Counterfeit
The Vyaeh, as a mercantile race, often emphasize psychological tactics in combat with other races. The Vyaeh Ministry of Military Intelligence contains a dedicated Office of Imitation, which designs and creates counterfeits of enemy creatures for the purpose of killing and demoralizing enemy combatants. OI officers are present on every Vyaeh ship of frigate size or larger, as is the specialized equipment needed to manufacture and deploy the counterfeits.

Appearing and acting very much like the creatures they mimic, the counterfeits are designed to notice and gravitate toward openly hostile action against the Vyaeh. They will attempt to infiltrate and disrupt enemy operations as much as they are able, and if detected will detonate themselves in a suicide bombing, coating the area with highly toxic chemicals and shards of armor-piercing bonelike material. They can take substantial punishment, but always explode on death.

Human counterfeits have been encountered in the field by the SCNF, many produced specifically to mimic human combat troops but many also appearing as noncombatants and civillians. They are often armed, but under no circumstances (even to preserve their infiltration of enemy formations) will the counterfeits engage the Vyaeh or Vyaeh-allied troops in battle. This has led to captured Vyaeh being used as a primitive and brutal counterfeit detector test in the field, a practice strongly condemned but unofficially tolerated by the SCNF.

The most advanced human counterfeit units are designed for penetration and disruption of hardened targets, and are equipped with advanced personality simulators and friend-or-foe locators. No counterfeits are exact copies, though, and the errors made by the Vyaeh can be detected by wary observers, and the counterfeits detonated from a safe distance. The more common counterfeits are notorious among SCNF combat troops for their bizarre speech and behavior. Playing of human cultural taboos and perceptions, many of the simulated body types are young and/or female.

Stories of a human-model counterfeit equipped with a faulty detonator that rendered it unable to explode have circulated among SCNF troops in combat sectors. These tales, often with improbably embellished accounts of the defective counterfeit joining forces with human troops, are almost certainly apocryphal.

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The mining team assembled in the cruiser’s makeshift kitchen, trying their best to ignore the vibration as the ship pitched and yawed to get its hyperspace vector right.

Milford entered, chomping at an electronic cigar–the best he could do in an oxygen-rich environment. “Okay, listen up,” he said. “Me and the cartel have sent you to some awfully tough and awfully illegal places for a spot of mining before, and you’ve done us proud.”

“Even when Higgins got sterilized on that iridium asteroid?” one of the miners laughed.

“Especially when Higgins got sterilized. You know as well as I do that little Higginses were always a bad idea.” Milford flipped on the projector–not the kind of interactive 3-d holography one would get on a legitimate mining guild craft, but an incandescent-powered overhead projector with transparencies.

“We’re headed for 55 Cancri E,” Milford continued. “A diamond planet.”

“You gettin’ married, chief?” another miner chortled.

“Why, you proposin’? I think we should just be friends.” Milford accompanied his quip with a “no more interruptions please” glare. “The cartel is building an illicit space elevator on…well, you don’t need to know where. But they’re going to need as much diamond as they can get.”

The ship shuddered again. “We’ll be dealing with 8 Gs down there, so give yourself time to acclimate and don’t move too fast. You can handle it, but it’s gonna feel like there’s a troop of gorillas sitting on you at first.”

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The Vyaeh are a mercantile empire, and generally content to exercise suzerainty over the systems that they control. However, this policy does not apply to species that resist them: the Vyaeh annihilate such lifeforms as an example to others, and incorporate survivors into their economy as slave laborers or into their military as slave troops. The Vyaeh euphemistically refer to these as “conscripted races.”

Krne
The Krne, known as “giants” to the humans that have encountered them, are a huge race of bipeds employed by the Vyaeh as laborers and combat shields. Herbivores from a high-gravity world that was among the first conquests of the Vyaeh, they are not a terribly bright race but have been known to rebel (especially when coerced by more intelligent beings). Absent orders, Giants will often adhere to their simple instructions for weeks, if not months, unless given new directions in Krneese. They have been known to use rocks as projectiles, but are incapable of using most weapons with their large claws.

