Aetheral Space

"Okay," said Skipper, so far away across the field that Dragan could barely hear him. "Keep this distance between us."

"What?" Dragan said, pretending he couldn't hear to provide himself some petty vengeance.

"What?" Skipper shouted back.

"I can't hear you!"

"What?"

Dragan frowned. "I can't hear you!"

"You can't hear me?!"

"No!"

"Yes you can. Stop bullshitting."

Dragan smirked as Skipper rolled his eyes. How the tables had turned. He hadn't even been certain that Skipper was capable of feeling annoyed, so it was good to get confirmation on that.

"So," said Skipper, hand on his hip. "It's time for Neat Aether Tricks … not 101 since that would have been the first lesson … Neat Aether Tricks 102!"

"We've had more than one lesson," said Dragan. "It should be Neat Aether Tricks 111 if anything."

Skipper waved his hand dismissively. "Technicalities, technicalities. Try not to worry about these things. Anyway, the technique we're going to be learning today is called an Aether ping."

"You didn't name that, did you?"

"No, I didn't," blinked Skipper. "How did you know?"

"It doesn't sound absolutely moronic."

Skipper laughed loudly, as if the jab had been aimed at someone else and not him. "Ah, I know you love me really."

Dragan crossed his arms, shifting his feet slightly in the grass. "Anyway - what's this Aether ping, then? From the name, I'm thinking it's like a radar?"

"Smart boy," grinned Skipper. "Big brain. Correctamundo - an Aether ping is a method you can use to sense other Aether users, and pinpoint their locations."

"Okay," said Dragan, cupping his chin. That did sound useful. "How's it done?"

Skipper did some stretches, getting limber as he explained. "Usually, you keep your Aether close to you for defense, right? Have it coating your body like armour?"

"Or have it enhance a gunshot or something."

"Or that," Skipper acknowledged. "But with an Aether ping, you disperse your Aether in every direction - sending it as far as you can."

Dragan cocked his head. "And leave myself defenseless?"

"Well, yes. But you're pretty much defenseless anyway, so it won't be that much of a change for you. Go on, give it a shot!"

Dragan rolled his eyes and concentrated - put himself into the proper state of mind to use his Aether, a kind of calm anticipation. Tendrils of blue energy began to coil around his body, flickering in and out of existence every couple of seconds. It felt like he was a lightning rod, gathering the power of the heavens around himself.

"Nice, nice," said Skipper. "Now let it go."

Dragan squeezed his eyes closed. That was easier said than done - his Aether was loath to leave him, clinging to his body almost possessively. When he'd used it to enhance a gunshot, the Aether had been able to attach itself to the projectile, but it was having a much harder time moving out independently.

He heard Skipper, still prattling on. "It's a little tricky," he was saying. "But you can get the hang of it. Just push it away. It's a forceful thing."

Dragan understood. He was going with the flow too much, thinking of his Aether as something more powerful than himself. He'd mistaken the relationship. His Aether wasn't capable of doing anything - not even manifesting - without him to control it. He was the one in control.

He pushed it against it with his mind, insisting that it disperse. It writhed around him reluctantly.

Again.

Move, he told it, smashing the thought into his power with the speed and force of a freight liner. Move!

His Aether began to peel itself from his body, dancing in the air immediately around him instead.

"Don't let it cling on, kiddo," said Skipper. "You gotta let it go entirely."

Again, then.

Dragan commanded his Aether to move, dozens of times at once, each directive rushing through his mind like a torpedo. For a moment, it seemed like it was too much for his Aether, that it would just demanifest entirely.

Then there was a flare of blue light, and his Aether spread out like a static shock in every direction. Blades of grass shivered as his Aether passed through them, and there was a gentle humming noise that filled Dragon's ears.

The Aether continued on for maybe a meter or so before completely dispersing, but to Dragan it felt like it could have kept going forever. An involuntary grin spread across his face.

"I did it!" he said.

Skipper nodded. "Yup. You sure did. I mean, it didn't go far enough to actually be of any use, but it's still a confidence booster, I guess."

Dragan frowned, raised an eyebrow. Why couldn't he just be allowed to have this? "Well," he said. "How far is it supposed to go?"

"Far enough that it can touch whoever you're trying to sense. When it does, their own Aether will automatically try to repel yours, and you can sense the location of that collision. Hence the Aether ping. If you were having trouble sensing someone within a meter of you, I'd worry about your eyesight before your Aether."

"Haha," said Dragan flatly. "You're hilarious."

Skipper grinned. "Aw jeez," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Thanks!"

A scream rang out - long and bloodcurdling. The smile vanished from Skipper's face in an instant, his eyes as wary and attentive as an eagle’s. Instantly, emerald-green Aether flared around him, the grass around his feet vibrating from the sheer force being presented to it.

"Stay here," he said, voice low, face serious.

"No," said Dragan. Weak sparks of his own blue Aether coiled around his arms.

That made Skipper smile again.

-

When they returned to camp a minute or two later - they'd run the whole way - there was a small crowd gathered around the medical tent, worried-looking Humilists glancing at each other, the concern clear in their gaze.

