears tipping backward. “Bolts! I’m sorry, I --“

“Bolts?” The other fox giggled, a melodic sound that made Ketra glance up.”

Scarlett, hi,” Ketra said, slightly more breathy than she meant to. Scarlett was a head taller, rosy gold and cream with dominant markings, giving her the sculpted beauty House Alaire was known for, and exceptionally proud of. One delicate hand held a surviving cup, the other partially covered a smile, which didn’t reach her eyes.

“You ... wanna give me a hand?”

Ketra grabbed a tray and stooped to retrieve scattered dishware. They worked fast, Ketra narrowly missing Scarlett again as she turned to drop the tray on washing belt. She was annoyed, embarrassed, and cross at both feelings.

“Thanks Ketra--“ Scarlett said, drawing out the name slightly more than was necessary. She gathered up another tower of dishes and swung toward the dinning hall. “Definitely keep up those fighting reflexes!”

Ketra watched Scarlett’s back as she glided away, and then glared daggers at a young male who had stopped loading a dishwasher to watch. He ducked his ears and turned to watch Scarlett’s progress instead. She had arrived at a group of tables, leaned down and said something to the group, and the foxes gathered erupting with laughter. Several looked toward the kitchen entrance, a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Ketra waved at the Alaire table, pretending they were fans. She was quite sure they weren’t. But she twenty-two after all, and competing in the Felt for several cycles provided ample experience in public ... Somewhat. Many Foxes knew who she was, occasionally stopping her for pictures, or to ask technique advice, the males often claiming their requests as “for a friend!” Some were even pretty cute. She turned back to the mixing station, trying to ignore the buzzing conversation back out in the hall.

“Seven, you’re departing on the evening shuttle, gate transport to Kest-7 has been arranged.”

“Da, that research post is fully staffed, why --“

”I have explained this,” said the elder Fox, talking straight over Seven. “House Lacroix has primary charge in that system, our contract with the Drusk can not be impacted, and it is your newest sequences that have come under question.”

Seven opened his mouth, and closed it, exhaling noisily. He stared down at large desk, and the words “Teraform the Stars” elegantly cut into the crystalline top.

“The data we had back from the team makes no sense -- whatever the issue, I am delegating full oversight of the Kest facility to you Seven, until things have been sorted.” Seven didn’t speak, but nodded, ears tipping apart just enough to convey agreement. The older fox appeared to relax slightly, though his tone remained clipped.

“When you return, we should spend some time at the lakes.”

Seven nodded again, and after a brief pause, shouldered his bag and strode out into the reception area, and onward into a waiting lift. Samandane Lacroix had been Chief of their House leaders for many cycles, and Seven knew when a meeting was over. There was an orbital ferry launch just a few sections down from the Lacroix Research complex, an easy walking distance. The outcome of this emergency trip was completely unknown, but the likelihood of them visiting the north lakes was dim either way.

Like many larger cities on their homeworld Vultanye, foot and vehicle traffic were separated, with raised walkways, bridges and platforms allowing Foxes on foot to travel unimpeded, and without interrupting the humming traffic below.  Seven first followed his nose to a tiny shop selling “travelers fare;” mostly assorted grilled waterfowl, vegetables, and a few bright fruits, all cut into pieces and cooked on an open grill. The tangy-sweet sauce was the best part, and Seven took his time as he walked along, enjoying the food and the simple adventure of walking through the city with a bit of time to wander.

Common to nearly Dawn Fox territories, water was available nearly everywhere. Seven cleaned his hands thoroughly at one of the numerous drinking fountains, and made his way into the port terminal, following a familiar path onto one of the massive platforms that served the ferry ships that moved persons and cargo from the surface into orbit. The blocky transport “Bright Calculation” was docked and waiting, vapor curling off its massive lift engines as it re-energized for the next lift. His Father’s secretary had given him a printed transport card, and out of habit he checked the listed charter, which read “Private, House Toul, Bridge Deck, Orbital Station 0037,” and then a small matrix of numbers, indicating both the surface and GST liftoff schedule.

GST, or Galactic Standard Time is given any time spaceflight is being made: a simple calculation based on the rotation of the galaxy in which Vultayne’s star resided.

