THE CORSAIRS OF CERES

CERES! The pirate haven of the solar system, home to the many clans of BELTER SCOUNDRELS, dwelling in and among the dreaded DEATH JUNGLE. It is here that the dread PIRATE QUEEN ALTAIR POLARIS has taken the plucky CLAUDETTE T.S GRANT – but will she serve as a prize, a prisoner or plaything?

Meanwhile, within the depths of EMPEROR ZARDO’S Plutonian Ice Castle, MARK STYLES has found himself entangled in the deadly games of politics with the STAR PRINCESS ZELLA – can our strapping hero navigate the intricate imperial intrigues imparted upon this icy planetoid?

And the final, most vexing question...

Whatever will become of JASMINE STARR as she is taken before KING F’EATH ARR of the HAWKMEN?

Claudette gasped as she stepped from the airlock of the dread pirate rocketship Salty Sirius and looked out, for the first time, upon Ceres. The asteroid itself, discovered one hundred and fifty years ago, had long been known to be among the largest in the entire asteroid belt. But what the famed astronomer and mathematician, Giuseppe Piazzi, could never have imagined that balmy evening when he first spied the glint of light that was Ceres was that, by then, Ceres had been lived in for eight centuries – and in those centuries, it had been hollowed out ... and set to spinning!

And so, Claudette found herself gaping upwards ... not at sky, but at a distant, glittering green expanse of lakes and forests, sprawling outwards in every direction. The sun that sat in the center of Ceres was, itself, a mimicry created by angled mirrors that were situated at the polar regions of world, where gravity itself seemed to be nearly nothing at all. Those vast mirrors gathered sunlight from beyond the curve of the world, then angled it inwards and struck a large reflector, which shone it out against the rest of Ceres – illuminating the world within. Currently, the hue of the sun was a dull red, casting the sunlight colors of late afternoon about.

The area around Claudette herself was almost not worth noticing – being that it was nothing more than a sprawling collection of wooden shacks and metal lean-tos. The tallest building was three stories, and around the buildings were dirt tracks and muddy alleyways. People shambled too and fro between the buildings – not in despair ... but in revelry. Claudette’s eyes widened as she saw a pair of bearded men of unknown species, swaggering together as they sang, arm in arm. She saw a man teetering on a barrel as he drank from a bottle, and a woman with her breasts out for the whole world to see, leaning from the second story window of one of the larger buildings, waving her handkerchief down to astros striding past with their suits on and their helmets tucked under their arms.

“Well!” Claudette whispered. “I never. This is almost as bad as New Orleans!”

An arm snaked around her – steel strong and steel in truth – and the dreaded Pirate Queen Altair Polaris drew her in close, her breath warm against her ear. “Oh, you haven’t seen the worst of Ceres yet!” She laughed, as Claudette pushed weakly at her, trying to get free – but Alta took that as an excuse to swing Claudette up onto her shoulders with a braying laugh – her crew laughing as well. Claudette kicked her legs.

“Put me down you! You! You! Heathen! You cad! God bless your heart!”

Alta ignored her, instead breezing straight into one of the taverns, throwing the door open.

“Alta, you old space dog!” A cheerful looking be-tusked, green skinned man with a huge scraggly beard spread his arms as he stood from his table, his crew lifting their mugs. “Why I heard you got atomized out by Venus just a few months ago!”

“Nah, that was some poor fool’s attempt at escaping Old Zee,” Alta said, cheerfully. “Anyone got eaten while I was out?”

“Some drunkards by the spinward edge of camp. Nothing to be done about it,” the bearded man said, shaking his head as Alta came to the stairs that led up to the second level of the rickety bar. Claudette blushed, her hand reaching back to try and keep her skirts from flaring up around her hips – of course the pirates had forced her out of her star suit and into the maid outfit she had kept beneath it, meaning that now, her nethers were on full display to anyone sitting in the right place in the bar – but then her head snapped up.

“Did he say eaten?” she asked, shocked – while Alta came to the second story.

“Price of living free, girlie,” Alta said, cheerfully. She opened a door, then swung Claudette around. Claudette squeaked as she hit the bed – the springs complaining underneath her. She panted, sitting up, glaring at the Pirate Queen through her bedraggled blond hair, which hung down her face in a cascading tangle.

“Living free!? Then what am I, you ... you ... you pirate?”

