Miran sat in the grass beneath a mammoth red oak, her back rested against its bark plucking weeds with her fingers. She tossed the weeds, one by one, into a pile by her feet. To anyone passing by her spot in The Dream of Earth's central atrium would have been able to tell something was on her mind.
The atrium's ceiling extended thirty metres above, with the solitary red oak standing nearly the full height. The tree was a symbol of her flagship and to the line of elected rulers that she found herself in. Each flagship in all the flocks of the federation had their own species of tree, a vestige to remind them of home however far out in the black they found themselves. It was a reminder to be human when everything around them was anything but.
She ran her hand up the bark; its coarseness grounding her. Miran knew, sooner or later, she would need to stand up and face another day.
A caretaker for the tree and the garden that encircled it entered, stopping momentarily at the sight of her. Miran waved the woman in, figuring now was as good as any to get moving. She gave the trunk one last pat before opening a bulletin to Captain Djucovik.
"Soren, is everything ready?" She asked.
"Indeed it is, my Matriarch," Soren said, "Just briefing the team."
"Hold on with all that," Miran said, "I would like to be there when you do."
Miran followed the dirt path out of the atrium until she was confronted with the steel-panelled floor of The Dream's main thoroughfare, a wide arterial corridor that housed most of the flagship's storehouses and shared amenities. Not being a commercial ship, The Dream had little in the way of shopping when it came to most luxury goods, but several stores had a modest selection of the latest federation fashion recently updated through their proximity to Valen and the rest of the federation through them. Amongst the rows of shopfronts, several noodle bars, cafes, and cookeries giving off powerful aromas were packed with patrons eagerly awaiting their first meal of the day.
In a corridor off the main thoroughfare, Miran entered through a storefront marked as "under construction" into a small room lined with building materials neatly piled into precarious stacks. Between the stacks, thick bundles of cabling ran from the flagship's mainline into several ancient-looking terminals staffed by a few familiar faces.
"Matriarch on deck!" Soren said, standing to attention. The two of the three others in the room followed suit. After several moments and after rousing herself from her work, the last of them did the same.
"Before we begin I wanted to iterate on our main objective; secrecy," Miran said in a formal tone. "What we are trying to do is get to the bottom of our missing comrades in the most discreet way possible. True, I could have directed this upon the flock's Security Forces, but I couldn't risk a leak upsetting our calm on the eve of our meeting with Bordeaux. That being said, I trust each of you will use your utmost discretion to keep this between us."
"At ease," Miran said, returning the salute, "Where are we?"
"Sergeant Wellei and I were just revisiting personnel records," said Soren, ushering Miran over to one of the terminals.
"Using these ancient terminals was your idea?" Miran asked Soren.
"It was mine," Sergeant Melisa Wellei said, "These old beauties don't have wireless uplinks, and have the benefit of bypassing most monitoring protocols within The Dream's network architecture. Normally, something like this would be highly illegal."
"Except, of course, if you have high-level ascent from the matriarch's office and an ongoing construction permit," Soren said.
"If it's secrecy you're after though," Melisa said, patting the side of her terminal, "this'll do."
Sergeant Melisa Wellei, as a systems expert, had features reminiscent of Miran's own, indicating a distant shared heritage. Though, being so many generations removed from their homeworld, it was hard to say for sure. The other men in the room were familiar as well. Miran recognized civilian Stanley Dominado, an independent data analyst for hire that regularly took jobs with her office, and Lieutenant Kalin Bullman, Soren's right hand.
"Now what was it you had to show me," Miran asked.
"We've had a chance to run through the personnel records as well as work reports for non-naval crew, supply shipments, and transfer forms for all ships within The Dream of Earth's sphere of interaction within the flock," Soren said, gesturing something to Wellei.
"Now, I don't know what you were expecting to find," said Wellei, "but everything's above board."
"That's not even the half of it," Stanley interjected. "Simple disappearances like this wouldn't be as frightening if those missing had any sort of trackable abnormalities in their day-to-day behaviour. I'm looking for any pattern that indicates those involved had any sort of dealings outside the norm. Failing that, whether any of their relatives, colleagues or other close relations had the same. So far nothing."
