"Ah, crud, the lines are all melted into each other. No wonder the subsystems are failing!"

A craft was well nestled in a small clearing so that the trees were almost too close for comfort next time it would take off. It was of an unusual variety, highly modified and with a custom outfitting. Long in nature and standing on landing props, it was well concealed from distant eyes but certainly not well enough to be customary for any sort of stealth mission.

No, the truth is it was a maintenance landing if anything, but well out of the perimeter of the city so that they could avoid careful landing protocol and docking fees. The last thing they wanted was to be rushed while working on their latest repair job. Their ship, always dappled with all kinds of minor troubles after a mission, was now dealing with a frustrating series of system blackouts due to burnt wiring, probably the outcome of a loose panel and an unlucky debris impact or some good old ordnance.

The man standing underneath it had an electric lamp in his offhand as he attempted to pick the melted mass off of the interior chamber, while his crew mates sat at their camp just partly out of the ship's artificial shade. There were set some retro, outdoor-intended fold-up chairs around an artificial firepit, lit only so they could enjoy the outdoor experience with some good old cooking. Toolboxes and datapads and other sorts of modules were laid around the camp, which had a proximity of perhaps thirty meters from the nearest landing prop to the nearest tree. There was even a data terminal attached to the ship's power conduit underneath feeding out information as well as displaying the planetary time.

There were four men in total - the one working on the ship's damage was probably their technician, as he was dressed in a jumpsuit and in suspenders to hold up his tool-rife pants. There other three looked inept for such work. One was a man, late thirties, sitting in the chair and cooking up some clam chowder, another was a man entirely garbed in a padded and composite armor set with a helmet in his lap. He was a dark-skinned man who had an intimidating look about him, perhaps one who took his work too seriously. He was well equipped with a polearm high-tech axe on his back (more a halberd, really) and a pair of composite bracers that looked customized to contain some kind of energy weapons, perhaps a blaster or a blade.

His gear looked well suited for stealth, so his choice for energy ordnance probably reflected a desire for the silent hum of super-heated particles rather than slugs or other munitions. The third of them wasn't seated around the 'campfire' but was rather laying in the grass enjoying an expensive scope. With one eye shut and his mouth gaping, showing what could had been the pre-evolved form of a grin, he seemed to scan the southern woods. It wasn't densely wooded so he could see very far, to other sun-bathed clearings particularly.

"How's it look, Viron," said the man who cooked in his fine-weather regalia. Viron offered a grunt in response before setting his tool on the top of the data terminal and wiping his brow. "Looks like its cheap but its a hassle, too."

He sighed in resignation and sat at their camp, hands too covered in grease that he had failed to clean off his tools from other endeavors to join in on the cooking. "We can fly, though, just need to see if I have any Class-7 wiring in the craft, and some binders."

"Doesn't sound that bad," replied the man to Viron, eyes still fixated on his cooking.

"It's the removal of the damaged wiring. Very meticulous too, my hands are clumsily big for it."

"Well, want me to put some beans on for you?"

Viron gave a curt nod, "Yes, very much please."

Still laying in the grass on his belly, one of the men peered through his high-powered scope at miles-distant fields, amusing himself rather than actually on watch duty. He could see hints of the city in the far off distance, when he angled the scope up enough to see buildings scraping the sky over the tree canopy. However, he didn't bother much with that - the scope was meant to be laid out on prongs and angling it up was just an annoying task. He was more interested in searching the forests for anything interesting than getting a shaky albeit clear sight of the insides of building windows. He was one who delighted more in the beauties of nature than the strange activities of people unaware they are being watched. The smell of beans wafted into his nostrils, causing him to rise from his scope and tip it slightly to the side.

"Oh, let me get some of that," exclaimed he in a youthful manner. Unknown to him he had tipped the scope a few degrees to the side, setting it right onto the approaching mechanical walker. He stood near the fire, setting a final seat so that now they all were around the cooking, edible wealth. "Zabasaz, what're you working on?"

