The Bertulf representatives

The predominant color of Orthianx was purple. The atmosphere, heavily laced with altazine, was a light purple, the mountains were a medium purple, the oceans were a darker purple, but still purple.

"Wow, did the gods only have one crayon when they made this place?" Zurra wondered aloud as they slipped into orbit.

"You know, for an agricultural world, there sure are a lot of ships here," Gerald said, pointing out the cluster of nearly fifty small craft.

Cha'Rolette frowned as she looked at them. "Something's not right."

Ilrica brought up a schematic. "Weird, there's no record of this class in the database, but their identity beacons show them as Alliance."

They were small little silver craft, shaped like a grain of rice with a hollow tip at one end, which housed a huge weapons bay normally reserved for craft dozens of times their size.

"They keep ignoring my waves." Zurra reported.

"They can't respond, those are drone warships," Cha'Rolette explained.

"Drone warships?"

She nodded. "Unmanned naval vessels. I'd seen design plans for them, but I didn't know any had actually gone into production."

"They're awfully small to be called warships," Gerald observed. They don't look that much bigger than us."

All the girls looked at him harshly.

"Did I say something stupid?"

"Well, your lips were flapping," Ilrica teased.

Cha'Rolette sighed and said, "Look, Gerald, most of a normal ship's vulnerability comes from the need to keep the occupants alive. It has to be pressurized, it has to limit the inertial forces, it has to shield the passengers from radiation, it has to carry provisions, stuff like that. A drone warship is basically just engines with guns strapped to the front and covered in five layers of armor. It doesn't have to be big; in fact, the smaller size works in its favor, as it is more agile and has less surface area to protect. Each of those little things carries the equivalent firepower of an average destroyer."

"No way," Zurra said, "They're flying the old Bertulf Empire flag."

She enlarged the image for all to see.

"What?" Ilrica asked, sitting up. "Bertulf don't use starships. They never have." She seemed genuinely surprised.

Gerald turned to Cha'Rolette. "Duchess, why would Ssykes Industries be making drone warships for the Bertulf?"

"I have no idea. The development of drone warships was done under a contract with the Alliance military; there would be huge legal repercussions if they were sold to a third party. It wouldn't make sense for my father. The reward could never balance out the risk."

"So, why are they here?"

Everyone looked at each other ominously.

* * *

Gerald struggled with his facemask as they walked away from the landing pad. There was no oxygen on this world. Ilrica and Cha'Rolette breathed nitrogen, so it wasn't an issue for them, and Zurra didn't breathe at all as far as he could tell, meaning that only he had to wear one of these embarrassingly huge face masks. He felt like an animal in a zoo as they walked down the simple dirt road, while children pointed and stared at the thing strapped to his face. At first he had hoped that it would make a cool sound like Darth Vader, but instead it made a wheezing hiss like an old person blowing through a kazoo.

It felt like he was being inflated, and somehow it managed to trigger his drowning reflex, so even though he was breathing, it felt like he was drowning. He found that by carefully controlling his respiration, and focusing on the fact that his lungs were indeed expanding and contracting with air, he could manage the sensation, but it was extremely unpleasant. What's worse, the mask did nothing to filter out the high amounts of methane in the air, meaning that he felt like he was constantly breathing in farts.

The people seemed friendly enough for purple people. Zurra kept humming the tune for 'One-eyed one-horned flying purple people eater' as they walked, and the two of them shared a laugh at the inside joke.

While the younger people stared at them through the windows of their mud huts, the older generation rushed out when they saw Ilrica, laying down bowls of food at her feet while prostrating themselves submissively on the ground.

"It looks like the grandparents still remember how to treat a hunter," Ilrica said, happily snatching up a few of the offered morsels.

"That's right, this place used to be part of the Bertulf Empire," Zurra recalled.

"It's overly generous to refer to it as an empire. No central government, no standardized currency, no legal system, no written constitution. Just three hundred fifteen planets living in fear of the hunting packs that would occasionally arrive, seeking tribute and fresh meat," said Cha'Rolette.