“Private lift?” Seven said aloud, glancing back up.  His seat was listed “Bridge” which was at the top of the heavy ship. Was his Father so anxious to get him in transit that he had called favors to lock a ride on a private vessel?

The section was nearly full by the time Seven made his way up the gangway and several lifts. He stowed his small bag and flopped down in his thankfully empty seat, feeling drained. It was Harvest season, and he was shipping out to troubleshoot a non-issue on a colony planet where barely anything even grew.  Orbital flights had been common from an early age, and for some reason, the young male Fox standing up by the Commander’s chair seemed familiar.

“Alright House Toul, welcome aboard our “Bright Calculation!”General cheers could be heard across the deck. Seven froze, having just retrieved his comm tablet and was paging through the latest dat from Kest-7.
“Liftoff sequencing begins now, ship’s crew please standby for gangway detach and atmospheric lock.” Seven glanced up, right as the Commander’s chair rotated around.

Ketra Toul, in flight suit and command badge was midway though her first set of checks, her amplified voice blaring surprise across the deck.

“*Seven*?! What are --” but the full sentence was cut as someone cut her mic. Many heads turned to glance up at the command crew, and then followed Ketra’s gaze.

Tall as he was, Seven was visible across the deck. The buzz of conversation started immediately.

Ketra gave up repairing her ponytail and folded her arms, ignoring the fizzing sensation running between her shoulders. One cycle back (equivalent to an Earth year) Seven Lacroix had obliterated expectations by upsetting the season’s roster and skirmishing his way to No. 2, with seemingly little effort.

Stories circulated that he often appeared back at the Lacroix sequencing labs after an official match, working late with the plant samples that were his life’s work. He had featured in several publications across the industry, advancing gentle hybrid crop plants in adapted terraform applications.

“Buyers across Union systems chose House Lacroix ...” Or something like that. Ketra grimaced, testing a new human word she had learned recently. “Geek.”

Sure, House Lacroix was well-known for their work in genetics and macro-ecology. Not so much Athletics. And while foxes from all Houses would compete in the Felt, seeing a Lacroix rise so spectacularly was enigma. Seven was making his way slowly toward the center of the arena, greeting fans as he went. Lithe and supremely agile, he was completely unusual in the Felt, winning via hits scored, verses the common male tactic of physically shoving their opponent out-of-bounds.

Several lights held focus on where Ketra stood, checking the cloth wrap on each wrist and fighting the urge to fidget. Victory was so very close, closer than any fox in her family had come for nearly a decade.

She sniffed, watching as her challenger continued wading through the crowd, his entourage trying valiantly to keep the excited foxes at bay. Seven was smiling politely, ears bowing genially as he acknowledged greetings, cheers, and random yells.

“How is he so casual?” asked Garrett, scowling faintly as he handed Ketra a bowl. She took it and drained the contents gratefully, shaking the drops from her face.
“No clue” she said, voice raised against the din. ”I didn’t know Lacroix participated in ranked matches – just how many did he win?”

Garrett wrinkled his nose, showing a bit of canine. “Enough, apparently.”

Ketra tossed the bowl over her shoulder into the crowd, where a very pale blonde fox caught it. Those nearest him looked equal parts shocked and envious, and he himself looked as if the surprise might be too much. He stood frozen several moments, hands locked around his prize, and then noticed Ketra glancing at him.

She gave him a wink and dipped one ear. The male frizzed hugely, spun and disappeared into the crowd, his friends calling after him. Ketra giggled and turned back to watch Seven’s progress.

With ultrashort velvety fur on their faces and necks Dawn Foxes can’t visibly blush, but their fur will momentarily stand on end, often seen when surprised or experiencing strong emotions. These ripples are known as “frizz.”

“Ooh, near fatality with that one,” Jet reappeared hair now dripping wet, standing just below the raised platform.

“Can’t sing if you can’t even keep eye contact,” Ketra clicked her teeth. “Which do you think he was?”
“Maybe Geiger?”
”Really?”
Jet laughed, “You’ve seen any other House with coats that pale? He was practically silver!”

Ketra shook her head, her words drowned as the Game Master reappeared, clambering up onto the platform and gesturing toward Seven, who was (finally) closing the last few yards. Everyone was getting impatient.