"What happened?" said Skipper, skidding to a stop in front of the tent. Dragan arrived a second later.

One Humilist, a young man with mismatched eyes, looked at Skipper uneasily. "We're not sure," he said. "We think there was an attack. I'm - we think - well, there was something in the ruins. It came out, it - it attacked. It got Dian. We're not sure."

Dragon's heart sank. He knew he'd seen something on the way out of there. He should have mentioned it.

"Is he dead?" said Dragan, throat bone-dry.

The Humilist shook his head. "Um, no. No, but, his arm - it got his arm bad. All, um, mauled, you know? Bad."

"I should have been there," muttered Skipper.

Dragan was so glad he hadn't been there. To be frank, he doubted he could have done anything in the first place anyway.

As Skipper and the Humilist talked, Dragan heard new footfalls on the grass behind him. He turned to look and saw Ruth and Serena approaching.

"What happened?" gaped Serena, looking at the crowd in front of her. "There's such a ruckus."

Ruth didn't say anything, but looked to Dragan questioningly.

"Some kind of attack, apparently," he said as answer. "Something came out of the palace and attacked somebody."

Serena gasped in exaggerated shock. Again, Ruth didn't say anything, but the concern was clear on her face.

He looked back to the Humilist. "You say a thing came out of the ruins," he said. "What kind of thing? What did it look like?"

"Um," the Humilist fidgeted. He obviously wasn't used to being questioned like this. "Like … like a fly? Or a wasp, maybe? A little like a spider, too, what with all the legs … it was big. Bigger than a person, easy. And fast, too. From what I saw."

"Wow," said Serena in awe. "That sounds awful."

Dragan cast her an uneasy glance. Was she all there, mentally? Well clearly all of the crew - barring Dragan, obviously - weren't all there mentally but it seemed more pronounced with Serena.

The crowd parted slightly as a Humilist doctor came marching out of the tent. Like all her fellows, her clothes were pretty much patchwork, but this patchwork seemed to have had a reasonable amount of effort put into cleaning it. Enough to perform surgery, at least.

"He'll keep the arm," she said, pulling a medical mask off her face. "But it was a close thing. Call me if the situation changes."

With that, she began to walk away - presumably back to her personal tent - only to find Skipper blocking her path. He looked down at her seriously.

"What did it?" he said. "From the wounds - what could you see?"

She sighed. "Look," she said, eyes blinking blearily. "I'm tired, and I just want to get some rest. Could we discuss this later?"

Skipper's face was still serious. It seemed to Dragan that this was some kind of world record - he'd gone thirty seconds without making a stupid joke. He spoke: "Listen, uh…"

"Mila," the doctor said, posture adjusting to a slouch as she accepted the fact that this conversation was going to happen.

"Listen, Mila," said Skipper. "If you didn't kill whatever this thing was, that means it's still out there. If it's still out there, it'll try again. It's got a taste for us now. What attacked the guy? What kind of wounds were they?"

Mila shifted uncomfortably - it was clear now that, as much as she'd been tired, she was also trying to get just what she'd seen out of her mind. "Bites mostly - with sharp teeth, dozens of them. Lining the inside of the mouth like a shark."

Dragan winced. He didn't much fancy seeing what that did to somebody's arm. How the hell had Mila managed to save it?

"And," continued Mila. "We - I - think proboscis, too. At least one, maybe two or more. There was some drainage of blood around the affected area, so I think it was feeding that way too."

"Doesn't sound like a natural creature," said Skipper, hand to his chin.

Mila shook her head - and when she went to keep on walking, Skipper didn't stop her. She passed the group and disappeared into a smaller residential tent.

Skipper glanced at the crew. "Thoughts?"

Instantly, Serena stuck her hand up as far as it would go, hopping in place as if worried Skipper wouldn't notice her. "Oh, oh!" she said. "I know, I know! It must be a leftover from the Gene Tyrants, right? The one that lived here was called the Lady of Flies, and this monster is a big fly!"

Bruno interjected, looking somewhat embarrassed as he landed from Serena's hopping. "There's no way it could be a leftover. It couldn't have survived for a thousand years all by itself."

Dragan spoke up: "It could be a descendant, then? From experiments left in the ruins after the Thousand Revolutions?" As Dragan spoke, he noticed Bruno shoot a glare at him. Still no love lost there, then.

Skipper slapped a hand against his knee - he'd taken to doing that instead of clapping since he'd lost his arm. "I like it," he said, eyes closed, nodding. "Mm, mm. Yes. Good work, junior detectives."

"Please don't ever call me that again," said Dragan, horrified.

"I won't," Skipper lied.

Dragan sighed. He wondered what the clerks back at Gestalt Station were doing right now. Probably nothing. Oh, how Dragan would love to be doing nothing…

He was pulled from his reverie by another knee-slap from Skipper. "Anyway," he called out, striking what was presumably meant as a heroic pose. "Do you know what this kind of situation calls for?"

"A swift evacuation?" said Dragan hopefully.

Skipper laughed. "No!" he said, as if the very notion was absurd. "Not that at all!" He grinned, and there was a fevered anticipation in his eyes. "It's time for a bug hunt."

Dragan blinked. God, his life sucked.