“The quietest of victories are those where restraint sings loudest”

  - The QI

  The entrance to the Command Conclave was a grand affair. Its sides were flanked with what Feebee took to be the four sigils of the clades on this Orbital.

  She recognised the flickering fire within a void as the sigil for Ember’s clade, the Void Spiral.

  She also noticed that although they appeared casual, the guards always had at least a triangle of weapons trained on her. A ‘kill zone’.

  These Drexari are disciplined.

  It was the second time she’d seen this and knew, with discipline came entrenched beliefs.

  She smiled and the guards backed off, just a bit. They recognised it, a predator’s response; the baring of teeth.

  Unsure how long she was going to have to wait, she sat down in the middle of the entrance to the Conclave.

  Legs crossed. Hands on knees.

  She projected the appearance of perfect calm.

  One at rest with the world.

  This unsettled the guards more than any show of violence could ever do.

  They adjusted, and kept four guns on her at all times.

  ‘What command info have you found?’ she asked the QI.

  ‘The Commanders in the conclave are leading this invasion, they hold the power. The Shadow Hands from each clade collectively record the racial memories of each clade. They have ceremonial power only.’

  ‘Ack.’

  ‘Be careful. The Commanders are lethal.’

  ‘So are we.’

  The Drexari around Feebee started to shuffle their feet, their quest for stillness knocked off balance by her ability to instantly drop into a state of deep awareness, and maintain it, despite the ‘noise’ around her.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  One walked up to her and prodded her with a gun. Somehow the gun appeared in Feebee’s hand, where it was broken down and returned to its owner before any of the guards could react.

  Vol’Shaar called out, “Please don’t poke the human. It bites.”

  The guards laughed at their colleague’s discomfort; but each took a step back and now there were five weapons trained on her. The guard walked away from the group and spent a minute or two putting the weapon back together before retaking his position guarding Feebee.

  More guards arrived.

  The majestic doors to the Conclave started to move. Their mass obvious by the vibration in the floor.

  It would’ve been awe-inspiring had the door not made an ugly grinding sound and stopped, half open. The guards looked at each other, then at Feebee. She was smiling, the QI had definitely obtained a sense of humour, or something like it.

  And then, with a jolt, the doors started to close before reversing course and finally opening fully.

  Feebee looked across to the Vol’Shaar and gave zher the smallest of nods, which zhe returned.

  She made them wait, then with exaggerated pain, rose and limped into the Command Conclave.

  In the centre sat four Drexari, weighed down by medals, silks, and self-importance.

  They were positioned, two on each side, halfway down a long table with Hissy out of reach at the other end. Her ether-tempered obsidian core and solar-forged brass tubing was impressive. Upon ‘seeing’ Feebee, Hissy’s glyphic iconography lit up and a shower of motes flickered into being, accompanied by a series of harmonic chirps that rose in a glissando sweep; a serpentine purr.

  One of the Drexari command snorted, “cheap magic”.

  As Feebee approached, she stumbled and rolled a marble of Choc under both sides of the table in front of her.

  Two layers of guards blocked her way; she could get no nearer.

  “Sorry,” she said straightening, “Difficult landing. Made a terrible mess, but you probably heard that.”

  Feebee looked at the Commanders.

  Each wore a fist sized pendent at their neck, a different sigil. One, that the others seemed to defer to, had a Void Spiral at his neck. So, this was the Silent Blade, Vol’Sereth, that Vol’Shaar had told Freebie about. Intelligent, fiercely loyal but also an ambitious forward thinker.

  Feebee shifted focus inwards.

  ‘Set All Deployed Choc to Mist. Action – Release.’

  ‘Ack. All Choc out the wrapper.’ Confirmed the QI.

  ‘Vol’Sereth is NOT a target.’

  ‘Ack. Vol’Sereth is sweet enough.’

  Feebee had stirred the pot, now it was time to serve them Choc.

  ‘Prep for two focused Kill Actions. The guards and the other commanders.’

  ‘Ack – sweetness is loaded’

  The QI seemed to have switched from humour to whit.

  ‘Cut the whit. It makes your responses ambiguous.’

  ‘Ack. Cutting the whit.’

  During all this, Feebee stood before them, perfectly still, offering no defence beyond quiet poise.

  She waited.

  ‘I am detecting trace amounts of a cyanide nerve toxin,’ the QI said.

  ‘Assessment.’

  ‘They intend to poison or subdue us.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Now, which of you has the kill switch for the gas? she wondered. It was unlikely to be Vol’Sereth. A Silent Blade would attack and kill directly, not murder from the shadows with poison.

  ‘Options.’

  ‘Fight or flight. There is a third, but it has no referential context. Its highly experimental.’

  ‘Explain,’ asked Feebee, suddenly interested.

  ‘It is referenced in our manual but has not been tested...’ The QI paused.

  Unusual.

  ‘And?’ asked Feebee, liking this option, despite not having heard it.

  ‘Not ever. And it involves a reset of your biochemistry to enable alternate respiration. Basically, you would be able to breath cyano-derivatives or air.’

  ‘Sounds drastic.’

  ‘It is,’ responded the QI. Then added, ‘Very drastic, we could die, properly die.’ There was no attempt to soften the message.

  The smell of cyanide got stronger. Much stronger.

  ‘Do it – Action confirmed.’

  Her body spasmed; she fell to her knees and reached out for the table before falling face first on the floor.

  The guards looked at each other and tensed, ‘Was this a show?’