The dark-skinned man, who upon closer inspection appeared to have a small pair of hooked horns jutting out from the front of his head, turned his eyes to look upon him, eyes that had a hint of red or orange about them, making them a sinister pair indeed. Then, he looked down to his helmet which he was tuning via some knobs along the wide, thin visor. "Calibrating my equipment," replied he in a deep, low voice characteristic of a man of few words.

"What for," replied he who had been using the scope, obviously the youngest of the group, "You've got a job coming up?"

"We all do," interrupted Viron. "I think I told you yesterday in the morning, we got an e-mail from Graven about a potential job.

The one in charge of cooking snickered a bit, and Viron looked at him. "What, Volta, something funny?" Volta looked at him and grinned out a couple of words, a question to which he knew the answer. "Didn't he off and form 'the Mavericks?"

"Old man's got his little dreams but apparently somebody is taking it seriously, he's got two jobs, needs us for this one."

"What kind of job," asked the youngest of them.

"He didn't give me details, Eron, but it has some diplomatic aspect I guess because he got an encrypted message from some high power," replied Viron, evidently the leader of their party given his knowledge not only of their affairs, but his ship repair experience and his head pilot status. His uniform underneath the work suspenders was his piloting suit, one of many, but it had been a long time since he had been in a fighter so such suits were just used when work was too dirty to wear his finer apparel. No, their ship was a polarized vessel, with mounted turrets and missile systems, computer operated repair modules, and an exceptional targeting and sensor system on top of state-of-the-art propulsion systems. All stolen, of course, or salvaged in some manner, but their sources were never danger to take from. The truth is they could pass any inspection, if just barely. Most landing pads were more interested in some broken landing protocol than their expensive parts that were wired just right to work on near incompatible systems.

Eron watched Zabasaz's curious handiwork while he replied to Viron, but their conversation (assisted slightly by Volta) went off in an indecipherable tangent about what could be suspected to be their current affairs.

They hadn't at all noticed the yet-approaching vehicle or curious insects over the crackle of the fire and the hum of their nearby equipment... or of course the din of their talk.

On the Eudemonian's TAD, multiple IFF blips of a Tripolitanian Light Powered Armor Infantry Rifle Squad materialized abruptly on the display. The squad had been moving under full stealth mode, creeping along at 1mph or less on a training patrol. Their squad leader was Sergeant Zimrida, a battle-experienced veteran of the Frontier Forces, now reallocated towards the new inward front line. Zimrida was a Fireteam Leader promoted to Squad Leader, assigned to a squad consisting of three fireteams, each with one human fireteam leader and three humanoid slave AI's.

The squad was opting for a Standard Loadout: standard riflemen with MARS assault railguns, one one-man weapon specialist per fireteam (one AMR, one 50mm Infantry Grenade Launcher), with the Command Squad opting for the only "slow" weapon: a 150mm Recoiless Rifle firing light tank rounds. Their boxpacks were the half-sized Light Boxpacks, carrying consummately less ammunition for this particular live training exercise.

At a range of 600 meters behind a hill, the infantry dispersed and stayed low upon sighting the unknown ship. A small fiberoptic sensor probe raised by one of the infantry displayed infra-red that conclusively pointed out humanoid targets near the vessel...but also showed two unknowns nearby. The Sergeant signalled his troops with hand gestures to fan out, placing one fireteam in an overwatch position watching their backs, and putting the command squad on the line with the ginormous recoiless rifle. The Team Leader and Squad Leader used the heavier MARS in 20mm Marksman configuration, and the two on the front line peeked their rifles over the slope, keeping them low and unobtrusive as possible. The non-reflective coatings kept any glare from reaching viewers, and the battle-zeroed Fire Control Module on their rifles put a aiming reticle on their suit HUDs. One targeted the unknowns, the other the gaggle of people in front of the ship.

The recoiless rifle and rocket launcher troops configured their weapons for indirect fire, staying on the reverse slope and waiting for a signal, if any, to engage. The Sergeant, satisfied with the positioning of his forces, transmitted on tightband comm laser to the in line-of-sight Eudemonian walker.