“Seven, it’s been a very long time since House Lacroix was represented here!” He paused, flourishing a grin. “Are you prepared?”

Seven said something Ketra couldn’t hear, then caught her eye. He gave her a small smile and glanced away.

Ketra blinked. “Jet --“

The Game Master droned on for several moments; honorable conduct, tradition of combat, wiff waff wuff. Jet couldn’t hear her sister.

“Ketra, are you prepared?”

All the lights in the area focused on the raised mat now split roughly equal on each combatant, shadows splitting and sliding with each move.

Ketra took her ready stance, grinning. Seven mirrored her posture, expression passive. If he really was that shy, well ... she was confident.

The arc lamp flicked and boomed, starting the match. And Seven did not move. Ketra waited, realized she was holding her breath and frowned. The crowd had gone nearly silent, waiting expectantly. The distant rumble of air movers filled the space. Still Seven did not move, looking straight at her, or possibly through her.

Several long moments rolled by, and Ketra exhaled and dropped her shoulders. And Seven was directly in front of her, fist pressed gently against her collarbone. His eyes were steady on hers, glowing faintly in the bright lights as his score advanced by two points.

Ketra grabbed his wrist with a yell, and was instantly yanked forward, stumbling into a roll as she felt him tap her head, coming up in a defensive crouch. His score advanced another two points.

Seven stood several steps away, arms still at his sides. Ketra snarled and launched herself at him, intent on scoring a hit. She threw a feint and quick jabbed, hitting only air. Strike strike strike, nothing.

Seven didn’t seem to move. Rather, he wasn’t there when she reached. Ketra closed the distance and got a block, then stumbled as she was again yanked forward. Instead of falling, Seven caught her around the waist, tapped her head and spun her away, like a clumsy dancer.

Ketra ended in a crouch, teeth clenched, claws dug against the mat. Seven was still standing straight, though he was breathing harder than before. The previously confused crowd was now splitting into factions, some cheering, others calling encouragement, with more protesting and shouting questions.

“What are you doing?” Ketra spat, words full of teeth. Seven’s ears twitched, and he said nothing. But he moved. Ketra saw him coming, blocking just in time. She took a glancing blow, turning each successive strike as they came. His score was climbing again, and there was no opening; almost before she blocked, the next strike was already flying. Seven used fists and feet almost interchangeably, tail flying around to keep her off balance.

“Don’t let up Ketra! He’s fast, but no way he keeps that up!” Ketra felt her anger sizzling with each missed blow. He wasn’t fast –- Seven was impossibly fast, sparring with a weird upright stance, apparently unfazed as she pushed herself to the limit. She caught the score flash as she whirled around. They were close, but Seven was still leading. And he was smiling.

The crowd wound up further, surprised and thrilled with the unexpected speed and raw energy. Ketra had lost her own count ages ago, mind screaming as she rained blow after blow, missing nearly every one, and getting hit often in return. She skipped backward, blocked a kick and was suddenly locked in place as Seven pivoted into an unyielding hold.

Ketra struggled, twisting an arm free and felt his teeth close on her ear. She slammed downward at his ribs, which he somehow blocked, breaking the hold and sending her skidding away. The noise of the crowd slammed against them, wave after wave as the gathered foxes roared in approval. Ketra glanced at her wrists, and realized with a sickening lurch that they were smoking faintly. She shot another glare at Seven, calmly walking toward her. There were tiny charred spots on the loose white tank he wore.

“Well that’s two of us,” Ketra mentally scolded herself, trying to control her breathing.

Seven attacked, and she gave ground as the hoots and cheers rolled into a sonic wave, sensing the pink chalk boundary inching closer. She could smell burning cloth, sensed the heat radiating from her arms, and blocked another several kicks. She was preventing Seven from scoring consistently, but it was all she could do. Each opening darted away before she could move, or she found her fist caught before completing the strike. She was losing, and she felt heat creeping up her neck, her edge of control wearing down. How long had they been going?

Jet yelled from somewhere below, and Ketra’s fist connected, staggering her as Seven hit back hard. There was a brutal flash and thunderclap as the arc fired a second time. Ketra blinked, searching for the score trying to focus. Seven was standing just at her shoulder. The match had ended.

