Three days in a suspension tank. That was Jiri’s estimate. Strip down to your skivvies and stand in the glass tube while the nano-goo pumps in around your feet and the suspension systems wired into your nervous system quickly put you under. See you in three days, Jiri had said, his smile soft and optimistic. She remembered seeing Myyaelae’s blank, austere face staring back at her from behind glass as a grey fogginess crept into her vision from the sides, carried her under the waves of a numb, dreamless sleep, a layer of mist between depthless grey oceans.
Three days.
It didn’t feel like three days. It felt more like three years, but then part of that was the surgical process that stretched on in a nanite-fogged dream for another fifteen hours beyond the tank. Experimental implants based on alien technology weren’t something you rushed. The gulfs between human technology and the technology of any XT species were as great and varied as the gene sequence patterns of the creatures that had dreamed them into existence. They reflected a unique and complex tree of thought and evolution which had sprung from the primordial ooze of wholly different planets and found a billion years or so in which to reproduce and diversify in wholly different directions. Mixing anything alien in origin with anything human took time, took emulation software and adaptive hardware. It wasn’t the kind of thing that you just built and slapped into someone’s body in the hope that it would work without a hitch, much less the kinds of disastrous consequences that had become less the exception and more the rule. It took surgical testing, a quasi-invasive nanite guided and driven procedure that was constantly integrating, testing, extrapolating, retesting, comparing against optimal performance models and adjusting, always adjusting molecule by molecule, until something close to flawless was achieved. The fact that Horus wasn’t just some cohesive chunk of technology that could be scooped out if something went wrong slowed down the process even more. Lacings took more time than straight installs simply because of their saturation, the way they became a part of the body, a network of a thousand artificial cells working together to serve a single purpose.
The dossier on Horus had been packed with all the details she had clearance to see as both major and test subject, but she hadn’t taken the time to do much more than skim it. Apparently it was designed to be piggybacked on another experimental implant that had been laced into her body, making the process of integrating the alien tech that much more time consuming and tedious. Hence the three days steeped in nanite goo, the fifteen hours wired into a bank of optical leads carefully monitored by close to a dozen serious-looking labcoats, and everything else they had plugged between her body and her berth.
And then, suddenly, she was awake.
“Ouch.” She breathed. Her voice came hoarse, eyes heavy. Jiri was at her side, his hands on the bar of her bed, face blank, tinged with traces of concern and curiosity that faded under his own haggard features, his tired eyes.
“Try not to move too much.” He said softly, and Tessa winced in response. Everything was tender, every inch of flesh infused with the warm burn of bruised flesh and day-old broken bones. “You’ve only been in post-op for about an hour.”
Lips cracked apart, just an edge, wet with the tip of a tongue eager to speak, but a spike of pain changed her mind and she nodded feebly instead.
“Rest if you can, Major.” Jiri smiled genially, the soft crease of grandparents and healers. “Your body just needs a little time to get used to the lacing.”
Just a little time. She swallowed weakly as the dull fog of sedation set in again, carrying her off to sleep.
Just a little time.

Three days in a suspension tank. That was Jiri’s estimate. Strip down to your skivvies and stand in the glass tube while the nano-goo pumps in around your feet and the suspension systems wired into your nervous system quickly put you under. See you in three days, Jiri had said, his smile soft and optimistic. She remembered seeing Myyaelae’s blank, austere face staring back at her from behind glass as a grey fogginess crept into her vision from the sides, carried her under the waves of a numb, dreamless sleep, a layer of mist between depthless grey oceans.
Three days.
It didn’t feel like three days. It felt more like three years, but then part of that was the surgical process that stretched on in a nanite-fogged dream for another fifteen hours beyond the tank. Experimental implants based on alien technology weren’t something you rushed. The gulfs between human technology and the technology of any XT species were as great and varied as the gene sequence patterns of the creatures that had dreamed them into existence. They reflected a unique and complex tree of thought and evolution which had sprung from the primordial ooze of wholly different planets and found a billion years or so in which to reproduce and diversify in wholly different directions. Mixing anything alien in origin with anything human took time, took emulation software and adaptive hardware. It wasn’t the kind of thing that you just built and slapped into someone’s body in the hope that it would work without a hitch, much less the kinds of disastrous consequences that had become less the exception and more the rule. It took surgical testing, a quasi-invasive nanite guided and driven procedure that was constantly integrating, testing, extrapolating, retesting, comparing against optimal performance models and adjusting, always adjusting molecule by molecule, until something close to flawless was achieved. The fact that Horus wasn’t just some cohesive chunk of technology that could be scooped out if something went wrong slowed down the process even more. Lacings took more time than straight installs simply because of their saturation, the way they became a part of the body, a network of a thousand artificial cells working together to serve a single purpose.
