Well guys, I'm up to something again :D

This is inspired by a number of things. Firstly, I remember a story a while back, no idea what it is, who wrote it, or where it came from, but it involved plasma dragons coming out of stars or just floating around somewhere. The other inspiration, among all the little ones, is a song. The Story So Far: States and Minds.

Anyway, enough blabbering, on to the story! It's posted as an Open Office file, but just in case, here's a text version. It's a bit harder to read, I'd guess, but hey, copy paste it somewhere easier XD Seriously though, to whoever's reading, I hope you enjoy it. I'm already working on Part Two, and it'll likely be up tomorrow.

A huge part of this is Abyssal...if you read this, mate, your Nautilus series is half responsible for this, and I thank you for that :) Power to scifi!

Last note: it's not furry...mostly...yet. I haven't added any fur characters directly, but they'll show up. The 'Killer is a huge ship, and about half of her populace are furred :D so wait and see! Peace, and enjoy!



Plasma Dragon
At the center of every star sits an egg. This egg, often mistaken as the core of the star, contains a being already aware, already alive and older than the star itself. The egg, being, even the protective outer layers of the inner core are all made of matter in its most active form...plasma.
Inside the egg rests a dragon.
Many things can happen to an egg. The dragon inside might choose, after billions upon trillions of years, to leave its shell and go seek out its kin. This process, of breaking the egg and rupturing the star, is known as a nova. The most powerful dragons create supernovae, testament to their knowledge and skill. A dragon may become sick and slowly fade away, sucking the energy of the star into itself. These poor souls become dwarf stars.
Among the many fates of a plasma dragon, one is most obviously the worst. To experience supernova, and then, either by accident or own design, fall into the gravity well created by the ruptured star...into a black hole. What emerges is not plasma dragon, is not benevolent and wise. It is a dark matter dragon, a demon of the void. Malevolent, devious, cunning and vicious.
The dragons both of plasma and dark matter wage war on each other around our galaxy, sometimes in it, creating massive fields of debris and remains known as nebulae. Sometimes, they war in other galaxies, and these fights come all the way to our little Milky Way.
A tiny planet in a tiny system rotating around a small star is oblivious to this, however. The humanoid species go about their business, day to day, not knowing of the millennium long wars raging thousands of light years away.
Well...they were oblivious, until a keen rodent by the name of Doctor Eliza Folds discovered the egg in the sun, and established contact with the creature inside using a combination of energy waves. As far as they know, the creature has given only one reply, already neatly translated and politely framed: Please let me sleep. So the inhabitants of this system did. Instead they turned to other stars, searching for other dragons.
Soon, another scientist discovered a way to harness the plasma dragons, to use their incredible energy as a clean, renewable resource...but at an amazing cost. Doctor Damian Grace created a chamber, mammoth in size, easily bigger than the Earth itself, to contain and...extract the essence of a plasma dragon. Even a dragon's memories aren't safe from the process.
Before the device was even completed, ragtag groups of mercenaries and hunters had already begun devising ways to temporarily contain a dragon, to make it stable for transport. FTL travel had been perfected by now, and though travel between stars takes only days now, a few days with a monstrosity of pure energy and knowledge incalculable are still quite tenuous.
A method was created, then perfected. A dimensional compression chamber, no bigger than a huge backpack, was invented and well proven. Now, dragon hunters exist everywhere, though only a few actually do the capturing. Most only hunt them down, then call in the experts. Our story follows that of a young man just enlisted on a multi-purpose vessel, one that hunts, captures, and even delivers the Star Dragons to the 'Keep'.
This is the story of Able L. Blair and the infamous hunter-ship...
The Star Killer.





