"Walker, this is Biscuit Six holding in overwatch, over-"

The walker’s pace changed not as the com. was received, the pilot reciprocating the communication as he noticed the NTS contacts suddenly appear on the TAD. The man sounded surprisingly calm despite the growing number of unknown contacts showing up on the TAD largely from the same unknown, insectoid source.

Copy that, Biscuit Six. I am picking up multiple humanoid contacts and their vessel, as well as a number of unknown insectoid contacts. Closing position to vessel to assist, over.

Was the reply, complete with several data packets containing all of the relevant information taken from the walker, as well as access to the walker’s ID tag for use in with the NTS’ own TAD system to prevent misidentification should the two elements become separated from one another.

Zabasaz's wicked eyes took a brief glance up at the other three conversing, and in no way was it unusual for him to not be active in the discussion. He was a quiet one, tempered to be such by thirty-five years in the killing business. Three and a half decades of horrors did that to someone - but it wasn't so bad to him, not just due to his experience but his natural affinity for stomaching the most ruthless, brutal of sights. The truth was he made some of those sights, and it is much easier to stomach a gory sight if you were the one who caused it, but only after it is done, or so he thought.

Zabasaz's experience as a bounty hunter and enforcer was not the only thing that impressed his comrades and ship mates. Quite the contrary, it was more his ability to stay interested in the industry for thirty-five years running, showing no sign of cease. Bounty Hunting was a troubling career to take on and usually when enough has been cashed in on to put a person where they need to be financially, it is stopped and the equipment sold. But Zabasaz was different. He kept in the business, and his funds weren't dedicated towards a hope, towards retirement - they were dedicated towards better equipment and improving himself in the trade, being one of the best.

The truth in his eyes was, how could he do anything else? How could he live without knowing his life was centered around bringing that next thug to justice, cutting off the hands of that business rival, destroying that ship of innocents to get at the one inside that just wasn't so much? It completed him, made him rise up in the morning and sleep easy wherever his body fell. Did this make Zabasaz an evil man? By most standards, yes, but concerning yourself not with ethics was the magic of making blood money. Zabasaz looked down to his helmet and turned it to the side so he could glimpse at the numerous knobs on the side, and as he did so the glass on his slit-of-a-visor, protecting the delicate ocular equipment within, reflected the image of two unusual creatures that made his sinister brow curl inward with determination. Immediately he drew his blaster pistol and with a twist of it on his fingertip, fired a precise shot between the creatures on the grass in the shade.

There was a flash and flicker as the grass went up and burned with an effect akin to a minute long flame, but in an instant, leaving a black, warm spot with glowing embers between them and the smell of cooked foliage. It was surely a sign to the creatures to stop whatever it was they were doing if their eyes and attention spans were acute enough to even detect the passing of a superheated blaster bolt. Zabasaz's crew mates immediately rose to their seats and looked to him and his target attentively, startled by the sound of a J90 Pistol shot, something reminiscent of a metal part striking another metal part with a bit of a blast to it.

It was odd though, as the research group saw the massive hive like race, the Trantor company hearing rumors of the "hives". To prevent another Xenocide, like the one encountered on the Durian Federated Space region, they sent a varied squad, Psykers, researchers, and to help communicate with the insects proper, a hive like AI group, the beings dressed like old figures from Earth television shows, their massive helmets having a network of compound eyes, and their heads having a simple antena network. They headed into the countryside of Hub, their personal freighter escorted by a few mercs from Haifa. The hive like AI and the Psykers simply tried to send a simple welcome, hoping the colony would understand their call.

The mercs sighed, the large gift box of various sugar based products, from beer, to pure Sugar, to a soda drink produced from corn like plants, was rolling along, its repulses turned off to save energy. The researchers at Carmel city had little info on the insects, only knowing some information from the Galactic Database on similar races. On that, they also carried fungus, stored in sealed containers, not sure if this hive would need to consume the mushrooms in a sort of symbiotic relationship. It seemed as if they were willing to talk, as they waited on the surface, not wanting to enter without an escort drone. Insects were territorial on the small scale, but going into the cave without permission was tantamount to death.