The dossier on Horus had been packed with all the details she had clearance to see as both major and test subject, but she hadn’t taken the time to do much more than skim it. Apparently it was designed to be piggybacked on another experimental implant that had been laced into her body, making the process of integrating the alien tech that much more time consuming and tedious. Hence the three days steeped in nanite goo, the fifteen hours wired into a bank of optical leads carefully monitored by close to a dozen serious-looking labcoats, and everything else they had plugged between her body and her berth.
And then, suddenly, she was awake.
“Ouch.” She breathed. Her voice came hoarse, eyes heavy. Jiri was at her side, his hands on the bar of her bed, face blank, tinged with traces of concern and curiosity that faded under his own haggard features, his tired eyes.
“Try not to move too much.” He said softly, and Tessa winced in response. Everything was tender, every inch of flesh infused with the warm burn of bruised flesh and day-old broken bones. “You’ve only been in post-op for about an hour.”
Lips cracked apart, just an edge, wet with the tip of a tongue eager to speak, but a spike of pain changed her mind and she nodded feebly instead.
“Rest if you can, Major.” Jiri smiled genially, the soft crease of grandparents and healers. “Your body just needs a little time to get used to the lacing.”
Just a little time. She swallowed weakly as the dull fog of sedation set in again, carrying her off to sleep.
Just a little time.

“So what does Me-yay–, Meh-ay” Tessa paused, brows knitting as she took a sip of her coffee, made a gesture.
“My-ee-aye-lay” Jiri layed it out carefully, made a gesture. “Myyaelae”
“What is it that Myyaelae does around here?” She watched him over the rim of her cup as she pulled in a long, leisurely sip of coffee. “Why bring a Gnarian on board with a project like this? They’ve got no real practical experience with Coralate technology.”
“No, but, ah, the Gnarians, they,” He took a sip of his coffee, watched the surface, made his own simple gesture. “They have some experience with the concept of living metal.”
“Living metal?” Tessa hesitated, glanced at her coffee, glanced back. “You mean like the way their ships have that, er...” She gestured. “That cohesive biosteel stuff that allows them to change their shape in flight?”
“Mmm!” Jiri nodded quickly. “Yes, yes.”
Tessa arched an eyebrow carefully. “And it’s the same as the technology that the Coralate is using to kick our ass out there?”
“No, no not the same.” Jiri set down his coffee, made a careful gesture. “Very different. Gnarian biosteel is actually organism. Cygnan composite is modified at atomic level by waveform and vibration, gives illusion of life.”
“So we’re back to my original question, then.” She gave a weak, ironic laugh, took another long sip of her coffee. “Why bring a Gnarian on board?”
“Because they know more about basic principles of nanomorphic metal than anyone in entire Commonwealth.” Another gesture, offering, open-handed. “If we were to have any hope of understanding Coralate technology, we knew we would have to bring someone from Gnarian Science Conclave here to help us.”
Tessa shook her head. “Amazing the Alliance went for it.”
“Yes, well, it took some doing, I’ve heard.”
“Hm.” Tessa nodded noncommitally. “Do you get a lot of XT’s out this way?”
“No, not usually.” He said simply, hesitating a moment in thought. “Doctor Ngiko on red level is on loan from Imnigrad homeworld, but that is it.”
Tessa’s eyebrows rose,
“What’s it like working with one of them?”
“Different. Very different.” Jiri smiled briefly. “You see, Imnigradi communicate through pheromone secretion, so translation unit is most miraculous machine I have ever seen. It literally convert sound to complex series of tactile patterns on Ngiko’s belt which he, er... it, then mentally convert into thought pattern for equivalent smells.” He paused, grinned excitedly. “After a while, you start to recognize certain general scent like frustration or, er, relief, but on the whole mostly you just find yourself wondering if you look as repulsive to them as they do to you.”
“I bet.” She drained the last of her coffee, set the little recycled paper cup on the table between them. “Look, no offense to you or your station, Jiri, but I’m not much of a cold weather person and I’ve got a schedule to keep with the Hephaestus, so. . .” She trailed off, letting the words hang in the wake of their unspoken conclusion.
Jiri hesitated for a moment, confused, then nodded suddenly, the edges of smile breaking across his features. “Right! Yes, of course.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Of course. I am sure that suspension berth is ready by now. I will check with Myyaelae to make sure, but for now we can get you down to surgical bay and begin sedation process.”
“The, ah,” Tessa hesitated, gestured to her empty cup. “The coffee won’t. . .?”
“The coffee?” Jiri blinked, then shook his head suddenly. “Oh no.” He grinned. “The café, it only serve decaff.”
“Now he tells me.” She grinned back.
“Placebo effect.” His grin spread, widened. “Most pilots I have met are addicted to some stimulant or other. Coffee is most common.”
“Smart man.” She gave him a wink, the edge of a grin.
Jiri laughed wryly. “So they tell me.”

“Everyone,” Jiri grinned, made a nervous, excited flourish. “Major Tessa Eisenherz!”
Tessa entered the lab to the thunder of echoing applause, couldn’t help but grin as she caught the smiles of a handful of medico/tech types, each draped in the same basic cut of starched white labcoat. Radavich shuffled forward, gestured toward the pack of eager researchers.