Alta grinned, her eyepatch gleaming as she slid her jacket off her shoulders, revealing that her arm that remained faithful flesh had been festooned with fierce tattoos, winding and curling along the curves of her muscles, muscles that were repeated in synthetic steel and bulging cables that corded along her metallic arm. She held the jacket between silvery fingers and rotated her hand a hundred and eighty degrees to flip said jacket over her shoulder as she looked Claudette over – her tricorn hat cocked at an equally arrogant angle.

“I said it’s the price of us living free, not you. You don’t want to risk your pretty little neck out in the wilderness,” she said, casually striding around the bed, to a small rectangle that looked for all the world like a refrigerator – but rather than opening to reveal bottles of beer, Alta instead simply began to punch in commands on the small keyboard mounted on the top. As the box hummed quietly, she continued: “Ceres used to be the jewel of the Devilmen Kingdom. But ... Zardo...” She shook her head, and for a moment, her jocular grin faded. “The wrath of Zardo turned the paradise out there ... into the Death Jungle of Ceres. Now, the only folk that live here are too stubborn to know any better.”

“Like you, hmm?” Claudette asked.

The box chimed and Alta laughed. “I don’t live here, Girlie! This is a place for getting some reaction mass, getting some vittles, restocking the shot and powder and...” She turned as her fleshy hand pushed the box open, revealing it had a pair of bottles in it. She pulled both free by hooking her fingers around them and let them clank and dangled from her hands. “ ... spending some time with a willing woman.”

Claudette’s cheeks flushed. “W-Well I ain’t your willing woman, you ... scallywag! You scoundrel!”

“Is that so?” Alta murmured, prowling towards the bed. Claudette’s cheeks flushed and her heart hammered, her fingers tightening as the pirate queen leaned forward. The faintly spicy sent of her tingled in Claudette’s nose and her head spin as that one purple eye of Alta’s met hers and seemed to flash with its own demonic light. “Then why ain’t you saying no, Goldilocks?”

Claudette’s plush lips opened to speak – and she did not yet know what would have escaped her lips ... and she would never know, for the sensual scoundrel of Ceres leaned forward and planted her mouth against hers. Claudette whimpered, her eyes widening. She reached up to slap her face away, but Alta caught her wrist effortlessly and shoved her arm down. Her tongue was long and forked – and it caressed gently against the beautiful Southern belle’s for long enough that Claudette felt as if she was going faint. Alta drew back, chuckling huskily.

“Mmm, you do kiss well,” she purred.

“Y-You fiend!” Claudette breathed, then squeaked as her top was tugged open by a single grasp and yank of Alta’s powerful hands. Her full breasts spilled free into the warm night air of Ceres, free for the red and silver hands of the Pirate Queen to cup and squeeze them, to roll her nipples gently. Claudette moaned despite herself, then rolled her head back. “I ... s-stop at once...” she lied, softly, while Alta leaned forward, sucking on one of her nipples with a wanton eagerness. Claudette bit her knuckle, hard, while the red skinned piratess started to strip her nude – carelessly tearing away at her maid outfit until she was wearing tatters, the thick puff of her golden pubes doing nothing at all to hide the eager wetness between her thighs.

“What a nice compliment you pay me, Goldilocks...” Alta crooned, grabbing onto her thighs, lifting and spreading her as she knelt down. “And what a feast you offer this hungry lass...” She grinned, wickedly. “Do you want me to eat your delicious little human cunny?”

“I ... y-you’re so crude!” Claudette panted. “A-And ... and I...” She grabbed onto the sheets, looking down her belly at Alta as the horned woman leaned forward, her breath warm against Claudette’s sex. She kissed her clit, then sucked on her, and Claudette found herself moaning despite her every instinct. She rolled her head back. “Ah ... no, stop...” She whispered, desperately wishing her to continue – her body betraying her as Alta kissed from her clit to her sex, thrusting her long, flexible tongue within her. Claudette’s toes curled and she moaned. “No! Ah! Yes! Ah! YES!” She trembled as that flexible tongue pressed against her secret centers of pleasure – grinding into her G-spot, sending cascading waves of orgasmic pleasure echoing through her body.

Her skin felt too tight. Her nips felt too hard. Her cunt felt too hot. And that gleaming purple eye, mocking and confident, refused to stop looking up at her, triumphant and arrogant. Claudette reached down, gripping the one horn of Altair Polaris that remained, and ground her face against her, using the Devilman woman’s nose to grind against her clit as she screamed. “AHHHH!” She threw her head back, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to cum, her juices spurting into the open lips of the lascivious looter!

