Time slowed, and Milo took note of details. Grothmar wasn't home; this was the Collective walking towards him. Behind came the Ur-Khemysts of Bloth. They walked slightly askew, the tallest one a half step in front, the tailed one making sure he stayed just a little behind, and the fat one a step behind him. It was an odd contrast between the concealing black robes that strove to make them look uniform, yet they had an obvious pecking order, based on their marching order. His goggles detected as much magi-tech as a Senior Engineer used in his armored suit, possibly more. Glowing fluids circulated from the tanks on their backs. He speculated that some might be potions to heal or restore mana, but those leading to nozzles on their wrists and shoulders were bound to be offensive weaponry.

  What he had at first taken to be Myconian warforms were revealed to be a combination of Myconian Warriors, machinery, and magi-tech. Underneath a layer of tough fibres, there were armored plates and magi-tech circuitry. Their arms ended in razors attached to large metal gauntlets, and each had some form of shoulder weaponry, fed from fluids from an interior storage tank. They looked quite formidable, and based on their movements, were under the control of the Ur-Khemysts, and not the Collective.

  He looked at Ziggy. "If a fight starts, please run. I will be more effective if I'm not worried about you burning to death or being dissolved by acid."

  Ziggy nodded his head enthusiastically, "Sounds good to me. You're going to fight them?"

  Milo shook his head. "I'd rather just talk, but they came ready to fight, so we have to have plans in place."

  "And I plan to run like hell. Got it."

  Milo stepped forward to meet them, and the Collective stopped in front of him. "Greetings, Guest Senior Engineer-Sage Tallsqueak."

  "Greetings, Collective. I see you have brought other guests?"

  The Collective turned to the Ur-Khemysts, "These are travelers from Blothbezmadan, the great city further along the Deep Roads. They have come to inquire about our business arrangements. These have to do with the enhancement of our mulch fields and the harvesting of certain substances. Complications have arisen, and they wish to propose solutions."

  Milo looked at the three, who were trying not to notice him. Instead, they were looking at Ziggy. He raised his voice slightly. "Well, I am here and willing to listen. What is the nature of the complications?"

  To his astonishment, they walked around him and went to Ziggy. The tallest began placing paperwork on a table and held out what looked like a modern ball-point pen. "We have papers that need to be signed to straighten out these problems. Please accept this remarkable ink-pen, a souvenir of our meeting, and sign these on each of the indicated lines."

  Ziggy took a step backward and looked at Milo, confused. Milo stepped in front of Ziggy. "I'm who you should be speaking to."

  The fat one's voice held a sneer, "Back to your place, your betters have things to discuss." Milo had no polite answer for that, so he simply glared at them, while summoning his armor underneath his bulky coveralls, and his tail slowly began inscribing a rune.

  The tall one spoke in a slightly less condescending voice, "What my compatriot is trying to convey to you is that we do not recognize members of slave races as legally able to enter into business contracts of this type. It simply isn't done. Please move to a position signifying meekness and docility. If you do, we will reward you with a tasty bit of cheese, sure to make you happy."

  Milo replied, "Two questions: What kind of cheese? And what do you mean by 'slave-race,' this isn't a term I have heard before."

  The tall one seemed offended by his questions. He pulled a moldy piece of cheese from a pouch that was crawling with small insects. "See? Cheese! Get the nice cheese, boy!" He tossed it to the ground behind Ziggy.

  Milo kept his eyes on the three. "Time to leave, Ziggy." His voice held authority that left no doubt as to who was in charge. The young dwarf took off like a shot, not looking back.

  "I am Senior Engineer Tallsqueak of the Deeprock Engineers, and I hold the position of Master of Scouts for Limburger Hollow. Any discussion is with me, and only me."

  The Collective turned to the Ur-Khemysts, "Does this simplify discussions? Authority to enter into business dealings could ignore his race and substitute rank in the organization known as 'Deep Rock Engineers'.

  The fat one said, "Never. I will not speak with slaves." The tailed one tilted his head, "Yes, it is a legal, yet acceptable fiction. And shifts responsibility from the individual to the organization, which improves the solution to the difficult problems we face."

  The tall one listened to each. "Very well. We will open formal negotiations with a Senior Engineer of the Dwarven group known as the Deep Rock Engineers. Greetings, I am Number Twenty-seven of the Ur-Khemists Guild of Blothbezmadan. To my right is number Forty-one, and to my left, number Sixty-two. You may refer to us as Khemyst Twenty-seven, Khemyst Forty-one, and Khemyst Sixty-two. Please accept this remarkable ink-pen, a souvenir of our meeting, and sign these on each of the indicated lines."

  "Thank you for your flexibility, Khemyst Twenty-seven. You may refer to me as Senior Engineer Tallsqueak or Scoutmaster Tallsqueak. Place the pen on the table. I do not accept it, nor the offer of spider cheese. Explain what you mean by the term 'slave race' while I read through these agreements."

  The tallest turned to the fat one. "Sixty-two will explain."

  "This is demeaning, Twenty-seven."

  "Many things are demeaning, Sixty-two. You must learn to take these feelings and distill them into something more potent that will aid you in ascending to a higher point while hoping for a beneficial situation to occur where you may find release from your shame. Please answer Senior Engineer Tallsqueak's question."

  Sixty-two lost none of his sneer. "You are a ratkin. Ratkin are a slave-race. You are weak and were enslaved by the Spider Clans. This places you below Created Races, Evolved Races, and Ruling Races."

