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Chapter 629   The Yap

Motes of shining mana were flowing into the fruit, causing it to sway from side to side. As more and more motes struck the fruit and passed through its skin, the swaying sped up with each passing second until cracks spread on the fruit’s surface. They continued spreading and widening until the fruit fragmented much like an eggshell, dropping a slim, hairless human figure to the ground, covered in a clear, slick goo. The man, for man he obviously was, given the equipment between his legs, stood and wiped the goo from his eyes.

“Fuck me!” he cursed as a wave of dizziness swept over him and he nearly fell to the ground. “I think I forgot how to walk. Do I have to grow up AGAIN!? FUCK!”

He took a deep breath and looked at his slimy form. “Holy shit! I have an eight pack now!” he exclaimed. “Sweet!”

The man lay on his back, staring up at the red sky of the planet, then crazily cackled, “I’m back!”

He was none other than Lee Joon-ho, and he had escaped certain death a second time.

Once his laughing fit passed, he rested, regaining strength with every breath he took. It felt like he was inhaling something together with the loam-scented atmosphere of Proxima Centauri b, and he immediately deduced what it was: mana.

“I wonder how long I’ve been, err, well... out of it,” he mumbled to himself. He was completely out of the habit of silently thinking after having spent such a long time in the timeless meadow, where the only sound was that of his own voice. “I hope I’m not the only person left here.”

He raised his hand to his eye and gazed through the circle formed by his thumb and forefinger. “Gravitational lensing,” he enunciated, willing the gravity mana around him to form a telescopic lens.

His eyes flashed silver as a small blob appeared over his right eye, much like a monocle. Through it, he saw a rapidly disintegrating mana shield above him. But that was all; he couldn’t see through the mostly opaque construct. He sighed and dropped his hand from his face.

“I’ll try again later,” he said with a grin. “Not like there’s an answering machine anywhere around here I can leave a message on.... Or wait, is there?”

Joon-ho tried accessing his quantum microcomputer implant, but got no response. “That’s weird,” he murmured, then began pacing back and forth. He tried accessing it again, then again, and kept making attempts, like picking a scab. “Why isn’t it working?”

Finally, he stopped trying and sighed. It did make some sense that he couldn’t access it; after all, the trees were geneticists, not biomechanical device specialists. “I guess I’ll just wait until the shield drops.”

He closed his eyes and started drifting off to sleep before a sudden realization jolted him back to full awareness. “Wait a minute! I couldn’t use gravitational lensing before... not without using my implant to run the calculations. So why’d it work so well for me now, if I don’t have my implants at all?” Nôv(el)B\\\\jnn

An hour of pondering passed, then he snapped his fingers. “They must’ve incorporated my implants into my new body! That has to be it!” he cackled, imagining what it would be like to “double up” on his implants. Then he yawned and murmured, “I’ll think about it after a nice nap.”

TES Farsight, Proxima Centauri b orbit, an hour and a half earlier.

“Captain!” the sensors officer on the bridge called out. “We have an enormous mana signature flaring up on the surface where Research Base New New South Wales used to be!” He flicked his fingers, slaving his display to the main screen and overriding what was previously on it.

Everyone on the bridge stopped what they were doing and stared at the screen. It showed a spot of mana that was so concentrated that it looked almost black, instead of the usual medium blue that mana normally showed on the Henry’s Eyes sensors.

“What is it?” Captain Marinakis asked.

“No telling yet, Sir, but whatever it is... it’s big. Really big, Sir,” the sensors officer replied. “It’s coming through clear because the mana shield around the area seems to have thinned. It might finally be disappearing, Sir.”

Captain Marinakis exchanged a glance with Ayaka, then nodded. He turned to the security officer on the bridge and ordered, “Prepare a lander for a remote mission to check out that signal.”

The security officer came to attention and snapped, “Aye aye, Captain.” He was just short of saluting.

“And belay the academy yap, Lieutenant,” the captain said in a wry tone.

(Ed note: The “academy yap” is a distinct tone that new graduates from military training use when speaking to officers or NCOs. It’s difficult to describe in text, you just have to hear it to understand it. It’s highly formal, very precise, and usually overly enthusiastic. It’s also very, very loud. I couldn’t find anything on YouTube for you, but check back in a few days; I’ll keep looking, and if I find it I’ll leave it here as a comment.)

An hour later, the sensors officer on the bridge of the Farsight reported, “Looks like the shield is down, Captain. I’m getting good returns on all sensors.”

Captain Marinakis acknowledged the report, then turned to the security officer again. “Send the lander mission, Lieutenant. Remember: remote piloting only, no sense risking the few flyboys we have aboard.”

“Aye—” the lieutenant began, but was shortly interrupted by the captain.

“And can the yap, Lieutenant!”

Everyone on the bridge fell into a sudden coughing fit as they stifled their laughter.