“Hey.” He was roughly a head taller, and glanced away when their eyes met. “That was great.”

“Yeah,” Ketra said after a moment, not feeling charitable. The roar and jostle of the crowd completely boiled over, drowning out all noise and making both combatants wince.

“IT’S A DRAAAAAAW !” boomed the game master, astonishment plain on his weathered face.

“Draw?” mouthed Ketra, finally locating the scoreboard, with its giant numbers blazing above the arena. They were dead even. Suddenly dozens of foxes were spilling into the area – Jet came over the wall and barreled into Ketra, pressing her into a hug.

“That! Was! Incredible!” Seven had disappeared, and Ketra glanced around to see him being bodily carried away, the Lacroix foxes striking up an informal chant of victory, which wasn’t technically accurate. Seven glanced back briefly, wearing that same small smile.

Ketra stared after him, completely nonplussed. What had happened? And then she couldn’t think as was surrounded by House Toul foxes and fans, cheering and pushing towards the subterranean changing rooms. She hadn’t won, but she also hand’t lost. A Lacroix male had given her, Ketra Toul, the fight of her life ... and left with a draw?

Some ten minutes later, Ketra jogged out into the open to renewed friendly cheers, just as the first fireworks exploded skyward,  marking the end of the evening, and the Felt tournament. She flopping down and leaning against Jet as the dark sky bloomed and crackled with million tiny flames. Harvest season had begun. There would be time for analyzing, later.

Dawn Foxes love contests. A friendly competition to test one another in good fun and merry company. And while seasons vary depending on the planet in question, the onset of harvest begins with food, foot races, and a martial championship known as Felt.

Each House – large mutli-family organizations – nominates a handful of combatants to compete for points. There are prizes for those that score highest, and gleeful bragging rights for the remaining cycle. The champion is essentially guaranteed offers from training gyms and athletic clubs, each vying to secure winning star talent.

Dawn Fox males and female both compete, which some find odd. Visiting species who also love physical competitive games (Humans for example) frequently question how this can feasibly work.

Dawn Foxes practice a form of unarmed combat somewhat like the “karate” forms from seen on Earth and allied worlds. While males are usually superior in raw strength, females are always faster and more nimble. In this way neither side has a significant advantage in the area. Points are awarded for pushing your opponent beyond the boundaries three times, or landing the highest number of legal blows.

“That’s it, keep her moving!” Ketra shouted as her sister expertly blocked strike after strike. Unable to land a blow, the brawny challenger from House Byth went to grapple. Jet moved like a whip, capturing him at the wrist and moving with her opponent to fling him well outside the pink chalk line.

Ketra joined with the crowed as they exploded in cheers, the defeated Byth fox standing and sheepishly dusted the pink smears from his arms. He glanced toward Jet and dipping his head, ears folded back in the usual “yield” gesture. Jet, who’s full name does not translate well into Earth Standard, grinned and shot her arms skyward, clawed fingers spread wide.

“JayET, JayET, JAY-ET!” The area shook and reverberated as thousands of golden foxes cheered and shouted their approval.

Ketra tossed her ponytail, ears folded reflexively against the roar, bracing to keep from getting shoved away from ring barriers. Jet was turning small circles, arms still raised, breathing hard and grinning literally ear to ear. The amplified growl of the Felt’s game master rumbled over their heads,

“A clean victory, Jet Toul advances!”

More cheers as the audience briefly overtook the speakers max output.

“Young Fox, two opponents remain. Are you prepared ?”

The game master for this cycle’s Felt was a stocky older male with streaks of white across his face and neck. He crossed into the ring and gestured toward Jet. She yanked her arms downward with a sharp “YES!” that was half word, half bark. The game master bowed politely, then snapped round to address the area.

“Our next challenger is also from House Toul!” he said and was promptly drowned out by voracious enthusiasm. His arm came up, palm extended theatrically toward Ketra. The area lights spun and focused, the audience revving significantly as she gripped the padded barriers with both hands. She tensed and flung herself upward, gracefully vaulting into the outer ring. Cheers, hoots, yells and general verbal thunder rolled as the crowd wound itself up. The short fur on her neck and down her spine rippled as she locked eyes with Jet.

