Ambassador’s Test
The shuttle’s hull groaned as it pierced Varnath’s atmosphere, a swirling cauldron of amber clouds and electric storms. Ambassador Toren Vale gripped the armrests, his diplomatic robes stiff against his clammy skin. He’d visited a dozen worlds in his career, each with its quirks—bureaucratic tangles on Colvaris, philosophical debates on Elythra—but Varnath was different. The briefing had been unnervingly vague: a planet of human colonists, technologically advanced, culturally… intense. “They value effort,” his aide had said, unhelpfully. Now, as the shuttle shuddered toward the landing pad, Toren wondered what he’d signed up for.
The hatch hissed open, and a wave of humid air hit him, thick with the scent of iron-rich soil and something feral, like wet fur. A delegation waited on the tarmac, their faces bronzed and scarred, their clothes a mix of sleek, nanoweave tunics and rough, hand-stitched leather. At their head stood Kalia, Varnath’s First Speaker, a woman with a wrestler’s build and eyes that glinted like polished obsidian.
“Ambassador Vale,” she said, her voice warm but edged, like a blade wrapped in silk. “We’re honored. Your presence elevates tonight’s banquet.”
Toren bowed, his training kicking in. “The honor is mine, First Speaker. The Galactic Concord looks forward to strengthening ties with Varnath.”
Kalia’s smile widened, showing teeth. “Good. You’ll join us for the hunt, then. It’s tradition for honored guests.”
“Hunt?” Toren’s stomach twitched. The briefing hadn’t mentioned this. “I’m… not much of a hunter, I’m afraid. My work is more… administrative.”
“Nonsense,” Kalia said, clapping his shoulder with enough force to make him stagger. “On Varnath, we find joy in the struggle. You’ll do fine.”
The crowd murmured approval, their eyes bright with something Toren couldn’t place—anticipation? Amusement? Before he could protest, Kalia steered him toward a sleek transport skiff, its hull etched with scenes of humans grappling with massive, fanged beasts. Toren’s mouth went dry.
The skiff dropped them at the edge of a crimson jungle, vines glowing faintly with bioluminescent sap. Unlike the large hunting parties Toren had imagined, it was just Kalia, Jorr, and him—a trio, with Toren the awkward third. They wore exosuits, lightweight but advanced, their joints humming softly. Toren’s suit came with a bone-handled knife and a short, heavy spear, both devoid of plasma or tech enhancements. Kalia explained: “The fight is ours. Tech keeps us alive, but the kill is by hand.”
Above, a swarm of micro-drones hummed, their lenses glinting as they recorded and relayed data to the suits’ neural interfaces. The drones could deploy nano-meds or shock barriers if things went south, but the weapons? Purely manual. Toren’s crash course in spear-handling—thrust, don’t flail—left him feeling like a child holding a toy sword.
Kalia’s voice was low. “We’re after a kravor. Big, cunning, a worthy challenge. Normally, it’s just two of us, but for you, Ambassador, we make an exception. You’ll strike the final blow.”
“Final blow?” Toren’s voice cracked. “I’m not sure I’m—”
“It’s honor,” Jorr cut in, his grin sharp. “You face the hard thing, you earn your place. Don’t worry—suit’ll keep you breathing.”
Toren’s goggles flickered with data—thermal scans, terrain maps—but it was overwhelming, like deciphering an alien script. The jungle pulsed with life: chittering insects, distant roars, leaves rustling under unseen claws. Kalia and Jorr moved like predators, silent and sure, while Toren stumbled, his spear catching on roots. Jorr caught his arm once, chuckling. “Fear’s part of the fun, offworlder.”
The hunt stretched into an hour, Toren’s nerves fraying with every step. Then Kalia froze, pointing to claw marks gouged into a tree, each as long as Toren’s thigh. “Kravor,” she whispered, her eyes alight.