  Milo took his time reading through the papers, all of which had very small print and flowery language that hid detrimental clauses. They were worthy of the contracts Technodyne and Megagames had wanted him to sign. And the goggles pointed out that some parts added to the end were written in ink that would only become visible when it cured after several hours.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "As to the paperwork that you feel will nullify the complications and problems that you claim to exist, I have read over it, and here are my thoughts:

  -I reject any responsibility for the supposed loss of mutated snail glands from the carcass of Gargantua. I entered into combat with only the information that the Collective needed the snails dead. No method was outlined on how to do this. Nor were there directives on preserving snail parts, other than that the Red Snails would be unharvestable because of the heat they produced. I note that Gargantua held all of the abilities of the other snails, including the red ones. Furthermore, I was informed that unexpected solutions to the problem were welcome."

  He turned to the Collective. "If you don't want unexpected solutions, don't ask me for them."

  "So noted for future conversations. We were hasty in our assessment of the situation and failed to convey information."

  Milo pointed to the next piece of paper. "I reject your claim of ownership of the Mechanical Battle Bear known as Ursula, or that anyone owes you for the damage done to her in battle. Her chassis was owned by a group of dwarven mechanics. They abandoned the machine, and I have claimed it as the spoils of war. If that is not enough, I also consider anything usable to be mine by the ancient law of 'Finders, Keepers' and the contract I have with them for both the Bear and the care and education of one of their group. The idea that you own Ursula herself, I totally reject. She is an intelligent creature, and not a slave."

  Sixty-two drew himself up to speak, only to be cut off by Milo. "I'm not done. Finally, I reject on every level the idea of 'slave races.' I am not a slave: I kill slavers. I kill spiders, and the offering of Milbenkase cheese is insulting and, in the future, will be deemed a threat. Your assertions that I, or the Deep Rock Engineers, owe you anything are not based on facts or logic."

  There was silence for a moment. Twenty-seven drew himself up. "The Laws of Blothbezmadan govern these agreements. By not agreeing to them immediately, it is within my rights to add a 10% penalty to all monies owed, which I will certainly do."

  Milo shook his head. "I reject your penalties, also the charge of 273 gold for the pen, and 57 gold for refreshments." Those had been in the sections that would normally be invisible.

  "We can roll those into other costs, and include 20% more for illegal use of items, abilities, or spells used for spying on business documents."

  Sixty-two took a step forward, "Why are we talking to this...creature?"

  Twenty-seven turned and uttered a small laugh, "Because he is the only one to talk to, the person we need signatures of acceptance from, and because he seems to understand the basics of doing business. Really, Sixty-two, you could learn some things from his manner. His anger is tightly held like a weapon, yet his mind is clear."

  Forty-one shrugged, "I have warned him about the adverse effects of the overindulgence of breakfast pastries, and Black Venom Extract to aid his digestion. That would make anyone angry and agitated. But what do I know?"

  Sixty-two growled low in his throat, picked up the pen, and shoved it in Milo's face, the nozzle of his wrist dispenser dribbling smoke. "Sign now, or I will dispense with you, and hunt down your accomplice and make him sign on your still-smoking corpse."

  Milo's armored hand shot out and grabbed the wrist in front of him, crushing the nozzle shut. "I don't think so." As everyone watched, bone crawled over his head and face, and his armored tail grew longer.

  Sixty-two screamed at him, "Unhand me, slave."

  "As you wish." Sharp claws tightened and cut through sixty-two's wrist. He backed away, screaming, his wrist spouting blood and chemicals. "And I'd recommend automatic shut-off components. You could combine them with a tourniquet, which would prevent the loss of blood and waste of chemicals. Also, it might prevent a dangerous explosion if there were an open flame nearby."

  Forty-one seemed unconcerned, "Sensible ideas."

  Twenty-Seven shot a stream of something sticky at the stump, which sealed off the leakage. "I concur, we've recommended such ideas, but perhaps they should be made mandatory? Something to think about."

  "Are you going to let him get away with that? He has maimed me! And insulted us."

  Twenty-seven shook his head. "I disagree. The insult is all yours. You will be lucky to stay above 200 when word of this gets out."

  Forty-one actually laughed, "And now you have a reason to upgrade those soft, pudgy hands of yours into something better."

  Sixty-two stared at them, "Are you letting him live? Really?"

  Twenty-seven looked at Milo, "Of course not. If you let one person defy the might of Blothbezmadan, someone else might also think it was possible. Apologies, Tallsqueak, I was enjoying your ineffectual banter, but rebellion of a slave-race cannot be tolerated."

  Milo took a step back, runes forming on both hands and his tail, but he held off for a moment. "You really should rethink the situation."

  "Oh, and why is that? The Collective will not act, and we outnumber you seven to one."

  Milo shook his head, "I reject your odds. You picked a fight with the wrong Engineers." He leaped at his friend Grothmar's body and knocked both of them away from the Ur-Khemysts, he tail triggering a rune that put a wall of pure force between the two of them, and everyone else. A split second later, a large explosion between the Ur-Khemysts and their mutated warforms knocked them all to the ground and wounded them with flying shrapnel.

  Through the smoke and haze, they saw four dwarves sauntering down the cave, two of them holding huge guns, and the others armed with a glowing cutlass and a huge wrench. Their flower-print tunics were bright and glaring. Their beards were oiled and festooned with ribbons. They wore sunglasses, the traditional headgear of dwarves on vacation.

  Sledgemonkey said, loudly, "Well, isn't this nice. We came to rescue him, and he was considerate enough to have a fight ready and waiting for us."

  Boom-Boom grinned as he leveled his gun at Twenty-Seven, "You do have to envy his ability to find trouble."