"That's odd," Miran said. "Stands to reason we should see some sort of common pattern."
"Precisely," Soren confirmed. "The victims are from every manner of demographic, age range, ship level and department."
"And no instances of missing shifts aside from those already classified missing persons," said Bullman.
"It's almost as if the perpetrators were targeting citizens at random," Miran pointed out.
"A serial killer?" Soren suggested.
"Or something with a similar M.O.," Kalin said.
"Scary," Miran thought out loud. "Still, there should be something, some shred of evidence left behind."
"Nothing so far," Wellei said. "It's almost as if the victims walked off into the dark of their own accord."
"Be that true, none of them were spotted by our flock's security network since being reported missing?" Miran asked.
"That's the weird part. We've found several of them prior to going missing walking out of their last known locations into the main thoroughfare. Then, nothing," Stanley said.
"What do you mean, nothing?" Miran asked.
"He means nothing," Wellei clarified, "the networks in each of the areas were disrupted for several seconds before each victim's disappearance. After the network recovered, it's as if they were simply never there. No telemetry, no tracking, no bioscans; nothing."
"That's not possible," Miran said, knowing the exhaustive level of security woven throughout most ships in the flock, her's especially.
Wellei shrugged.
"That's it, we have nothing?" Miran said.
"It looks like we're in the dark on this," Soren said.
Miran stood in place, puzzling what to do with this information.
"What if it's an external cause?" Bullman asked, "what if it wasn't one of our citizens that caused this?"
"Not likely. It would be next to impossible for anyone to sneak aboard the flock through customs or through cargo." Soren said.
"What about in drydock?" Bullman asked.
Soren went silent for a moment, considering.
"I see where he's taking this," interjected Wellei. "But if anyone tried to sneak aboard during our layover in Valen they would have been caught by the network's persistent bioscans."
"Not if they came aboard a damaged deck it wouldn't," Miran said, suddenly remembering The Hammerfist. One of the older ships in the flock, The Hammerfist was a heavy corvette currently undergoing a retrofit to its cargo and infirmary levels. The ship wouldn't be ready for several weeks yet, far past the window in which the larger flock meant to linger in Valen, with The Hammerfist catching up once repairs were finally done.
Miran filled the team in. Wellei and Dominado erupted into a flurry of taps on their terminal windows as if in a race.
Miran opened a bulletin to The Hammerfist's head officer; a Captain Ronald Felder. The call went unanswered. She felt her blood begin to boil, not appreciating being ignored by one of the senior officers in the flock. An abrasive man, however, Miran still valued the man's wisdom and tactical prowess.
"Got it!" Dominado exclaimed, having found it first. He ushered her over; "If you will, my Matriarch, look at this."
Miran hunched over the terminal, squinting at the record of a manifest transfer Stanley had pulled up until the man zoomed in. Several lines down read a single weight transfer of untagged goods. The weight approximating that of an adult human, she knew that she had her answer.
"A stowaway," Miran said, suddenly furious.
"At least one," Dominado said, "We have no way of knowing if there's more."
Miran slammed her hand on the table beside the ancient terminal, its window sputtering with the shock before equalising. Dominado leaned back in his seat, uncomfortable being so close to his leader's anger.
Miran looked at him. His eyes reminded her of her father's; bright, blue, and silently judging.
She sighed, forcing down her rage. Looking down at her terminal, she noticed a bulletin had opened several minutes ago with Lawson Ha, her appointed head of Parade preparations; thankfully on mute.
She read the text on the bulletin before responding; I'll be right there.
"Everything okay?" Soren asked, being the only one in the room willing to risk her fury.
"Everything's a peach. Matriarch business to attend to. There is a Parade to plan after all. I can count on you, Soren, to continue the search?" Said Miran.
"As always," Soren assured her.
"Good," she said, her frustration finally subsiding. "I'm off then."
Soren and the rest of the team nodded.
"I want this murderer caught," Miran said, glancing back at each of them before leaving. Their eyes wide, each saluted her. Even Stanley raised his hand to salute in bewilderment, who as a civilian had no business doing so. She smiled at that which he returned in kind.