The pace quickened. Kalia and Jorr worked in tandem, guided by drone feeds, their movements precise. Toren lagged, his suit boosting his stamina but not his skill. The drones pulsed soft sonic waves, herding the kravor toward a clearing. Kalia’s voice crackled through his earpiece: “Stay close, Ambassador. It’s near.”
The clearing was a jagged scar of earth, ringed by rocks like broken teeth. The kravor stood at its center, and Toren’s breath caught. It was monstrous—twice his height, scales glinting over corded muscle, eyes yellow and slitted. It roared, a sound that shook Toren’s bones.
Kalia and Jorr sprang into action, spears raised, knives glinting. The drones hovered, their barriers shimmering faintly, ready to intervene. Toren gripped his spear, his heart pounding. Kalia darted in, her spear grazing the kravor’s flank; it swiped, claws missing her by inches as she rolled away, laughing. Jorr flung a weighted cord, tangling its hind leg, but the beast tore free, its roar deafening.
“Ambassador, ready yourself!” Kalia shouted, dodging another swipe.
Toren’s legs felt like jelly. He wasn’t ready—he was a diplomat, not a warrior. But the kravor’s eyes locked onto him, and it charged. His goggles screamed—proximity alerts, impact warnings. He thrust his spear, a clumsy jab, and felt it sink into the beast’s shoulder. It roared, undeterred, and a claw caught him, tearing through his suit’s outer layer. Pain exploded across his chest, the suit’s analgesics barely dulling it. He hit the ground, rolling, his spear lost.
Kalia and Jorr were on the kravor, their strikes relentless. Kalia’s spear pierced its neck; Jorr’s knife carved into its side. The drones pulsed, nano-meds flooding Toren’s system, knitting torn muscle, but the damage was severe—ribs cracked, blood seeping despite the suit’s seals. He staggered to his feet, vision blurring, knife in hand.
The kravor lunged again, weakened but furious. Toren’s suit boosted his reflexes, but he was slow, too slow. Its jaws snapped, grazing his arm, tearing flesh. He screamed, slashing blindly with the knife. The blade caught the kravor’s eye, a lucky hit, and it reared back, howling. Kalia seized the moment, driving her spear into its chest. Jorr followed, his knife sinking deep into its throat. The beast collapsed, its breaths ragged.
Kalia hauled Toren up, her face blood-streaked but calm. “Finish it, Ambassador.”
Toren could barely stand, his chest a furnace of pain, his arm hanging uselessly. The drones’ barriers flickered, keeping him conscious, but he was a wreck. Still, the hunters’ eyes burned with expectation—not pity, but respect. He stumbled forward, knife trembling, and drove it into the kravor’s neck. It twitched, then stilled.
Jorr clapped his good shoulder, gentler than expected. “You faced it, offworlder. That’s enough.”
The banquet hall was a cavern of polished stone, its walls carved with tales of struggle and triumph. Toren sat at the high table, bandaged heavily, his exosuit replaced with loose robes. Nano-meds had stabilized him, but he’d need weeks to heal fully—cracked ribs, a shredded arm, and a dozen internal bruises. The kravor’s meat was served, roasted and spiced, its flavor rich and hard-won. Toren managed a bite, his hands shaking.
Kalia raised a glass. “To Ambassador Vale, who faced the kravor and stood his ground!”
The hall roared, louder than he’d expected. Toren forced a smile, pain flaring with every breath. He hadn’t won, not really—he’d barely survived. But Varnath didn’t care about victory, he realized. They cared about the attempt, the grit, the choice to face the impossible. His failure, his wounds, were badges of honor here.
Later, as they discussed trade, Kalia leaned close, her voice low. “You didn’t run, Ambassador. That’s rare for an offworlder.”
“I wanted to,” he rasped, and she laughed, sharp and warm.
“Stay a few days,” she said. “There’s a sparring match tomorrow. You’d be welcome to watch.”
Toren’s body screamed at the thought, but he nodded, a spark of something new in his chest. Varnath’s joy was brutal, but it was honest. And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand it.