-16-

The team had to wait a few days on the spaceport for the next carrier.

This pleasant stay caused some to think of how fortunate they had been. And these thoughts would remain, was it not for news and rumors, reminders that the world was much larger than their meagre wishes.

Out there, a great industrial giant, powered in thunder and storm, had become unusually dark. To the people of that planet, wintery death stalked the deepest corners of their machine-ecumenopolis, but nobody could pinpoint the circumstances or cultural hints that started this turmoil. Man seeked out man and civil war manifested.

One thing was hinted to the Claimants, that their journey perhaps would have never reached Nidavangr, if violence had never escalated.

-

The journey was otherwise uneventful.

At planetfal, all passengers were ordered to disembark. The royal decree was given by the Tyrant council of Mecone and these orders were to be enforced immediatelly. The enforcing hand, the most powerful and efficient of all places reached by mankind.

For the people of this planet consider themselves the apex of humanity. Tall, broad beings of fair complexion and bodily perfection, these people are called Gigantes and they form the ruling class of Mecone. Each individual stands at heights of over three meters of features that can be both brute and noble, showcasing thus strength of mind, body, purity of will and finesse combined.

The rule on Mecone is prowess and everything is sacrificed to that altar.

The Meconian marines that escort the passengers to the surface, are orichalcum covered giants, in hauberks that stretch from ankle to wrist, of gleaming helmets and greaves and additional chestplates. Their armor is full of additional pairs of microscopic hands in odd places, such as their heels or wrists and thrusters of infinitesimal proportions crown the edges of orichalcum giving the marines utmost control over tight, void spaces. A red cape flows in their back, fabric that moves on their own. Impervious, golden-layered and woven with the same invincible alloy that isolates a Contestant's brain.

These men and women of Mecone have no face. And one may look into their orange-hued reflection on their helmet, to see a tiny, sliced-in-starlight self crushed by a greater vastness.

There is no welcoming ceremony at the surface. The landing site is a vast flatness of uneven sandstone and granite. The nearest building is seven-hundred meters ahead.

Colours of this world are orange and clay-red brutalist buildings, with a sky above of coal-black clouds on a background of deep radiance. Grand a cityscape stretches ahead and yet there are no walls to this place, just squares built on top of squares, pillars that support roofs of specked marble and obscenelly long staircases going everywhere, to the palaces high above and to the vacant alleyways of subdued roguery. All for giant citizens and thus, the normal sized humans are only allowed to roam the lowest level of the city.

The party is split into three. The marines lead Jorj, Otto, Hab, Lacata, Varhas and Voliphoe into their street level dwellings, while Anax and Zanuvia are taken by the Kryptea into different directions.

-

The officer takes Anax into the headquarters of Orichalcum mining megacorp. Then, the officer stays into the lobby while an agent, a normal sized, pale man who is also a Claimant from some other planet, welcomes Anax and shows him around.

The agent is slim, on his neck he wears a cast iron collar. However, the cybernetic enchancements on his face are of gleaming metal and there is a long steel bar surgically implanted from one eardrum to the other, passing through parts of his brain that have long since been replaced.

The man borders on crime, Anax thinks, a kind of crime that is universal and shunned as heresy, abomination or even rarely as horror. For the man intrudes, if only barelly into the sanctity of the gray matter.

Still, the exchange is pleasant. Between the two there is a table, earth and water are arrayed on top of it and Anax consumes some of the brown powder, always eager to stimmulants, especially if they are offered by those that have plenty and whose identity is tied to granular delights.

The agent speaks.

'Your uniforms are ready as per to your instructions, due to their weight we shall deliver them to your dwelling by sundown.'

'Sounds good. That is all I wanted. I trust the result will be custom tailored, so there is no need to check the clothing now.'

'That concludes our meeting.'

The two Claimants get up and leave together. The paths they walk take them along some of the manufacturies and micro-forges of the mining corporation. The headquarters are mostly a place of bureaucracy and decision making, but company policy, or perhaps a bit of corporate culture, mandates that there should always be a woking manufactory of Orichalcum at every differnt branch.

Ahead is one such room, visible through walls of glass. See-through and steaming, the alloy is currently in the process of abstraction, a process where a deep mist covers the singular piece of metal in the middle. Two smiths are working on the alloy. Their eyes are replaced with a singular optic enchancement, a great tool of sight that focuses on the almost imperceptible world of particles and bonds. Currently, they are using tonsils to hold a slice of pure light. Moved along it's sharp edge to the side, the slice passes through the metal and remains there, as a horizontal sheet of paper bypassing the laws of solid objects. Afterwards, the two smiths begin chipping away at the microscopic edges of the sheet that appear outside of the alloy.

'Do you know the process master Anax?'

'This is the first time I see it. I was expecting us to be welcomed into a smaller branch of the corporation, not the headquarters and definatelly not to see forging demonstration.'

'More luck to you then, Claimant of metals and minerals. Would you like an accompanying narration of this step?'

The smiths continue their work performing the exact same steps as before. The sheet of light is parsed through the alloy, mere speck away from the previous layer.

'This phase is called layering and it is the most time consuming phase out of the entire process. Particle-thin tubes of bonded-energy are interlinked as sheets and they can phase through the solid metal without breaking its molecular consistency. Each sheet is placed in a point-one micrometer distance from the previous layer. Within the plex is logic and intelligence, a network that speaks to the metal and the other layers. This allows for dynamic material vibration, inverse dream access for cybernetic warfare, pan-universal stealth and an audiovisual platform for stimmulation assault. Granted that the Claimant has the skill to wield that much input and output of course.'