Alta drank from her, more and more eagerly, and then drew her lips back, smacking. “Ah! Delicious!”

“Y-You ... you ... blackguard!” Claudette gasped out as her breasts heaved. The other woman slid her top off, casually revealing her tattoos wound around her belly – as did her scars – and that her nipples were pierced, as if ... as if she was some kind of earth born sailor! Not that Claudette knew anything about such things! She watched with wide eyes at the way that the star pirate’s barbel piercings caught the flickering lantern light of the room and glittered like tiny gemstones. She watched as the other woman hooked her thumbs on her hips and thrust her pants down – revealing a thick, eager cock thrusting from between her thighs, with a line of glittering piercings along the bottom and a bright golden ring that clung to the red tip.

Claudette gaped. “What?” she whispered.

“Yeah, I stole my whole damn gender too,” Alta purred, turning to face her, crawling onto the bed. “Pinched an entire load of drugchems from Old Man Zee’s robot rockets – found a cache of prize exohormones.” She chuckled. “Why? Never seen a girldick before?”

Claudette’s cheeks flushed and she scowled. “Tarnation, I’ve done met ex-men before! Why, my Missus ... my Missus had one visit to talk after she got interviewed by the New York Times!” She looked aside. “I just ... never done seen a ... a ... a member what ... so gussied up.”

Alta put her hand on Claudette’s cheek, turning her to look back into her eye. She grinned and then leaned forward. “My my, you’re no backwater after all, Goldilocks.”

“My name is Claudette- MMPHH!” Claudette moaned as Alta kissed her, fiercely. Then she drew back, and Claudette panted softly. “A-and you’d do well to remember it you-MMMHhmmm...” She moaned into the kiss, her eyes half closed and hazy. “Y ... You ... horny ... hounddog low down ... mmm...” She moaned softly into the third kiss as she laid back, her thighs spreading eagerly. “Space ... scoundrel...” She whispered.

“Shh, little Coco ... let me fix all that...” Alta purred, her voice strong, confident.

Claudette mewled, softly, as she felt the blazing heat of her girldick and the hard curve of the ring against her. “B-Be gentle,” she whispered.

“Every time, Coco...” Alta murmured.

She thrust and Claudette cried out, her fingernails digging into Alta’s shoulderblades as the pirate queen leaned down, kissing and sucking on Claudette’s sensitive neck. Her hips drove in deep – but she moved with a gentle slowness ... and every inch of her that moved within Claudette rubbed against Claudette’s most sensitive places – the little hard beads of her piercings adding to the pleasure of it. Claudette moaned, and her voice was high pitched, desperate. “Alta ... ah ... you ... you feel so good ... ah...” She clung to her, her legs scissoring around behind Alta’s back, preventing the pirate queen from even trying to draw back. “So warm!”

“Mmm, your human pussy feels so fucking good, Little Coco...” Alta purred in her ear, and Claudette threw her head back, her spine arching as she tightened around the girldick inside of her – cumming hard enough she saw glittering white spots before her eyes. Alta kissed her neck, then took advantage of the way Claudette was arching her back to kiss down to her breasts. As she sucked on her nipples, she thrust into Claudette, and Claudette was lost in the shimmering waves of pleasure.

Claudette heard the low groan of the other girl – shuddering ... and then felt the blazing heat of her cum. Filling her. Warming her. She shuddered, then slowly went limp, while Alta relaxed, her arms keeping her weight from her. Their breasts pressed together, and Claduette hissed softly at how sensitive she felt. Alta’s eyes were closed – her glittering eyepatch right close enough ... to...

Claudette reached up and gingerly, her finger caressed the edge of that bolted on cybernetic covering, and she whispered. “Alta...”

Alta slid from her – the bump of her piercings drawing a mewl from Claudette. She stood and stretched, snatching up one of the two bottles with one hand, casually. “Ah, that was a good lay,” she said, grinning. “Thanks, Goldilocks!” She said, while she tugged her leggings up around her hips, turning to walk towards the door. She had just grabbed her jacket when the other bottle shattered beside her head, spraying glass and frothy beer everywhere. Alta jerked, then spun around to face a furious Claudette, who was holding the blanket of the bed to her heaving breasts, preserving some modesty – no matter how late it was for such things!

“You! You! You don’t leave a gentlewoman IMMEDIATELY after makin’ love to her!”