The new entrance to the colony was ever growing in activity; the skirmishers which had originally served as sentries were now accompanied by the more traditional doormen, who were smaller and more compact, but almost equally equipped to meet hostility at the door. An almost unbroken procession of scouts and foragers came and went, either seeking material and information to bring back or on their way inside to deposit their respective loads, only pausing to be checked by the guards at either side of the tunnel's mouth.

As the ridiculous clump of humanity approached, some scouts did take note, stopping briefly in their tracks to attempt to glean some kind of indication of the purpose of this visit . Had they a sense of humor, they'd be laughing in their own insectoid way at the laughable outfits several of the fleshy bipeds were sporting. No pheromone or electromagnetic signals that could be read by them were present, and the fact these imposters were walking in a manner only befitting two-legged hominids did nothing to make the sad attempt at an illusion more realistic. However, they did not and thus continued on their ways only a few seconds after bothering to even look at the humans, paying them no further regard one way or another except perhaps to change course in order to move around them and their cargo.

The doormen and skirmishers were not so apathetic. They stiffened as they saw the group approach, one skirmisher moving forward several feet, raising itself a bit to look larger, more intimidating, with mandibles held open and antennae extended as far as they could possibly go. It was not remotely fooled by the ridiculously stupid costumes, and if anything, it's hackles were raised higher, if it were possible for it to have any. The guards behind the one who took initiative looked anxious, chittering with their mouthparts until one scurried back into the hole and did not return until the procession had nearly come all the way to the immediate perimeter of the colony's door.

Slowly, up from the bowels of the hive came a large individual, unlike the others and rarely seen by creatures not normally admitted into the inner sanctum of a hive. It barely was able to maneuver itself out of the clay mound that covered the entrance, being significantly larger than any of the other Apocrypha archetypes present. It rose to full height once it was free of the tunnel, towering over both human and arthropod alike before settling into something of a passive sitting position, ponderous head with magnificent crest resting on a thick neck obviously designed just to support such a large, extended cranium. This, a diplomat, would be the closest to the queen these creatures would ever come... alive.

The diplomat remained silent, body twitching a little bit as its head tilted very slightly to one side before moving back into place. It did not “speak”, though it communicated directly with all humans present, not just the psionics that had been sent for some unknown reason, as few humans in the galaxy would have any idea of the psychological capabilities of the Apocrypha species. The “voice” was fluent, though extremely fragmented, almost echoing over itself in a nigh mechanical manner, obviously the diplomat, or rather the Queen, who was herself speaking through this living puppet, was not used to speaking to mammals in a way they could understand and her brain was simultaneously handling literally thousands of other things at the same time. Before words even formulated from the psionic signals being produced from and through the diplomat, waves of agitation coursed from it, causing even the other Apocrypha present to fidget uncomfortably.

Humans. What is your business here? We “Apocrypha”, as your kind has deigned to assign us an... identity... are not fooled by your inane attempt to disguise yourselves. We find this an insult to our kind; it patronizes our species.

Viron cringed as the device in the creature's mandible, a device typically used to check for the presence of electrical currents, fell easily sway to the creature's mandible in a torrent of plastic and metal debris that likely exploded out of it's grip. The device itself was already low in integrity anyways, an old part that had been several times snapped back together, but it still proved to the crew that putting their limbs in the way of these creature's pincers was not a bright course of action.