“Major,” He grinned again. “Major, I would like you to meet Doctors Basani and Pomo, Doctors Maltz and Fafner, Doctor Clarke. . .
Tessa nodded to each of the doctors in turn, shook hands and smiled, but her smile soon faded, caught at the edges like the edge of a sweater catching a nail. Her eyes locked with the one member of the team who stood out the most, a man who’s eyes shone like green, neon thunder, rich and alive as they stared back at her evenly, matched her gaze look for look.
“You’re a Gnarian, aren’t you?” She asked suddenly. Jiri bumbled mid-introduction, looked up at her as the researcher who had caught her gaze pulled in a resigned breath, cracked his neck majestically.
“I am.”
Tessa’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, ignoring the stares that looked up in worried interest around her, watching, framing her and the Gnarian researcher in a tense vignette. “I’ve never met a Gnarian before.”
“Well,” He said simply. “Now you have.”
“Yeah.” Tessa cracked the edge of a smile, breathed. “So, I thought the Gnarians were staying neutral.” She made a gesture, unable to keep the edge of disdain out of her tone, disgust bubbling within her, pushing her. “Just hanging back and watching while the Blueskins obliterate the Terran Commonwealth.”
“The Alliance is still neutral.” He said simply, features already darkening in that strange, broadening, fiery way that accentuated his species eyes, the bright neon colors of their compound retinas.
“So why are you here?” She almost demanded. “Did your talks with the Coralate go to shit?”
The Gnarian wrinkled his sharp, thin nose at her, knitted his fingers together in irritation. “The politics of my people are none of your concern.”
“Ah, Major, I. . .” Jiri raised a finger, tried weakly to work his voice into the conversation.
“Right, because I’m just another dirty human, huh?” She shot back, genuine anger rising into her tone. “I know how you people think. The sooner we’re gone, the better.” The Gnarian’s features hardened visibly. “We’re just an infestation to you, an infection of primitives that sprung up on a modest little ball of dirt unfashionably close to your borders.” She couldn’t help it; she sneered reflexively. “Not like we’re people or anything.”
She heard the audible crack as the Gnarian’s spine flexed in the alien way that betrayed a shift to a defensive wariness, a predatory reaction clinging to the roots of his ancestral tree. As he stepped forward, she followed his eyes, didn’t flinch even as she was forced to stare up at him. Impossibly huge, the Gnarian researcher towered over her like a monolith of golden skin that seemed almost mammalian, almost human, except in the way that it rippled, thick and deeply segmented like a sheet of a million interlocking scales over thick, knotted cords of cable-like muscle.
“You are a short-sighted and impulsive people.” He said, voice strong, powerful as it hammered her with its alien intensity. “You have grown very little from the provincial primates you were five centuries ago. You infest every planet that you set foot on and consume them until there is nothing left.” He growled. “If you attract enemies by your greedy approach to nature, then you will deal with them alone. I am here merely on the basis of a trade of research knowledge. While I work here, observing your progress with the Horus device, I both lend knowledge and absorb it, and once the device is safely integrated into your too-often butchered body, I will take my leave of this facility and return most gratefully to my own people.”
“Make sure you tell them about just how short-sighted and impulsive we really are.” She grinned, sharp and wide. “Really uncivilized.”
“And antagonistic.” He stated.
“Yeah.” She sneered again. “Can’t forget that, can we?”
“Doctor Radavich, I believe the suspension berth still needs to be prepped.” The Gnarian growled, glanced once at Jiri, made an incomprehensible gesture. “I shall attend to it.”
“I–” Jiri tried to speak, couldn’t find the words, even as he watched the Gnarian slip away, even as the other researchers stared on in dumb shock. “I don’t know what to say, Major.”
“It’s okay.” Tessa pushed a tense sigh through her teeth, pressed her fingers into her eyes. “It’s my fault.” She shook her head, looked at him, let the sad edge of smile crease her face. “The Gnarians know how strong the Coralate is. They know that the Coralate doesn’t care about diplomacy or neutrality, and yet they don’t care.” She breathed another sigh, looked away. “They’ll never admit it, but the Gnarians can’t stand us. They think the universe would be better off without us, and that’s why they haven’t done anything.” She pursed her lips, met his eyes again. “Makes me sick.”
“Myyaelae actually is rather kind to staff.” Jiri said meekly. “He is not like other Gnarians I have met. His heart is more kind.”
“I have no use for any of them, Jiri.” Tessa shook her head again. “As long as our ships and our people are the only ones being massacred out there, I’ll have something against the Gnarians. I’ve seen the footage from the invasion of Rowan. I know what their ships can do, and I know why we never see those ships in the field when we need them the most.”
“It has been long flight for you, yes?” Jiri tried a smile, made a weak, dismissive gesture. “Maybe some coffee is in order before we get started, hmm?”
“Yeah,” Tessa closed her eyes, pulled in a long, slow breath. “Coffee, sure.”