Following the Vyaeh conquest of the Tuy’baq, their engineers began integrating the latter race’s advanced cybernetics and networking technology into their military/industrial complex. One of their earliest experiments was in cybernetically enhancing the Krne, with the idea that the creatures could be made more tactically useful through increased intelligence. This proved to be a deadly mistake: the enhanced Krne, when deployed, promptly instigated a rebellion against the enslaving Vyaeh which proved to be one of the most destructive in history. It took ten years and thousands of Vyaeh lives to re-subjugate the Krne to the will of the Queen in Silence and the Orphaned Court.

“Then the thing went down, gushing blood like you wouldn’t believe. It was like a big blood-filled balloon had popped, spilling everywhere and rising almost to my ankles before the door opened and let it flow out. It smelled revolting, and permanently stained my shoes.”
-Unidentified SCNF mechanical engineer

“Mosquito”
An interstellar pest present on many Vyaeh ships. They secrete a corrosive goo that can be thrown as a projectile, and are also capable of attacking with claws and mandibles. Some Vyaeh ships have genetically modified Mosquitos to serve as combatants, enhancing their naturally tough carapaces and allowing them to spit corrosive goo at higher velocities and with greater accuracy.

“Hey! These ones swat back!”
-Unidentified SCNF mechanical engineer

“Roach”
Another interstellar pest present on many Vyaeh ships, the Roach is a native of an unknown low-gravity planet that floats by means of a gas-filled body. It ordinarily attacks with its sharp mandibles, but in its mating form the Roach will explode at the foot of any moving organism, coating the target with toxic spores. Some Roaches have been mutated by enterprising Vyaeh crews to serve as weapons of sorts; the mandibles they use to attack are capable of piercing light armor, and it enters its mating stage twice as fast, producing a larger explosion and spores which impart a deadlier toxin.

“What’s really bad is when you come on some poor sap they killed, rotting before your eyes and festering with hundreds of the things, still tiny and feasting on his flesh.”
-Rebecca Sears, command crew

Cyborg
A cybernetic organism of unknown origin, possibly human or human-like. They are employed as light tanks in many remote Vyaeh garrisons, and are equipped with slashing claws based on those of the Krne as well as percussion grenades that can be set to explode on a timer. Some models are employed in major Vyaeh garrisons for crowd control, and feature a hardened carapace, percussion grenades, and a flamethrower.

The species from which they are derived is unknown, but intercepted Vyaeh transmissions indicate that they are a relatively new weapon and that the secret of their creation is jealously guarded by the Orphaned Court. SNCF personnel who have encountered them in combat have described their appearance as “disturbingly human-like” but no intact specimens have ever been captured, as they self-destruct upon death.

“If you skinned a guy, turned him inside out, and drove a tank up his ass, you might have something about half as ugly as these sons of bitches.”
-Former SNCF Security Officer Popovitch

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It seemed the more bright and neon and wireless the world got, the greater the distance was between ordinary people.

There was a park bench that offered a good view of downtown, from the skyscrapers to the bright channels of red and amber flowing about them like titanic jugulars. He’d sometimes come there on warm summer nights to linger and look, a speck among specks, with everything that had an off switch silent and cold.

He liked the park because it was safe, regularly patrolled by the expensive kind of Department of Public Safety drones, the ones that had a real person behind them instead of a computer program. There weren’t many augmented reality pop-ups either–the programs that appeared to walk in the real world but existed only in his shades. If he hadn’t needed them for GPS and vision correction, he’d have done away with them altogether–being accosted by the insubstantial and the unreal was a stiff price to pay in order to cut down the monthly fee.

At this distance from the city, though, there was nothing but silence, light, and motion. It was profoundly lonely, profoundly disconnecting, but profoundly beautiful. The speck among specks preferred that kind of solitude to being alone in a crowd downtown. Ordinarily he was alone in doing so, with only a few dog-walking drones and DPS UAVs for company.