Welcome Aboard
“So, you the newbie?”
I jump at the voice, muscles tensed for a meeting I may not come out on the good side of. From my seat at a random bench in a basic star-port, I see...not much. It's then I realize that there's a woman standing in front of me, and her baggy black pants are blocking my view. My legs reflexively tighten around the big backpack at my feet, and I instinctively reach for my other bag on my left.
It's of no concern, though. This is Emma Gage, my Section Leader aboard my new ship.
“Oh, ma'am, sorry about that,” I say, standing. She's taller than me by a head, and about eighty times as tough looking. Her face is calm but angular, fierce, and an old burn scar covering most of her left cheek doesn't help much. She's wearing combat boots, loose military issue pants, and a simple muscle shirt, showing off her disturbingly thick arms. I wonder for a moment if she's ever served in the military...and am answered right then. Both of her arms are covered in the traditional sayings and art of the Marine Corps. That explains a lot.
Emma glares at me, looking like she wants to pull either her specialized goggles or long brown hair over her eyes to keep from having to do so. “Damn, you rooks get shinier every year,” she growls, her voice bearing the resonance of authority, the slight harshness of a voice that makes itself heard no matter what. Instantly I pin her as an NCO. “What's your name, rookie? No one sent us a file on you.”
“Able Blair, ma'am,” I half drawl, laying out the 'country boy' style. People seem to feel more comfortable around me that way. I'm only five foot six, with probably a hundred and forty pounds backing me up, and perfectly average features otherwise. The only oddity is my hair, which is so damn light blonde it's almost white. Aside from that, I'm just your average brown eyed, tanned skinned, baby faced farm boy.
So one would think. Really and truly, I know my stuff. Everything from hacking software to gang connections. Last I was checked, my IQ rated right around 222...though honestly I botched the test a bit for that. I just wanted to see if the tester would flip at the three numbers. He didn't even give me a look, though, so I guess he didn't figure the coincidence...wasn't. It's like my brain has no limits, like it's one big massive library with a digital hunter system that automatically grabs every book relevant to the current conversation.
Still, I like it when people underestimate me. It's especially fun when they talk in another language, thinking I don't understand them.
“Alright, you got a preferred nickname?” Emma asks, surprisingly casual. “With your name, could go either way. Also I hope you brought everything you'll need for two years in the black. We don't make pit stops, kiddo.”
“Either name's fine, ma'am,” I answer, keeping with the respect. I was raised southern, to be fair, so I figure why not lay on the manners? First impressions and all that. “Able or Blair, I answer to both. And yes, I got everything I need...assuming the 'Killer provides the basic equipment.”
“We do,” she answers, now half grinning. Then she takes a small step back and holds out her hand to shake. “Emma Gage, Section Five leader of the Star Killer. But from now on, as far as you're concerned, I'm Mama Gage, and you're my new kid.”
“Able Blair, fresh and shiny Harpoon gunner,” I return the greeting politely, taking her hand...then wincing. She's got a hell of a grip. “I heard the 'Killer was in a hurry?”
“You heard right, Rook,” she says through a sigh. “Got a Star Dragon that just went nova, saw our Hunters coming and decided to get the hell out of dodge. Your first turkey shoot is gonna involve one pissed off turkey.”
“Aye aye, ma'am.”
“That's Mama Gage to you,” she growls back. I immediately figure that I'm in for more than a few lessons in tough love. “Now grab your kit and let's get a move on. The 'Killer is leaving in thirty with us or not.”
Silently, I throw on my backpack and let my other bag hang from my neck. 'Mama' Gage is already walking away, so I jog to catch up. Already we're getting weird looks. Hunters are well known, though rare. Few people are stupid enough to try and catch a massive dragon about the size of a planet with a ship that ranks only about a tiny fraction of the mass. Despite all this, the bright gold embroidery on Mama Gage's right pant leg proudly displays the dragon head on a harpoon, encircled by the words 'Dragon Hunter', and the other symbol of crossed swords under a dragon skull, under which is the 'Star Killer' name.
Mama Gage leads me to one of many terminals, easily done because people are giving us wide berth. She nods to a gate attendee and then power walks into the gate, me trotting along at her heels. “You ever shot a real Harpoon before, kiddo?” she asks suddenly.
“Sixty four clean launches under my belt,” I answer quickly. “One went bad, but some dumbass didn't calibrate the fifty seventh magnetic coil correctly, so I missed by thirty eight kilometers. Ended up scraping a navy ship.”
“So you're the one we heard about.” Something in her voice...amusement? “Good. We like having hot shot guys who know what they're doing on board. Can you fly?”
“I have a class two license in just about everything you can fly by yourself,” I keep up the quick responses, trying to be as military as possible. “Fighters and shuttles are easy, though shuttles suck because they're so damn slow. I can take a frigate or prowler out easy enough but past that I'm still learning.”
“Good to know. We'll call on you if we need a backup pilot.” We reach the end of the gate, and step into a utilitarian shuttle. It's all cockpit, seats for six, and stubby wings poking out of a bullet shaped body. “I'll fly this one. What else can you do?”
“I'm a solid computer tech,” I offer, though I don't go into detail about that. “Not a terrible engineer; I love to tinker.”
“All good things. I like having useful children; makes my job easier.”
“Leading us?” I ask, for once genuinely in question.
“No, I don't really lead. People just listen to me when they don't know what to do,” she says with a chuckle. “My job, as Section Leader, is to keep you alive.”