Lawson Ha was tapping his foot like a hare, wallowing in impatience out on the main thoroughfare. He was reading from his terminal, periodically glancing up waiting for something. His eyes finally locking onto Miran as she approached as his frown deepened.
"Do you have any idea what I've been dealing with in your absence?" Ha berated.
Miran let out a sardonic laugh. Ha disapproved.
"Explain it to me. Calmly," Miran directed Ha.
"Well. Where to begin?" Ha said with scorn.
He breathed deep as if about to let out a gale.
"Your office has yet to grant my staff access to the flock's travel itinerary and our date of arrival in the Bordeaux system. They have refused me administrative access to fleet funds and personnel allocation to begin planning the atmospheric fighter craft parade formations among other things. Resource allocation has neglected several key components for the construction of Parade floats. The medical department has yet to review my event proposals. The sepak team's practice space has been out of commission for the better part of a week. And to top it all off, a hateful man in cargo is giving me the runaround on allocating cold storage for festival trade goods leaving them to thaw on deck."
Miran furrowed her brow, unsure whether the man was finished. When she was sure he had, she said; "Ha, you know the drill. Come to me with one problem at a time, and we'll solve it together. A barrage of issues all at once is no way to get anything done."
"Now you see what I've been dealing with," Ha said, flapping his arms in exasperation.
Miran considered his word vomit for a moment.
"The sepak team– you said their practice space was in disrepair?" Miran said, picking an issue at random.
"That's the part you heard!" Ha squealed.
"Come, Lawson. Let us see if we can rectify this first. Then we'll move onto the rest of your list," She said, grabbing Ha by the arm, directing him through the crowds and onto a lift to the recreation levels.
"You realise your personal Parade float is one of those affected by missing materiel, do you not?" Ha said, in the quiet of the lift.
Miran was perturbed by this.
"One thing at a time, Lawson. You'll never slow a charging bull without weakening it first," said Miran, recounting one of her father's phrases.
Lawson rolled his eyes.
The lift softly slowed, opening to a wide gymnasium spanning three open levels. One of the only rooms in the flock sporting entirely wooden floorboards and sound dampening wall patterning, the recreation level, among other things, served as the sole practice space for the flock's sepak takraw team, The Alders.
Miran knew immediately the problem that afflicted the space. Her nose curled in disgust as the aroma permeating the air recyclers.
"Mold?" She asked.
"Mold," Ha confirmed.
"And a persistent sort to say the least," said a slim, aged-looking man stepping to meet them.
"Fisgar, pleasure seeing you," Miran said, cordially addressing the elderly Coach of the Alders and her former mentor, Fisgar Nichi. A man surprisingly spry for his advanced age, Nichi having been a founding teammate of the Alders, had moved on to serve several roles supporting the team over the last few decades. He was one of the last remaining vestiges of the previous Matriarch's administration of which Miran had seen little reason to move off into the sunset.
"Matriarch," Nichi said, bowing past his knees. Miran appreciated the ritual, but in the years since her appointment had seen little reason to continue such silly displays of fealty.
"Coach Nichi, tell the matriarch what you need so we can resolve this. We can't have the sepak players benched this close to their upcoming match."
"No, we cannot. It's a shame it's gone on this long, I agree. Though I understand, the matriarch has been busy."
Miran felt the man's frustration but chose to ignore it.
"Out with it," Miran said as politely as she could muster, "what is it you need?"
"As you can plainly smell, the recyclers are in a state of disrepair," Nichi gestured to the large vents that checkered the upper walls. "This being a unique room in the flock in having such an accumulation of living matter has special needs to prevent the formation of unwanted biomatter. It is an ecosystem out of balance."
"We need new recyclers," Ha answered for him, "the old recyclers can no longer cut it. Replacing them is our only option."
"How long will that take, what will it cost?" Miran asked, flatly.
"Herein lies the main issue," Ha spat, "If I had the necessary privileges and access to funding, this would have been resolved days ago. But seeing as how your office has locked me out of everything, the new recycler units have been sitting on Valen station gathering dust, waiting for the funds before being loaded."