“Hey! That was expensive Proxian brandy! Do you know how much-”

“I got more things to throw at you, you knuckledragging boozehound!” Claudette flared. “I ain’t no easy lay you can just dump once you’re done with!”

Alta looked completely shocked. “I gotta talk to folks! I can’t just fuck all day!”

Claudette sprang to her feet, wobbled, then stood more firmly, drawing the blankets around her, glaring at her with fiery disdain. “Well I tain’t just a toy you can toss aside! I am Claudette Tecumseh Sherman Grant, and I deserve your respect, Alta.”

The Pirate Queen huffed. “Well, fine! You can come with.”

“Fine!” Claudette shot back.

Alta tugged her shirt on. “Fine.”

“Fine...” Claudette stuck her nose into the air.

Alta yanked her jacket on, then stepped out the room. She paused, then smirked. “You coming?”

Claudette looked down at herself, then flushed. She wriggled, squirmed, tugged, and ... got herself in a passable toga. “When in Rome, I s’ppose...” She muttered to herself, before she stalked out to stand beside the transstellar transsexual terror of Emperor Zardo’s traffic and transport.

Walking down the stairs, Alta looked smug and Claudette looked flushed, and the pirates laughed, cheered and jeered as they came down. Alta slid her arm around Claudette’s back and Claudette, despite being no Catman woman with ears and tail, fluffed up so haughtily that Alta released her as if she was red hot. “Come on,” Alta said, her voice gruff as they walked from the bar and into the moonlight of Ceres – the sunlight overhead having shifted to a silvery color to mimic nighttime colors. With the shadows of the pirate city seeming thicker than ever, Claudette remained close to Alta, her feet stepping into the thick, warm mud of Ceres with mild squelching sounds.

They came to a large, rectangular chamber, and as they walked towards it, Claudette noticed several shadowy shapes following after – a few blocks backwards. She tugged on Alta’s arm. “Alta,” she said.

“One second,” Alta said, before lifting a hooved leg and kicking hard at the door before her – the lock splintering and the wood flying inwards. Light spilled out and within, Claudette could see vast crates of steel, many of them closed, several open to reveal narrow dart-like projectiles in carefully swabbed racks. Two men were looking it over: A quite young looking red skinned imp of a lad who immediately began to oggle Claudette, and an older, rounder bellied purple skinned man with curved horns like Alta’s.

“Polaarrrrissss!” The plump Devilamn exclaimed. “That lock isn’t as cheap as it looks!”

“You surely have enough to buy a new one after you skimped me on those ten cent flack rounds you sot!” Alta said, swaggering towards the Devilman. He glared at her ... then burst out laughing, slapping her shoulder.

“Good to see you again, Polaris.”

“And you, Shellington,” Alta said, as the two of them gripped hands – Alta’s cybernetic one squeezing tight around his fleshy one. They both shook, while Shellington turned his gaze on Claudette.

“And who is this?” Shellington asked, stepping over to eye Claudette curiously.

“Oh, a pretty poppy we picked up, flying on a real mean ecliptic around the Sun. Apogee right beyond Venus, Perigee close enough that she and the fragments of her rocket would have crisped.” Alta said, shaking her head. “She was in ultra-sleep, too.”

“Lucky girl,” Shellington said, while Claudette scowled at him.

“And you’re here to buy ammo for guns to do more piracy?” she asked. “Of course.”

“A little moralist we got here,” Shellington said, while Claudette stepped over to the crates. Alta shook her head, grinning.

“She’s amazing in the rack-”

“Alta!” Claudette snapped.

“-anyway. I need more flack and solid shot for our port and broadside cannons, and enough powder for the prow mounted casters.” Alta said. “I want that fine grained stuff, not little chunks.”

“The chunks do better at penetrating...” Shellington muttered.

“And if I wanted to hole a ship, I’d have gotten a Letter of Marque from Old Man Zee!” Alta snapped. “Give me the fine grained powder!”

“Well, we have a full crate of ten centimeter shells, flack and solid, right here,” Shellington said, walking over and opening one of the crates. Alta glanced it over, nodded, then slapped his shoulder. “And the powder, yes, the powder...” He muttered, as they started off. Claudette stepped over, frowning as she examined the shells. They were dart-like in their shape, clearly meant to be fired from some kind of a cannon. Half of them had red tips and half had black. She picked up one of the shells, narrowing her eyes at it.

Alta eyed the powder shot that she was being handed. She hefted it, shaking her head. “Why is this stuff so expensive?”