This time, though, someone else wandered into view below him on the gentle incline of the park slope a few hundred yards away. Without the shades she’d have been a blob of colors in motion, but with them she was clear as a bell: tall and slim, hair so light as to be practically pearlescent in the moonlight, wearing what might have been a slip or a formal dress. Even though a pair of heels was clasped in one of her hands, she was still walking on tiptoes.

It was a comforting sight, a little bit of humanity peeking through the mess of concrete, steel, and lightwaves. He noted with some pleasure that the girl seemed to be looking out on the city much as he was. She was still a million miles away–the city papers were full of people being maced and arrested for saying “hello” in the wrong way–but the mere sight, the mere thought, was a comfort.

Then, as he watched, the girl slipped free of the pull of gravity and began to float heavenward, dress billowing and arms spread. He pulled off the shades in amazement, but the blur of ascending light remained–she wasn’t augmented reality, at least not of any type he’d ever encountered before.

That shouldn’t be possible
he thought, shaken. Even in this age of UAVs and drones, things needed wings or fans or something to fly. He felt a sense of eerie beauty and maddening confusion wash over him, perhaps the strongest feeling he’d felt in many long, lonely, and dour months.

An even stronger feeling came next: he had to follow her.

Inspired by this song and image.

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The enemy starship’s forward battery fired.

Crewmen aboard the Casey Jones saw the flash and the inbound beams on their monitors, and their minds added the thunderous roar that the vacuum of space took away. The emissions found their mark and a portion of the Jones‘ hull dissolved into molten metal fragments and crystallized atmosphere.

“Tube two ready.” Jiang cried over the roar of alarms. The computerized command and control systems that normally directed return fire had been knocked out in the first volley.

Wu, fingers flying as he computed the last few lines of a solution, gave the order: “Fire!”

The torpedo shot out of its tube and into the vacuum. Its tiny drive engaged and sent it streaking toward its target. At the last moment, the target fired its thrusters—the crew had just seen what was heading toward them. With a few feet to spare, the torpedo sailed past the enemy ship.

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“I had that dream again, computer.”

“Are you referring to the recurring dream of which you have complained for some months now?”

“That’s right. Me, walking…surrounded by color and fragrance, flowers of every shape and variety. It’s…it’s impossible, but I think I may be starting to believe it may be real, computer.”

“Come now, sir. There is no such thing as flowers.”

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Melody couldn’t see the projector, but its holographic interface at least was a sign that she was nearing her destination. The grueling trip through Watcher’s Woods had taken hours of time and every last pathfinders’ trick in the book.

“The natives weren’t kidding when they said it was impossible to navigate Watcher’s Woods.” Melody said, ruefully fingering the torn fabric from the thorn-choked mud that had claimed her right sleeve and left boot.

“It represents a defense in depth,” the holographic cube replied in an even voice. “Obscurity, covert security, and now overt security. Present the proper identification code and passphrase and you will be allowed to access the memory core.”

Still trying to puzzle out the source of the holographic emitter, Melody nodded absently. “Sure. I think I can puzzle it out.”

“It is only fair to warn you that an incorrect answer will result in immediate termination,” the hologram said. “Withdrawal is likewise contraindicated due to the risk of an obscurity breach.”

That was enough for a little flop-sweat. “The ID code is 201983322,” Melody said in the most confident voice she could muster.

“Code accepted. Awaiting passphrase.”

There’d been nothing about a passphrase, only that damned…of course. “Deep grows the Watcher’s Wood/Where all are ground to dust/Take up the cause of blood/And leave not the sword to rust.”

Anxious perspiration prickled over Melody’s skin as she waited for a response from the holographic cube. There was none; it remained there, floating and flickering inscrutably.

Instead, the tiny clearing came alive.

Branches, vines, and trunks twisted themselves out of naturalistic positions into macabre tendrils, as the ground parted, liquidlike, to allow massive roots to do the same. Melody barely had time to flinch before the madness of the living forest enveloped her; she was covered in vines and protrusions of every sort and lifted bodily off the ground.