Miran looked down at her terminal and tapped a few commands.
"There," she said, "Lawson Ha, you now have unfettered access to the whole of the admin suite. Use it wisely."
Lawson Ha nodded, his fingers erupting across his terminal as a river unleashed from a bursting dam.
"That's two problems solved," Miran said.
"You've a moment to catch up with the team?" Nichi offered.
He didn't even have to ask, Miran was already walking toward the locker rooms. Having been a member of the team in a past life, Miran always felt a draw tugging at her to rejoin her team and simpler days.
"Okay then," the older man said, hurrying after her, leaving Lawson behind in a fugue.
Entering the locker room, Miran felt like she was coming home. She remembered years ago, herself sitting on the slim steel benches in anticipation of an upcoming match, rushing out alongside her teammates to see her father cheering from the grandstands.
"Brings you back, doesn't it," Nichi said, "I remember a young woman quick to anger, eager to prove herself, but always devoted to seeing her team work together."
He placed a hand on her shoulder as he had in the past as her coach, only to remove it, remembering himself.
"Apologies, Matriarch," he said, "It's an adjustment seeing you ascend as you did. Sometimes my old mind forgets."
"No apology needed," She said, turning to him. Miran quickly realised they were not alone in the locker room. Alder members were giving her their total undivided attention, each in varying states of undress."
"It's me that forgets myself," she said, a little embarrassed for her intrusion.
"Nonsense," Nichi said, directing the team to stand to attention. Their hands swung to meet their chests over their hearts in unison.
"At ease," she insisted, "it brings me great pride that I am lucky enough to have called myself a member of your ilk. Playing on these courts, with these people, under this man's tutelage; I count them amongst the happiest times of my life."
"Second only to my naming day as Matriarch, of course," she lied. "It was in this gymnasium that I learned to follow, to lead, and to trust in my kin, despite any disagreements we had. Here we were family, here we fought together."
"Hail The Matriarch!" the team said together in the federation's customary salute. It's strange really, she had never considered when it was she saying the same pledge long ago, what it must be like to be on the receiving end of such devotion, to be matriarch in that moment.
She nodded back in admiration and continued; "But ahead of you is a new challenge: to prove yourself, not amongst the teams of The Cattleheart, but as our ambassadors against the best Bordeaux's Folly has to offer. In this, I trust you will succeed!"
"Hail The Matriarch, hail The Herd!" They roared again.
"That was lovely," Nichi said later as they left the locker room. "I only hope they live up to your example."
"Don't we all," said Miran, sardonically.
Don't we all… she thought of herself.
"Where to next?" Miran asked Ha as they reapproached.
"Cargo; last stop of the warpath," he said, hurrying off without her. Guessing he meant for her to follow, Miran picked her own pace and trailed behind, wading through the vexed crowds out on the thoroughfare created in his wake. All Miran could do was shrug; Lawson Ha may be a miserable man, but he got results. She only wished she would never have to rely on him in a warzone.
Arriving on the cargo level, Miran found that Lawson had already been at work stirring up discord. She spied him across a wide hangar, silent in the distance, waving his birdlike arms at a man trying in vain to ignore him.
As she made her way to the scene, a large creature stepped into her path. In her haste, she stepped face-first into the thing's outstretched, robed arm. Flustered by the sudden detention, she struggled to free herself only to look up at an apologetic vass, its facial fronds drooped with embarrassment.
"My deepest apologies, Matriarch Nagoya," it said, its hand still outstretched and searching for hers. "I meant only to thank you for taking us on board for this auspicious occasion."
The vass, whom she recognized as Halah Alteretla, head of their small group of merchants that had boarded The Dream just yesterday. They, like Miran's flock, were on their way to Bordeaux's Folly in an exchange of goods and culture; a tradition of their people that had far outlasted human's entire tenure exploring the Quarter.
"I'm sorry, Halah, really," Miran said, taking his hand between hers, "I didn't mean to bump into you like this."