Volta immediately unholstered a slug-throwing pistol and rested it on his arm, aiming the weapon at the insect mounted on the ship but Viron was able to stop an alarmingly fast and accurate gunshot, as was Volta's specialty, by placing a gentle hand on his arm as a gesture of lowering. Volta kept aim, but did not fire - just watched. Zabasaz, on the other hand, had no new actions to offer. It seemed clear to him the nature of these insects in any instant, for while he was a single-minded, cold-blooded killer he was also a refined and cultured man of notable intelligence, and knew of bug tendencies from prior reading and perhaps even prior experience. It briefly crossed his mind what kind of bounty a queen would net if he proposed it, but it wasn't an altogether SERIOUS notion, to tell the truth. Zabasaz stood and watched, steadily lowering his pistol to gauge the potential hive-roles played by these creatures. He was already almost sure he was looking at scavengers or scouts, or probably some joint mental programming, but the insects weren't identical which was not typical of similar archetypes. Their evolution forked in the direction of their specialty, that was what their genetics dictated. He settled on the possibility that one was a scout and one was a scavenger - probably the latter being that which was less receptive of the pistol-fire scare.

Eron, of all the party members, was beside himself with apprehension. Shadowing subtlely but intentionally behind the other crew members, he steadied his vibrating legs and forearms and attempted with all his effort to keep his guard up. He had a phobia for insects as misfortune would have it, and giant insects weren't necessarily exempt from the natural, instinctual fear that his biochemistry dictated. He had no weapon on him, or he may had already loaded and fired it. Volta and Zabasaz were the only armed members, actually - Volta with his trusty, ever-present pistol and Zabasaz with... a whole mess load of arms. A pole arm on his back, a retractable blade in his bracer, his sidearm in his hand, all kinds of gadgets built into his regalia, and of course the sizable carbine leaned up against the cooler next to his chair. The difference between him and his allies was a far too vast number, but the most outwardly visible was his equipment. Somehow, it both seemed like too much and just enough, depending on the beholder. To Zabasaz, it wasn't ever enough if you relied on your equipment more than your own skill.

Volta was different - just as talented a marksman with less experience under his belt than Zabasaz, he was often the go-to guy when it came to that perfect shot, and he was able to adjust to most of the more primitive weapon types. Only the exceptionally high tech weapons were a challenge for him, but he was certified (one self, the other official) for two different brands, one of which was trained on he and his comrades from a far and concealed location at that very instant.

Viron was the first to speak. "What the heck are those?"

"Bugs," said Zabasaz in his lowest voice that could still be heard. He spoke calmly, perhaps carefully, in his deep voice characteristic of his species. "I think we should get on that ship before we have a swarm under our boots, if you catch my meaning."

The psykers took off the helmets, the diplomatic leader simply saying. "Hello great Apocrypha race. We do not wish to anger you, but we wish to negotiate a treaty on trade of one of your more infamous products, your sweet honey. From traders tales, we have heard you produce a sweetened elixir that has many curative and nutritive properties. We have brought over samples of substances we would be willing to exchange for a supply of your honey product. Our Corporation would love to exchange our various food sources, and resources, if we could secure trade lines with your honorable tribe". It seemed the psyker was nervous, as the waves of psychic power emitted from the tribe would turn against them, but he waited, trusting in the power of higher reason and logic.

Around the clearing where the cadre of humans had taken up temporary residence, the bushes began to stir. It seemed the odor of cooking food and the sounds of their brethren had begun to attract even more foragers – perhaps a dozen or so. A few scouts accompanied, investigating things with an unquenchable desire to gather information. They were not cautious in the least, moving as a disjointed mass of segmented carapaces toward the ship and, more importantly, the meals the men were preparing for themselves. Some stopped to prod and manipulate the equipment on the ground, others walking over it almost gingerly, not allowing any of their six legs to impact on the pieces scattered about.

The scout perched atop the craft seemed to get excited as it noticed the oncoming miniature horde of its kind. Its wings buzzed loudly, antennae acting almost like the flags of a deckhand on a carrier's runway, most likely sending signals of all sorts down to the others to give them a bit of a briefing on the situation. The foragers stopped short of the men, seeming to stay outside the shadow of the looming ship as if it were some tangible barrier impeding their approach. They looked at the humans, almost as if they felt the mammals were in their way, creating a blockade to their ability to access the resources they felt entitled to.