'You mentioned material vibration. Is this the same technology that Selective Rifles use? The same bullets?'

'Indeed it is.'

Anax remembers the technology and how horrifying the arms race for these bullets has been. These projectiles are not mere metal, but an alloy of phasing material, bullets that bypass all types of matter. If the first bullet does not penetrate the thickness of a powerarmor, then the second will. There is an additional network of communication to these bullets, where the first projectile connects and computes the material composition and vibrational frequency of the armor and rapidly communicates those specifications to the next bullet so that it may reduce or increase its frequency and completelly bypass any and all solid armor. The arms race was simply a game of cat and mouse, the armor becoming layered with more and more material and applying the same logic as the bullet, throughout the armor. Its vibrational composition either increased or reduced, constantly calculating gigantic datasets for each bullet fired, at the rate of 1300 rounds per minute.

One could carefully code these bullets to strike through walls, or even entire crowds of people, where one shoots indiscriminantly but only hits the intended target. Thankfully one may also grab one of these weapons and find himself firing bullets that harmlessly bounce on natural wood and this very same apparent safety has found many civilians of less war-happy cultures advocating for their use.

'Armor-Bypassing Dynamically-Learning Antimatterial High Explosive Ammunition. ABDLAHEA for short.'

'Correct. The rumor is that these bullets will be used on the Immaterial Contest. My guess would be for weapons that can support their use, such as the Sniper Rifle, the Enforcer pistol and perhaps the minigun or some other custom-licenced rapid-firing weapon.'

'I thought the minigun already worked with these rounds.'

'A prototype yes. But you had to manually overwrite the vibrtional frequency. Rarely anyone used this feature, Claimants just let it rip, opting not to tangle their hands with its vast potential.'

Anax remembers again, that in lower leagues there were hints that some used this weapon this way, but it seemed hard to believe, in hidden abilities of unliving metal and silicon.

The agent puts two indexfingers into each of the tips on the bar that runs through his ears. Then, he speaks. Anax looks at the agent with a face of light disgust.

'Who will be with Jorj in the next bout?'

'Varhas if it is a team game or duel. Me and Varhas if it is a Kingmaker.'

'A pleasing answer. Two Claimants should be enough to heave the armor around.'

'I am sorry but I have to ask. Why are you chained? Why do you have a bar going through your head?'

'This is just show. We have to make the giants out there believe we are their slaves. These grotesque piercings are our way of owning the planet, listening to the voices of other actors.'

The agent shrugs his shoulders as these matters should not mean anything to Anax. Then, he opens his hand to continue their walk.

-

The Krypteia is the official bureau that focuses on plays of intrigue. Locally, they focus on suppression of slave revolts that often rise on this planet. Equally square, of a complete lack of symbols and detail, the building of the Krypteia is a monument of terror. It is said that within the foundations of this building, lie corpses of slaves, frozen to gaze their dominators as they go on about their cruel efficency.

And yet despite that, the slave population of the planet, often rises against the uneven strength of their oppressors.

Zanuvia thinks in a soft step through the Krypteia. To her, if there was ever an act of compassion or even rarer, love between a human slave and a giant taskmaster, then perhaps those handful of files would be stashed in the deepest parts of this building.

The old woman swats these thoughts away. Mere expression would be enough for her to find trouble with the Meconians. Protected yes, she knows, by other planets and diplomacy, none of them would be harmed, but if something was to happen, they could rot in a prison for a couple of years before the long negotiations resolved.

Time better spent on even the most backwards of planets.

What surprises Zanuvia however, is one of those giants that she has already deemed as monsters.

The Meconian woman behind the glass panel is unusually expressive, biting her lip at discrepancies in the stacks of papers infront of her, frowning at the difficulty of her task. She is of curly brown hair gathered in a bun at the nape, a strong and broad build of shoulders that supports a muscular neck, a wide but pointy chin, a hooked but small nose, large eyes and two bushy black brows. Her eyes, Zanuvia thinks, are hazel, perhaps deeper brown and as the Meconian woman stares back into the Claimant, she apologizes for the delay.

Uniformed in white pants, shoes and a white jacket, the woman's uniform color is only broken by her black leather belt and the deep bronze color of her skin.

'That way please.'

'After you.'

'You are a gentle one. What do people call you?'

'Zanuvia.'

'I am Phlegra. First time in the Krypteia?'

Zanuvia feels the urge to answer with a joke. She holds it in. After a few seconds, caution is thrown out of her body.

'And last time I hope.'

The giant laughs. Her teeth are crooked and her hand quickly moves to cover her grinning mouth.

'Well said, little one.' Speaks Phlegra and with a hand she points towards a door, the handle of which is placed a big higher than Zanuvia. 'Through the door please.'

The room is tiny for giant standards. To Zanuvia the room is an adequate five meters wide and tall and at its center there is a device of focusing lenses. A small screen sits horizontal to its side. The shell of the device is square and it reads the name of Tetrachromy, an ancient company that went bankrupt centuries ago. The important part however, and the main focus of Zanuvia, where she also puts her eye towards, is the needle where the instrument is centered around of.

The pinpoint speck of metal, is orange and gleaming and she knows it to be the answer to the riddle of the black feather.

Ten minutes in complete silence, Zanuvia finishes with the instrument.

Zanuvia is escorted back. During the walk, she finds herself a grateful hint. For, as she knows, these people are above all, square to their beliefs. Even those lenient like Phlegra, they abide by strict flatness and whatever has happened inside of that little room, is to stay between the two.

Gossip and true intrigue are the most difficult concepts for these people to grasp and most peculiar oddities of the world, pass them by in absence.