"The fault is mine, for we are guests," Halah apologised, his fronds shaking like dry branches in the wind as he spoke. Halah, like four other vass that followed behind him, took pride in his fronds. Large, twig-like and malleable antlers that jutted downwards from their cheekbones, split down the middle to reveal a fleshy beak.
The tops of their heads were plucked bare and painted with the marks of their merchantdom and as members of the highest order of merchants in their empire, The Omeyemo House. Their robes trailing behind them hid what Miran had heard described to her as a haunting ordeal of craggy folding limbs, similar to their facial fronds. Eyes, black and flecked with chalky streaks stared back at hers. The only humanly thing about them, their hands, were four fingerlike appendages adorned with twisting gem-laden rings. Miran could imagine that she looked as alien to them as they did to her.
"Mm–matriarch?" Halah sputtered. "Is something wrong?"
"No… no. I'm just a little preoccupied, as you know," Miran said, catching a hint of Ha's screaming match through the crowd, "Parade won't plan itself, you see."
"Of course, of course!" Halah affirmed. "You are a distinguished leader, that we can see. I did not mean to keep you. Only to transmit my thanks on behalf of my kin for taking us on board and bringing us to your far-flung colony. It has been many years since last I found myself wandering the fields and waters of that world."
"Your people's presence amongst mine is always welcome," She said, remembering ceremony. "Humans and vass have been and forever will remain friends and allies."
Halah nodded at this.
"You can go now. I see more urgent matters that demand a Matriarch's gentle touch," Halah said, his fronds rattling with what Miran assumed was humour.
Miran made a half-cocked smile and nodded back, bowing slightly as she did. Halah and his podmates bowed as he did. Miran, realising she was still gripping the vass' hand, let it go apologetically. He raised his arms as if permitting her to leave.
Miran surged across the hangar, trying to keep her frustration from boiling over once she reached the men who were now shouting in each other's faces. It was clear to her that none of the other cargomen wanted to intervene, showing relief once they saw her coming.
"Gentlemen!" Miran barked, "surely there are better ways to go about this."
"Matriarch, cage your dog!" The enraged man spat between grit teeth, who she recognized as Lieutenant Handen Kide, a name that sounded suddenly far too familiar.
"You, putrid swine!" Lawson Ha fumed, "Your lack of respect is boundless!"
"I'm willing to forget your words, Lieutenant Kide; Gods know these are stressful times," Miran said, tempering herself.
Lawson nearly swooned at this, somehow vindicated in his tantrum.
"You too, Lawson. I've had a sufficient supply of your bile this day," said Miran. Ha disapproved.
"Fine. Whatever," the cargoman said, "What is it that I can aid you with, Matriarch?"
"Lieutenant Kide, I apologise for my assistant's intrusion into your department," she said. Kide let out a poorly masked scoff which Miran tried to ignore.
"Intrusion's far from it. Your man has been browbeating me about these boxes on several separate occasions. And I'll tell you the same as I told him not three days ago," Kide paused as if something weighed heavily on him. "Cold storage on The Dream is full. The same goes for The Calmwater, The Woodward, and the other heavy cruisers. We're bursting at the seams here between our regular ration supply, goods taken on for Parade-sake, or the cold tanks that we had to drag in one-by-metric-fuckton to provide our gracious vasser guests with a cosy place to rest their heads. Save from the cold environs on the biofactories, we're all full-up."
"All full up. How?" Ha said incredulously. "I have the readouts right here. Schematics for these cold storage rooms show far more space available than is registered in your department's manifests."
"You impudent little man!" Kide spat. It was then that Miran recognized him and his name; Kide. Kide, or Linden Kide, was one of the missing persons that Soren and the task force were trying to find. The man had lost his husband. He was hurting and was doing his best to contain his rage despite Ha's petty incursion.
Ha shoved his terminal in Kide's face, to which Miran grimaced. Dodging it at first, Kide's eyes locked on the screen, tracking it as prey. Something he saw didn't sit well with Miran. To Ha's surprise, Kide grabbed the terminal out of his grip.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" Miran asked, uneasier now.
"It's just..." Kide said, pausing in confusion, "I mean, I've walked past these crates dozens of times, read their labels, moved them even. This doesn't make any sense."