She realized that she was screaming only after a few long moments of confusion. But instead of the expected squeezing and twisting of a death roll, she felt a prickle of electricity across every inch of herself. As the roots enveloped her head, pictures began to explode into her waking consciousness, ebbing and flowing with the electrical current that set every hair on her body abuzz.

“My God…” Melody whispered. “The Watcher’s Woods don’t conceal the AI mainframe…they are the mainframe.”

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I’m sorry that you feel that way, and I’m sorry if you were offended by anything I did. Take this back and we’ll call it even.

The note that had arrived with the junky old iPod made even less sense now than it had before. Other than the fact that it was perhaps the least apologetic apology note Milly had ever read, there was nothing to be gleaned from it. Wasn’t even handwritten. And the rainstorm had smudged the return address and postmark beyond all legibility.

Milly wished that the allure of a free iPod, even a beat-up first-generation one with only 10 gigs of space, hadn’t appealed so deeply to her inner cheapskate. She wished that her sleek new model hadn’t gone through the wash that same week, leaving a ‘Pod-sized hole in her workout routine.

But as she looked at her computer screen, the fifteenth crash of the day over an iTunes list full of songs with bizarre titles incorporating her name and add dates that predated the release of the gen one iPod by six months to a year, Milly wished one thing in particular.

That she’d returned the package, unopened, to the post office.

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“The chronometer can’t be correct,” said Willen.

“Diagnostics show nothing amiss.”

“It can’t be,” Willen snapped. “Run them again.”

“It’ll be the tenth time. You know what they say about the insanity of trying the same thing and expecting different results.” Margot sighed. “What’s so impossible about the reading? We can see just from an elementary once-over that this thing has been out in the void a long time.

“If the chronometer is accurate, it’s been out here longer than the known or observed age of the universe.”

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ArtCity One was the ultimate extension of the expensive, popular, and uncharacteristically honestly-titled Let’s Put Stuff In Space To See What Happens program. The United States Aeronautics and Space Administration constructed, at taxpayer expense, a huge titanium sphere designed to rotate in such a way as to provide gravity in some areas and none in others and filled it with 10,000 artists. Every shape and form of art was represented, from writing to sculpture to bizarre outsiders who worked in mediums like spider pee and bat earwax.

A committee of USASA bigwigs chose the artists from a stack of applications. They were accused of stuffing ArtCity One with weirdoes and gadflies the government would prefer to have on the other side of a few million miles of hard vacuum, but in fact the only thing the artists had in common was that their best work was apparently ahead of them. No established or high-profile figures were included, though a few did try to bully themselves onboard.

With great fanfare, ArtCity One was launched ten years to the day after construction began, borne skyward by 1500 surplus Saturn V rockets. As part of the agreed-upon plan, there was no communication between USASA mission control and ArtCity; the artists were left to do as they would while USASA monitored the sphere’s automatic systems. They planned for numerous contingencies, keeping a rocket with a rescue crew on 24/7 standby.

The only thing USASA didn’t plan on was a budget cut.

After an election, the new president made the controversial decision to divert the Let’s Put Stuff In Space To See What Happens program’s $200 trillion budget into a new program. Its reputation, they claimed, had been inevitably tarnished by such fiascoes as Operation Pork Lift, the Mucus Orbiter, and of course the notorious Unstable Radioactive Isotopes In Rapidly Decaying Orbits initiative. The president transferred the funds to the new Let’s Give Money to Various Voting Blocs program, and ArtCity One was left to its own devices after a message asking the crew if they would like to be retrieved received no response.

Eight years afterward, the president left office and $100,000 was allocated by their successor to the Let’s See What Happened to ArtCity One So Their Relatives Will Leave Us Alone initiative. The two-man crew, made up of astronauts previously dismissed from the program for substance abuse problems or trying to murder their ex, rendezvoused with ArtCity One in a secondhand Soyuz capsule that the Russians had put on the “free” table at their national garage sale.

The first transmission was garbled; the USASA Relief Mission Control Team (normally assigned to supervise space junk in near earth orbit) could barely understand any of it. The only clear words were “massive,” “gazebo,” decoupage,” and “hive-mind.”

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