"And yet, it was the greatest rival to the old Confederacy before the war," Ilrica boasted as she wolfed down a piece of raw meat. "Just think what would have happened if they had actually been trying."

At the center of the dusty town, which they realized was actually the capital, an altar had been erected in the center of a cobblestone square, beneath a wooden and earthwork statue of the Emperor.

Two delegations stood at the altar, and as Gerald drew closer, he remembered to put his translator back on. Even without it, he could tell that the discussion was becoming decidedly heated.

Two massive female Bertulf stood guard on their side. Although they were a little more sleek and feminine than Liufr Ivaylo, they still shared much in common. They stood hunched over like a werewolves ready to strike, with long, lithe limbs covered in slabs of tight muscle. Their thick fur was braided in places with bones and bits of meat. They wore simple loincloths and tunics, and carried long spears finely carved from the bones of some massive creature.

Their gray eyes were cold and predatory, with long muzzles and dripping, razor-sharp fangs. They were exactly what Gerald would have expected female Bertulf to look like; the confusing part was that they looked almost nothing like Ilrica.

"We apologize about the delay. We are the mediation team sent by Alliance Command," introduced Cha'Rolette.

"You are quite late," said the weasel of a man representing the Bertulf interests. "I am Klona, and we could wait no longer, so we began without you."

"Katalumbrah," Ilrica waved in greeting to the Bertulf, who ignored her completely.

"Thank goodness you have arrived," the purple-skinned man said, shaking Cha'Rolette's hand. "I am Mayor Tumn. I am the one who requested your intervention. I assume the rest of the fleet will be arriving shortly."

"No fleet, just us," Ilrica explained.

"We were told this was a diplomatic issue," said Cha'Rolette.

"It is, and we do not require your assistance," Klona said, his whiskers twitching. "We were just about to put the final signatures on this treaty. Now, if you will allow us to proceed..."

"No, we require military intervention," Tumn explained, rubbing his massive belly nervously. The man seemed covered in sweat from head to toe. "These savages have filled our skies with warships in an effort to intimidate us into signing this blasted treaty of theirs."

"Your people voted just last night and accepted the terms," Klona argued. Fifteen worlds have already signed similar treaties. "There is no reason to delay."

"They voted under threat of punishment! You've got naval grade particle cannons aimed down at us from the heavens!"

Klona gave off a squeaky laugh, trying to release the tension. Cha'Rolette watched him closely, her keen eyes drinking in every movement, every inflection. Her focus on him was absolute. Gerald noted that it was the same way she looked when she took tests.

"Please," Klona tried to sound reassuring. "The senator is clearly exaggerating for effect. Alliance legal code clearly defines a warship as a craft displacing at least ten thousand metric taos. These ships are well under that threshold. At best they can be described as a heavy fighter, or an escort-class vessel, but not a warship. They do not meet the qualifications."

"That is an awfully technical distinction for a Bertulf delegation," Zurra noted.

Klona coughed into his paw. "I'll ignore your racist remark in the name of goodwill. As we all know, pirate activity in the core world has become intolerable. Why, just last week a raiding party hit the south island and hurt a lot of people. Since the Alliance military is stretched so thin, smaller worlds like this one are basically unprotected. The Bertulf are a compassionate people, and they are willing to use their military might to keep the skies and shipping lanes safe. All they ask is a small token in return, a gesture of goodwill."

Tumn slammed his fist on the altar, sprinkling it with sweat. "That token is the exact same price they demanded of us when the Bertulf controlled this world. This treaty would put us in same state we were in before joining the Alliance!"

Cha'Rolette put her hand out. "May I see the treaty?"

"Of course," Klona said, looking her body over lustfully as he handed over the tablet. After plugging in, it only took her half a second to study the hundreds of pages of text. When she was done, she looked up at one of the Bertulf towering over her.

"If you attempt to read my thoughts, Issaguardian, you will be dead before you hit the ground," the huntress warned.

Cha'Rolette set the tablet back down. "I don't have to. It's perfectly obvious what you are doing. You are attempting to bring back the old Bertulf Empire."