“It’s mostly the container,” Shellington said. “Your casters, if you just dumped sand into them, they’d get all gummed up. This container also times the release of the dust, so that the spread can be fine grained – you want the particles to begin to spread out once they’re only a few kilometers from the target, so that most of them all hit in one area. For that, you want a container like this.” He slapped the side. “It has a little communication ray on the back, which lets your ship send messages for when it will-”

“Ahem.”

“-keep-”

“AHEM!”

The two pirates turned to face Claudette. Her glare was fierce – and aimed directly at Shellington. She held in her hands two halves of one of the 10cm flack warheads that would have been bought by Alta at no small price. She hefted the warhead cap, then tossed it to Shellington.

“That’s a dud,” she said, firmly.

Shellington caught it, spluttering. “What ... I ... you!”

“Goldilocks, don’t insult my best supplier,” Alta said, sounding irritated.

“Bless your heart and do me a favor, dear, check the shell yourself,” Claudette said, scowling. “I’ve checked three – two are duds. That’s completely unacceptable.” As she spoke, Alta examined the round, then frowned slowly as she did so. She turned her glare on Shellington, who held up his hands, stammering.

“H-Hey, we get what we can find, Polaris!”

Alta grabbed his collar, lifting him up with her cybernetic arm. As she did so, her wrist opened and a dagger thrust from the base of her palm, the tip pressing to his throat. Shellington’s eyes widened and his legs kicked.

“Please! Polaris! T-Take two! Take two crates! T-Throw out any duds you find!”

Alta glared at him – but it was Claudette who spoke.

“Three, I think is fair,” she said, her voice the sugary sweet that only a Southern Belle can muster up when serious snide sarcasm is simply required. “After all, ya’ll want us to keep on telling everyone what a good quartermaster you are?”

Shellington nodded, his eyes widened. “Three! Take three!”

Alta dropped him and smirked down at him. “Well. I suppose that works just fine ... friend.”

As the crates were packed up by the imp boy, who was loading them onto a wheeled cart that looked as if it had a small engine attached for mobility purposes, Alta took Claudette’s arm, drawing her aside. She murmured to her.

“How by the Mount of Mars did you ever know how to find dud ammo like that?” she whispered.

“You get dragged all the way through the Italy campaign with your Missus, you learn to check artillery shells!” Claudette said, sticking her nose into the air.

Alta gave her an odd look – one that was hard to read. “Well, Goldilocks, you ... have hidden depths.”

The two stepped from the shop, the crates trundling behind them...

And from the shadows stepped figures in robes, with swords in their hands, gleaming under the moonlight of Ceres. Alta grabbed Claudette, shoving her back. The figures formed a half circle around the two, their blades glittering – and from beneath their hooded robes, red eyes glowed like ruby gemstones.

“Stay behind me!” Alta growled, drawing her own saber with her organic hand. “ ... these are the none other ... than the Death Commandos of Mars!”

Mark Styles was, at heart, a reporter. He had wanted to be one before Uncle Sam had needed his help on the beaches of Normandy – the only reason why he hadn’t been a war reporter had been that he had been seventeen years old when he’d lied on his draft papers, eighteen by the time he was in Europe, and while he had tried to get a place working one of the local newspapers as a kid, he hadn’t quite had enough hustle at the time. It was only after he had been bloodied in the fields of Europe that he had learned exactly what it took to throw oneself into a job – be it flushing out some Kraut machine gunners or ... finding the truth of a story.

And the Star Princess Zella’s little story about the conquest of the solar system seemed to strike Mark as being only one half of the story – at best. No one conquered anywhere, not without leaving behind the detritus of an invasion scattered here, there, and everywhere: Rebellions, saboteurs, and resistance fighters. There had to be some kind of organized resistance.

He just had no idea how he was supposed to contact them while trapped within the Plutonian Ice Castle of the Emperor himself.

His chambers, at least, were comfortable. When Zella wasn’t enjoying his company, he was kept in a smallish chamber that adjoined a central corridor that was used by a great many servants and other pleasure slaves. He had done a quick exploration of the surrounding area – learning precisely where the kitchens, the baths, and the storage rooms were located, as well as meeting the rest of the staff. The majority of them were from the subjugated kingdoms of the solar system: Hawkmen and Faemen from Venus, Catmen and Wolfmen from Mars, Tuskmen from Titan, and more.

All of them treated him with a brusque disinterest – as if he was more of a curio that was going to be abandoned soon, and thus, not worth taking any interest in.