"Lieutenant?" Miran asked.
But it was too late. Kide had taken off at a jog, pushing through the small crowd that had formed around them, and towards one of the cold rooms, Ha shrugging back to Miran as he chased up behind. Miran cautiously followed.
Kide weaved in and out of several aisles of crates, muttering as he did.
"Where are they!" He yelled to himself. Miran was having trouble keeping up, she didn't know where Ha was. She rounded a corner to find Kide, a crowbar in his hand, standing in front of a small stack of packing cubes.
"Are these them?" Miran asked, stopping behind him.
"Yep," he said. Ha lurched to a stop behind her, panting like a dog. Maybe Kide wasn't far off with that analogy.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Ha prodded, but Kide was too drawn by the crate to care.
Kide slammed the tooth of the crowbar into the side of the crate, peeling back the polycarbonate lid. As he did, the cold seal burst, spouting a cool white mist that quickly turned foul. Miran drew her blouse up over her nose, resisting the urge to be sick. Ha wasn't so quick, turning and retching over the side of another crate as the stench hit him.
Kide's crowbar clanged to the ground, as he slumped against the crate, weeping. Miran peered over his shoulder, wary of what she was about to see.
Looking inside the cold storage crate, Miran found several crumpled shapes that were only just recognizable as bodies. Gore was strewn about as if torn apart by starved wolves. In amongst the carnage, Miran could make out the disfigured faces of several of the missing persons, one of which matched her files for Linden Kide.
Lieutenant Kide reached his arm in, brushing the blood from his husband's cheek. The stench was unbearable now, Miran couldn't help but take a few steps back. Ha was already several yards up one of the aisles, his back against a crate, trying to detach himself from the situation.
Miran felt sick to her core as rage welled up from her feet. How could she have let this happen– how could it have gone this far under her watch– What the fuck was going on?
Her terminal buzzed; Soren's icon showing on the screen. She knew she shouldn't answer it, but given the light of the new evidence, she knew she had to tell Soren.
"Soren, I–" Miran tried to speak, losing herself as she stared at the still sobbing Kide. His pain was too much for her and she found herself stepping further away down another of the aisles, slipping around a corner.
"Matriarch," Soren said, an oblivious excitement in his voice. "We found something."
"You what?" Miran started, "Soren, something's happened. I'm afraid I've found something too."
Soren's enthusiasm drained, sensing her own displeasure. His tone shifted to concern.
"What is it– what did you find?" He pressed.
"Nothing I want to mutter over bulletin," She said slowly, trying to keep her calm. "Soren, get down here."
She tapped several commands on her terminal. "You now have authority access over the Security Forces. Get down to the cold storage level in cargo. Have them set up a perimeter, and by Gods don't let anyone in here."
He paused for a moment before answering, Miran could see him waving to the others of the task force to get moving.
"I'm on it," he said, "What can I expect?"
"Nothing good," Miran said, moving to end the call. Pausing, she asked; "Soren, what was it that you found?"
"Oh, that. Well, we managed to datamine one of the records from the disrupted bioscans," He said, a touch of enthusiasm returning to his voice, "It's not much to go on, but the bioscans found a trace of something not quite human."
"Not human? Soren, be blunt," Miran urged.
"It's alien, sir. We're not sure what but Wellei and Dominado agree. Something not one hundred percent human is walking among us. Has been for several weeks." Soren said.
Miran had had enough. She had seen several good people brutalised on her watch, while she loitered around making party preparations, all on the eve of one of the biggest meetings of federation bodies since her coronation day. Failure wouldn't even cut it, she had robbed her people of any semblance of good leadership. Murderer be damned it was she that had lost.
A surge of adrenaline hit her in the gut and, without ending the call, she hurled her terminal across the aisle. Miran could see Soren's surprised face just before it hit the wall of a packing crate, shattering into a shower of glittering shards.
Just as she knew she couldn't take anymore, a gunshot echoed throughout the cavernous room. Miran stepped back around the corner to see Kide, an arm raised, clutching his smoking sidearm to his temple. His body hung there endlessly, before slumping over the wall of the crate containing his husband.