The Pyronian craft hovered over the radiation department of City Hospital. The massive energy reserves in the Hospital’s nuclear-imaging banks drew Pyronian vessels like Craton sledders to a bucket of mushmeal.
Of course few, except those in a position of authority, knew this. The Pyronian’s cloaking system rendered them almost invisible. If you were to look carefully you might see a tiny schism in the sky – a small hard-edged buzz of static, but it disappeared so fast you’d put it down to the weather or a bothersome floater on the surface of your eye.
This stealth, this spectral existence ensured Pyronian hegemony in the skies. Let the Krats, Bulgons and Humans fight over diminishing reserves on the ground. Pyronians cared little for terrestrial affairs all they worried about was extra-terrestrial, extra-violent and extra-expensive.
I greeted the guard at Hang-Stop IV. “May your bladder float you and your kin for many years.” He was a Bulgon. A flappy, balloony, unimaginative race; the Bulgons have held lowly, security positions since the first wave back in ’07. But to give them credit they are stoic guardians who would rather die than forfeit even a meter of our blood red dirt.
“Move on in peach citizen!.” Responded the Bulgon. Almost correct, but I didn’t want to draw attention, so I nodded and moved on, over the Gradean Perimeter, into Obamar. In peach.