“Able Blair, welcome to the Star Killer.”
I stare in wonder, because it's my first time on a Titan class ship. Sure I can and have taken frigates, freighters, and the occasional prowler out and around the block, but this...it's like flying in a mechanized Star Dragon. The sheer mass of the ship is insane. It ranks up there right around a small planet, and contains about as many people as would be on one. The Star Killer is less a hunter-ship, more a moving colony.
It's shaped like a massive mushroom, with clam-shell doors at the front to grab and hold planet sized Star Dragons in compressed dimensions. The thick trunk behind the cap, shielded by a few trillion tons of metal, are all of the habitation areas and various other places one might exist while not actively capturing a Star Dragon.
Up front, though, it's all business. The eight Harpoon systems sit ready to unleash small, dimensionally compressed capsules of super-cooled liquid laced with both nets and actual barbed spears that latch into the very suddenly solid 'skin' of the target. They're placed evenly around the edge of the blunt cap, allowing a full view of the forward area. Just behind the Harpoon systems, I know, is a small flotilla of high output tugs, each capable of yanking an aircraft carrier clean through the gap of the Atlantic in a few seconds...assuming the frame holds. If done, it probably won't. I know it'll take every last one of those tugs yanking back on the Star Dragon to capture it, especially if it's a big one. From what I've been hearing as we trek through the kilometers of hull, it's huge. Mammoth. The result of a red giant gone nova, meaning this dragon is both old and wiser than the norm.
A challenge.
That's what everyone seems to see it as. Just another challenge to be overcome, another questioning of their skill to be set straight. And now, I'm part of that hurricane of self confidence and pride. For the briefest second, I want to turn around and go home.
Then I enter the bridge.
“Oh, new guy!” chuckles a man that has to be the captain. He's tall and broad, fit to a degree ridiculous of an officer, especially a civilian, with the barest wisp of white hair on his scalp. His face is all craggy and well aged. I'd pin him right at sixty, considering the shape he's in and what he does for a living. “Welcome aboard!”
The bridge seems to expand from the man. He stands on a small platform that reaches all the way up to a viewing window at the dead center of the mushroom cap. All around him, consoles and terminals and all form of computer and communications equipment are arrayed in tiered layers, four of them, all with operators typing furiously.
I can't help it. “Holy hellfire of the seventh circle,” I mutter, zombie walking my way up to the viewing window. We're just pulling out of the cloud of traffic around Earth...and no one is coming close to us.
“She's a real beast, ain't she?” the man who I assume is the captain says, wide grin showing laugh lines likely older than me. “Twenty years of huntin' and she's still got some spit left in her!”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Mama Gage barks from behind me. I barely hear it.
I'm watching the death of a Dragon.
Thousands of kilometers fore, right dead center of the view, a mass of light and knowledge is being unceremoniously shoved into the massive, moon-like presence of the Keep by a flotilla of unmanned, expendable tugs. I can't make sense of it. Don't even try. My brain's overloaded by the sheer thought that something so massive, so wise and strong and powerful, can be manhandled so easily.
Then its wings flare up, spraying tiny flecks of light and energy, simultaneously smashing and flash vaporizing a fraction of the tugs. But there are tens more, and all are powerful enough to get at least a piece of the beast in. All working together, they boost at once, launching the Star Dragon into the gaping hole of the Keep. They don't even wait for the tugs to come back out. They'll make a hundred times what it costs to replace the entire fleet in energy output. The hundreds of spines along the surface begin to glow, signaling that already the energy extraction and transfer has started, and is basically beaming concentrated power across light years to colonies, ships much like the Star Killer, and outposts. That one device keeps everything humans use, no matter where they are in the galaxy, powered.
I come back to myself, then. There are tears on my cheeks, my breath is coming in ragged heaves, and I'm sweating despite the sixty degree temperature that the whole ship seems to enjoy.
“Life changing, isn't it?” the captain says, no longer jubilant.
I turn to face him. He's standing straighter, taller, and the laugh lines previously softening his gaze now vanish into a hard frown. “Why?” I croak. “Why did that hurt to watch?”
“Every being knows that the Star Dragons are beings of immense power and knowledge. Even subconsciously, we recognize that every time we shove one into the Keep and let it be violated for the sole purpose of powering our drive for expansion...we kill a wise, benevolent, and powerful creature. Something that can never be replaced.” His tone is strong but soft. I find it comforting, but at the same time mildly agitating, as if he's telling me to suck it up and get used to it. “We Hunters are a breathing sin, Able Blair. What we do is such an atrocity that I've met hardened serial killers that witness a Keep filling and break into tears just like you. It's a scar on the soul, every time you condemn one to death, every time you fire your Harpoon, every time you see one yanked into that monstrosity.”
“Why do you do it?” I whisper, not quite believing the contradiction.
“Because if we don't, someone else will, someone more malevolent and direct. We take Dragons only when we are required to...instead of when we can. Yes we enjoy the challenge, but that's graveyard humor on a suicide mission. We accept that we're the lesser of two or more evils. If we don't strive with it, we don't live at all. You'll learn this. In time.”
“Come on, kiddo,” Mama Gage says quietly, arm around my shoulder. “Let's go find your room, give you the tour, show you your Harpoon.”
“Every man and woman on this ship has seen the process in full, Able,” the captain says as I trudge out of the bridge, which has since become deathly silent. “You signed on to be a Harpoon gunner, so you will too. Very soon. If you want off, tell me after you bag the Big Red. Until then, though...I want to see those perfect shots in action.”
It feels like I should respond, but my mouth won't work. On some level, I know I'll never be the same. The mere act of noticing the Star Dragon being killed right in front of me...that will never fade. I know the memory will be as vivid in twenty years as it is now, and it'll never stop hurting.
I manage, finally as we work through the hatch aft, to reply. “Aye aye, Captain.”
It's a mumble, a whisper. Something I never do. I feel defeated. Lost. Helpless. Stuck among the enemy, who are only the enemy because someone has to be, and they were dumb enough to jump up first. Because someone needs to do this slowly, not go rampaging across the galaxy razing stars for the Dragon eggs. Everyone aboard the ship is a slave to what they first think are their own desires.
I feel ready to throw up. To pass out. To give up.
And it's only my first hour aboard.