Mark sighed as he tapped his finger against the bottom of his matches box, the single match he had left within rattling around inside of the cardboard thing. Other than it and a few smokes, he had nothing left of his belongings. “What I wouldn’t do for a 1911...” he muttered under his breath. “Okay, Styles. You’re a journalist. Get to talking to folks.” He rolled to the side, standing up in his bedroom. He stepped to the door and opened it – half expecting guards. But no, there were still no guards at his door. He supposed, with the collar on his neck that could control his very nervous system if the Princess wished it, there wasn’t much need for guards.

He stepped into the broad corridor and saw that several burly hawkmen in collars were working to carry a large silver cylinder through the corridor. He watched them as they brought it to the rear of the corridor, where they set it down. One of them began to work at the wall, opening it and revealing a similar silvery cylinder.

“What are you fellas working on?” Mark asked.

The first of the hawkmen turned. Mark was still getting used to the difference between a Hawkman and a Hawkwoman – it remained odd as hell to him that the male of a species would have a beak, but the female wouldn’t. Still, he could read the red feathered man’s expression easily enough: Irritation at being interrupted on.

“Replacing the air filters,” the red feathered hawkman said, jerking his thumb at the silvery container. “These filters take carbon dioxide out of the air – we breathe it out, and if we get too much we’re all in trouble. They’re chemical filters, so they get used up and have to be replaced.”

“Why not use plants?” Mark asked. “I may be some dumb human compared to you aliens, but on Earth, we have these things called ‘trees’ and plants and such, and don’t they take up all that carbon dioxide and spit out oxygen for us to breathe?”

The hawkman regarded him, then laughed. “I guess you’re not all dumb. No.” He shook his head. “But the answer is simple: Space and energy. Pluto’s equator is seven thousand space kilometers, roughly. Since the Emperor has spun the planet to produce gravity, there’s only proper gravity along that equator – closer to the poles, gravity gets lower and lower. This means we only have a limited amount of space that has gravity for growing – a lot of the best plants for this can only grow with gravity. While Pluto has its own gravitational field, it’s working against the centrifugal spin.” The Hawkman crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “And a lot of that space is being taken up by the reactors – this planet is stuffed with nuclear piles, producing vast amounts of energy every second.”

“Wait, you said one of the problems was energy – we got loads of energy, huh?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, the sunlight that plants need can be recreated with the reactors, true,” the hawkman said. “But the Emperor has put as much energy as he could to the Nuclear Alchemy Engine. Every joule we have not running into the Engine is a joule wasted, by the Emperor’s estimation.”

Mark whistled. “So, instead of having plants, you have...”

“The filters,” the Hawkman said.

“Sounds to me like the Emperor is making you all work harder so that he can get richer,” Mark said, dryly.

Both Hawkmen laughed. “You have that right human!” He slapped the side of the filter he had to remove. “Here, if you want to help the wheels of Empire spin just a bit smoother, come here and help us with this.”

Mark rolled is shoulders. “I may be scrawny compared to you Hawkmen, but I’ve put in more than my fair share of elbow grease.”

“Hah! Scrawny!” The red feathered Hawkman said. “This human doesn’t know our bones are hollow!”

The black feathered Hawkman snorted.

The air filters, as it turned out, had large handles on them that Mark was able to grip and yank against, pulling the silvery cylinder free. The two Hawkmen slotted in the new one, adjusted the connection, then swung the wall panel shut. “So, hollow bones, huh?” Mark asked. “Does that mean you can fly?”

“Oh, we could fly,” the red feathered Hawkman said, his wing flaring behind him – showing that his feathers had been clipped. “But we were captured by the Emperor, fighting against him. We were ... lucky ... enough to be enslaved, rather than deatomized.”

Mark shook his head. “A horrible way to go,” he said, quietly. “What ... what the hell is that thing, anyway?”

“The Deatomizer?” the red feathered Hawkman asked while his fellow collected his tools. “It’s a terrible thing indeed. The Nuclear Alchemy Engine works, in some part, by transforming energy straight into matter. When calibrated properly, it can make any element on the periodic table – but when set to simply create randomly, it spews out hydrogen atoms at an incredible speed.” He shook his head slowly his feathered crest flattening out. “Just as a sun does, but with the ability to be tuned and focused like a death ray. The Deatomizer is nothing more than deadly radiation like the kind your people witnessed at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but multiplied by a million times, a billion times if Zardo wills it.”