Jet showed her teeth, and crouched. Ketra took a similar pose, and they waited for the starting arc.

The searing flash and concussive boom pummeled the gathered foxes, and Jet launched herself across the ring. Ketra was already moving forward, shifting her weight, catching Jet on the hip, sending the fox spinning to the floor. Ketra followed her down, and caught Jet’s foot against her ribs. The kick sent her flying backwards, with Ketra just sticking the landing.

The crowd howled with approval - this was what they wanted to see! Ketra blocked, spun, blocked,  and nearly took a blow to the face, ponytail exploding into bright strands as she was knocked off balance. Jet Toul was mercilessly fast, coming down on Ketra’s chest, intent on scoring a ‘capture’ – a risky move that awarded high marks but was rarely used.

Foxes just outside the barriers yelled as Ketra caught her sister underneath the muzzle, snapping her head upwards. Taking advantage, she wrapped one leg around Jet’s torso and pulled her sideways, ending with Ketra’s knee firmly between Jet’s shoulders. As Jet fought to break away, Ketra leaned in and nipped the back of her neck, earning a roar of applause, and an angry screech from Jet.

Not meant to wound, a successful nip was a mark of a skillful combatant, and also risky. Huge screens displayed the scores of fighters, numbers flickering and changing as both females struck over and over.

A minute or so later, Ketra was yanked into a crouch and Jet returned the nip, dancing away as the crowed roared again.

Ketra was panting hard, and could taste blood where one of Jet’s hits had landed a little too well. Jet had a bright scratch across the left of her face, and as she swung Ketra spotted an opening. Fist connected beneath ribs, hip, and a kick sent Jet sprawling. Ketra sprang into a crouch and batted at Jet’s face, palm open. The blow connected, Jet’s clenched teeth catching against her palm.

Ketra’s score spun upward. Jet threw her off, dodged the second attack, caught another, and then winced as Ketra’s hard feint morphed into another slap. The crowd was in a frenzy; screams, jeers, yells, barks, all rolling into an avalanche of noise. A burst of colored light, and Ketra blocked a final blow, registering the numbers blazing above her. She had won!

Jet howled and gave her a defeated grin, folding ears and bowing to her older true sister. (Foxes within the same House often refer to relatives as Brother, Father; siblings with the same sire are known as ‘true’).

Ketra flung her arms wide in a yell of triumph. The crowd roared back, exultant to see her victorious. With the Felt matches occurring every year, young foxes built a reputation and status, and though Ketra was from a smaller ranch in the western grasslands of Toul territory, she was among the favorites to win. She gulped water offered by a nearby attendant, and after a long minute the Game Master emerged again.

“Very well fought Ketra!” He turned and waved toward the gathered throng.

“KET-RA, KET-RA,” rolled over them as a thousand foxes chanted their approval.

“And now, the final match of this cycle ... are you prepared?!” The game master’s rich voice boomed as he looked back to Ketra, the crowd erupting in renewed cheers. Ketra lowered her arms back into ready stance.

But the crowd went oddly quiet, the hum of many living beings a backdrop as the attention shifted to the far side of the area. New lights focused on a tall male, with the prominent ears and the rich gold coloring that was the pride of his House.

”SEVEN!” roared the crowd, with more enthusiasm than Ketra felt was quite warranted.

Begin at the beginning. If this is your first instruction to Dawn Foxes or their emissary Seven Lacroix, you've found the right entry.

Dawn Foxes, or 'Sunlit Ones' as they known to several races, are a highly advanced bipedal canid species, claiming over a dozen systems as their native territory, and can be found across nearly one hundred separate worlds, depending on the survey metric.

They are primarily recognized for their unquestioned dominance in planet-scale agriculture, and are sought after as prime experts in terraforming, bioengineering, and trade negotiators. If you sell products outside your local system, it's very likely at least one Dawn Fox can be found in your supply chain. Their sense of smell compares well among the most sensitive of high-order canids, and their innumerable political alliances further their advantage in the galactic economy.

You'll find them in nearly every trade union, logistics hub, and many firms dealing  in the Unified Systems Code Law – a compendium of standardized laws governing many aspects of civil law enforced on member systems. In short, don't bet against the Dawn Fox.

