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by R.S.A. Garcia “Quarter-march, west-north-west,” came their voice through the Kinnec. “Acknowledged,” the other two shells replied. Metal clacked against stone as the scouting party made their way over the rocky terrain until a half-crumbled hillside came into view above them. Freshly fallen boulders lay cracked and scattered on the flats below a large irregular hole. The hole was dark, the opening blackened and fused from heat. A recon drone unwrapped itself from the diplomat’s shell. “Unnecessary,” Brother-Adita said. “Shell destroyed. Only core remains.” “Origin uncertain. Caution warranted.” “Core dormant.” “Caution warranted,” the Admiral’s sibling said, using four of the shell’s eight limbs to move aside inconvenient boulders. “Proceed, Sister-Marcus.” ....