Back at the newest tunnel entrance, the diplomat remained deathly still except for twitching antennae constantly shifting to probe the air for information sent through a myriad of vectors. Once the humans finished their proposition, the ponderous cranium shifted, tilting to one side as if the diplomat, or queen who was puppeteering it was weighing the value of their attempt to set up some sort of business deal. Resuming its zenlike position, face devoid of expression or any ability to contort itself into one recognizable by humans, it “spoke” again.

Despite your intentions, you have already soured our opinion of you and whatever deals you might try to negotiate. We do wonder how such men would know of what we do within our nests. We do not permit those like yourselves within our homes in any state that would allow you to observe our activities or resources.

You come to us with a poorly conceived farce, as if we were such lowly beasts to fall for such foolishness and now you wish us to share what we may have for ourselves with you? Is such two-faced dealing common amongst the likes of you pathetic creatures of meat and bone, or is it specific to the hive you associate most closely with?

The diplomat twitched slightly, barely noticeable, but the Apocrypha gathered around shifted uneasily. The agitation of the queen was amplified now, she was obviously not in any mood to conduct dealings after such a show of ignorance on the part of the humans and their attempts to say otherwise looked to fall on deaf "ears". The skirmishers and doormen seemed to feed off of the aggressive signals the queen was focusing through the diplomat, their mandibles gnashing in a truly frightening manner, as if it was all they could do to keep from rushing forth and ripping each person in sight limb from limb to be used as food for the hive.

Zabasaz gestured with his right hand in a brisk waving motion towards the ship's open hatch which created a metal walkway into the interior on the other end of the ship, under the cockpit but leading into the passenger bay. "What're you waiting for, get in the ship," said he in a voice that was quite calm. He figured the species would be able to discern his emotions based on his means of communication and therefore tried to sound as calm, confident, and peaceful as the situation would allow. The truth was, though, hiding human emotion was a difficult task and Zabasaz of all his allies was the only one who was successfully doing it, or at least came the closest.

Volta backed towards the hatch, perhaps twenty meters away, but his gun was still trained from bug to bug. Given the geography of their location and ship landing, and perhaps their angle from the hive, the way to the hatch was more than likely a clear walk, for now, but changes could happen and they were not sure how prepared for them they would be. Viron looked around at his equipment, mostly tools he could replaced and a data terminal he had a spare of but still lamented he would lose. They didn't come cheap, requiring particularly difficult to find or purchase circuitry to put together. His life was most important though, and his ship would still work well enough if he stayed in the atmosphere to move to safer ground.

While Viron resigned his equipment to the insects and Volta warily lead their movement towards the ship's hatch, Eron could not help but hesitate. He flinched and looked searchingly about before lifting Zabasaz's carbine into his arms. He winced slightly at its weight and backed towards the hatch too, the third of four in a line approaching it. Finally, Zabasaz holstered his pistol and placed himself in a legs-bent position. The food didn't matter, the parts and tools didn't matter, only that they live to fight another day. Truth be told, and it could perhaps be construed as arrogant, Zabasaz feared not for his life but his comrades. Toe to toe with bugs he had a feeling he could make enough blows to leave in good health.

He extended his wrist's blade, a smooth, sharp, and reflective sword extending about a foot and a half out. The shape of it was very simply a narrow triangle, like a spike, used for cutting or stabbing, particularly the latter in quick motions of extension. The idea of the blade was assassination, as Zabasaz was a particularly effective covert operative. With his helmet on and sealed he had full, near flawless stealth from most visual organs and from thermal sensors, even most transverse sensors. Its weakness, truthfully, was sonar and specialized equipment. Zabasaz lifted his helmet and fit it firmly over his head, the seal automatically assuming position and becoming airtight with a resounding hiss. The life support module was set to filter, so that he was deriving oxygen not from a personal reserve - he had none equipped at the time, either way, but he wasn't safe from gases, only spores.

Placing his bladed wrist in an up position and arching forward, he entered a defensive combat stance as he backed towards the hatch last, playing the veritable escort. Ideally, if something happened, he would be the first it would happen to and the others could break off running in. He could handle himself, or at least he hoped he could.