The words of a distant record, long forgotten glowed on the screen in front of the young engineer. Embarrassingly, he’d needed it translated from old Iolite into English, as it was just over four hundred years old. The computer did a passable job at conveying the original author’s intent. Though he scanned it several times to see if there was anything he was missing. Why had his people abandoned their adoption of Target 12, especially when there was so much to gain? On he pressed, hoping for some glimmer of wisdom from the past.
<<…In spite of every loss of life and material we have incurred in this hostile landscape, still we persist, hopeful to extract that which makes our way of life tenable. Were it not for the evidence of rich deposits of Vercoden, in vast quantities yet untold, we would have left this planet and its wretched denizens to desolation long ago…>>
“But that’s exactly what happened, wasn’t it?” The researcher mused, wondering if whomever had written this knew just how bad things were going to get. The way he remembered reading the history that followed, Target 12’s protective infrastructure was installed in the decades following this entry, before being closed off for good, concluding just over a century of maddening resource extraction attempts, each more of a spectacular failure than the last. “What a bizarre couple of years those must have been for those alive at the time. Sealing away the long-desired enemy just to open the door for the friend they never wanted.”
<<…If this place were not of such great mineral significance, some argument might be made for its archeological import as well. What data we have accrued has indicated the presence of ancient stone ruins, of such a size that they would have been impossible for the current inhabitants to construct, given their current state of obstinate non-development. Rather than building these monoliths or anything like them, the savages merely tack on wooden shacks and crude tentage alongside the edges of the old relics. How far they must have fallen to live in this way, given that the echoes of some brighter past still resound to this day…>>
Whenever the part about the history spanning back untold eons started, the young man found his mind wandering. He dimmed the screen and rubbed his tired, violet eyes, content no longer to be shackled to the ghosts of ages. Cultural decay or centuries of upheaval didn’t concern him as much as the main point of it all, a point he was certain the author had missed. Everything, even then, had always been about finding and securing more Vercoden, and as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t about to change any time soon.
His home world of Celhesru had enjoyed peaceful dominion over settled space for nearly five centuries now, owing to the fact that they had been the first to perfect timely interplanetary travel, all with the help of the mineral that made it possible. For a middle-twenties fellow in the lucrative employ of the Roamgild, his position was enviable as far as anyone of a scientific mind was concerned, or at least, so he thought.
Though their native reserves had run dry long ago, the treasured stone could be found in abundance throughout the stars. But Vercoden was consumed quickly. Especially in a fast-paced market economy like today’s. This hadn’t been an issue until recently, as the producers, like the preeminent one who employed him, outpaced consumer demand, the same way they always had. Only in the last five years had yields from mines around the galaxy started dropping precipitously, spelling the alarming end of high society if the writing on the wall was to be believed.
This problem, like any of similar magnitude, had been cooked up unwittingly by previous generations before being tossed scalding hot into the laps of the current one. The coming shortage and all it represented loomed large for the select few who knew anything about it, especially for those tasked with finding creative ways to deal with it. As far as the intrepid researcher was concerned, the time had come to act boldly, secretly, even independently if he had to. However ‘off-limits’ old Target 12 seemed to be, he was sure the risk would be worth the reward. He was youthful, impatient, and determined to get to the heart of this matter if it killed him. Raking a lavender hand through his fiery magenta hair, he brightened the screen once more and reviewed the piece of the ancient record he couldn’t neglect to memorize.
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<<…Beware the ferocity of these people. They have a uniquely hardy and robust constitution, which they surely owe to genetic gift alone, as their environs are decidedly unforgiving and incapable of providing much nourishment as we would understand it. Their skin ranges in tone from reddish brown to gold. Each of them appears to have wavy, dark hair that they keep bafflingly long and wild. Almost no man is seen without some sort of ragged beard, as if the thought of grooming never occurred to them. The women are not much gentler of a sight, as it is only the hairlessness of their faces and diminished stature that makes them even a measure less fearsome to look upon than their brothers. Do not approach one of these people closely, even under the assumption of the power which we dare not name, for they will make no such civilized concession and will use their ability to channel current with reckless abandon. By the time you see the void-black, unreflecting gaze of their eyes, it will be too late…>>
“And just where was it again…” he wondered, baring down on the text once more. “Where was that name they were called all that time ago…. Not that it would matter to them. Our language was as beyond their comprehension then as it is to ours now… a mere footnote in the passage of time, a shame indeed… damn those Earthlings and everything they’ve put us through…oh, there it is.” At last, his wandering eyes found the formal label assigned to this tempestuous population. The word was taken from his own people’s term to describe waves, deriving the descriptor from the violent currents churning up Target 12’s seas. Thinking it a fitting nomenclature and seeing as the barbarians had no unified planetary culture of their own, the Iolites began to call this dangerous race the Toravai.
No matter how perilous it seemed, the lone scientist was determined to try. Several hundred years had passed since the wicked planet was locked away by a system of orbital rings and gates, encircling the middle third of the sphere. It was a necessary measure at the time, considering that towards the end of the failed occupation, some of the more clever Toravai had started capturing Iolite spaceships and holding crews hostage in order to escape their own merciless realm. As if merely expelling the invaders was no longer sufficient. Fearing that knowledge of a universe beyond would cultivate ambitions of dominating it, the Iolites chose instead to seal the world away, leaving the problematic people and the treasure they guarded for another time.
Whenever that other time was supposed to be, he was sure it should have passed by now. How pitiably distracted his kind had become, diverting their attention to other, less risky ventures. He stood up from his creaking chair and stretched, fighting sleep because of the late hour. There was nothing more to do but take another crack at it. Maybe they could afford to forget back then, but this was a new age, and he was a new kind of man, so divorced from his forebears that he was sure he would succeed where they fell short.
As long as nobody lost their head over his secret gamble, he was certain he’d get it right, and he wouldn’t need a whole army to make it happen either. On into the black night he ventured towards a little ship he kept in a private hangar across town. It was comfortable enough for three or four, though he planned for no company on this clandestine voyage. His assumptions were airtight so far as he knew. After a few days’ flight he found himself hidden amongst the old prison architecture surrounding Target 12, seeing with his own eyes the surface of that odd, scarlet world, illuminated by no more than the bleak light of their swollen, dying star.
Previous explorers made the crucial mistake of aiming for the biggest deposits of Vercoden they could find. Inconveniently these were all located near population centers, where violence was sure to be a factor. Why these people had chosen to live near a resource for which they had no use, was of no concern to him. He didn’t need industrial quantities of the stuff, just a sample. After performing his own scans with detection drones far more modern than they’d had three or four centuries ago, he settled on an isolated cave in the middle of a rough-looking forest. Just beside the cave was a clearing the right size for his modest ship to land. He was sure to be in and out quickly. A small portion, that’s all he needed. He was positive that was all it would take to convince the higher-ups this case was worth re-opening. Whatever this brilliant endeavor promised, he was sure not to make the mistake of running into any Toravai.