Society

Dawn Fox society is organized upon family lineage, and nearly every Fox can trace their ancestors back hundreds of generations if not more. Many foxes are named according to birth order, though naming conventions differ widely among families.

Because family ties are often quite strong, usually with an elder Patriarch or Matriarch at the head, Fox kits (children) usually join the larger family organization or business. While not a perfect analog, they have been occasionally compared to the dynastic Human families of Earth. In the rare event a family name becomes at risk, other Foxes will often join the clan, either by choosing a mate or direct adoption of the family name. This maintains clan longevity and bolsters Fox society across the galaxy.

'Sunlit Ones'

Due to a unique physiology, Dawn Foxes can absorb light directly as a source of energy given the right conditions. While they cannot subsist like this indefinitely (and still require water), it gives them an incredible advantage in many situations.

This ability develops with the individual Fox as they mature, reaching full capacity at twenty-five when Foxes undergo their 'Year of the Tail.' Many can experience 'Incandescence' as the body matures, venting excess energy in flames or sometimes pure plasma. While not dangerous, it is often ... intimidating. Especially to other species.

And while rare, Foxes can incandesce in moments of intense emotion or stress. Or when they want to be as threatening as possible. It happens one final time as old Foxes step from life into the next realm. Dawn Foxes do not bury the dead.

The Dawn Fox Pyre Warden serves in an order with religious duties similar to a priest, though their role is highly practical. Pyre Wardens assist in comforting the family, making preparations, and ensuring a chosen resting place does not present a real fire danger. While Dawn Foxes themselves are nearly flameproof, their homes, fields and forests usually are not.

When a Fox dies, they do not decay. They combust, usually within several hours, age depending. A warden's blade staff unfolds to clear foliage, fell small trees, cut through obstacles, etc. And while technology has greatly increased their ability to manage fires, the Great Fires church still provides garments & traditional tools. Many young foxes serve in this capacity before choosing a career, and are often seen visiting the elderly and local hospitals.

“In Robe and Blade, we shall guide all.  Across path and star we’ll travel.

And at the close, when last light fades, in smoking ash lay our remains.

Sing and sorrow, yet do not despair. We are now light, with joy to share.”
—Pyre Warden Memorial Rite, Traditional

Flame and light feature prominently in many of their festivals and sacred days, including Winter's Flame: ceremonial burning of a large pillar-like structure filled with mixed compounds somewhat like human fireworks, marking the midpoint of the winter season.

Family & Culture

All Dawn Foxes sing. As young Foxes approach their Year of the Tail, they will spend more and more time out in the community, singing and refining melodies of their own composition. Foxes who find another's song attractive will likely pursue them as a mate. Often one Fox's song will draw several, and groups will form over days or even weeks, layering melodies together as the composition is refined. This will usually result in the original singer choosing a mate from the gathered choir, and the resulting pair will sing the completed piece during a public ceremony.

Foxes who were not chosen continue on and will often choose from those who attended the original gathering. Not all Foxes participate in Springsong, and some may go years without pursuing a mate. Some never do.

Family is integral to Fox Society, and paired foxes will nearly always produce offspring. While single births do occur, Dawn Fox often have two, three or sometimes four kits at a time, and the bond between these siblings is integral to their early development–Foxes rarely coddle their young.

As young foxes grow they are mentored by parents and older siblings, learning as much from direct experience as they do during formal education. Each Dawn Fox House is known for specializing in a particular trade or industry, and Dawn Foxes take tremendous pride in sharing their knowledge with future generations.

Author's Note:
If Charles Dickens could do it, maybe we can do. This story will be published in rough serial format, updating once per week. Story art & characters will appear as budget permits, and the audience is encouraged to participate in polls and other events – this project is meant to be interactive!

No, not like those horrible "Goosebumps" books with the pages all out of order. "Choose Your Own Adventure,"  bleh – more like be tortured and flummoxed by a publishing gimmick. Yes I'm still salty!

All art, characters, races depicted are copyright 2021 by Lacroix Media Group.

But who are we kidding? Many readers will likely be members of the furry fandom. You know who you are. Want to create a Dawn Fox OC, or commission art? You are welcome to do so – please credit @Sevenlacroix or @DawnFoxUnion whenever you share or post.