Worlds

When a planet's core crosses the critical mass of Abilit, the planet does not explode — it folds. What remains is a sphere of emptiness a thousand kilometres across. Instruments report the mass; the eye reports nothing. What is inside, nobody knows.

Their surface never hardens. Dissolved in liquid magma, Abilit reaches concentrations that beggar belief — a tonne of lava can hold more of it than an entire asteroid vein. Only a Fury-class extractor can bring it up.

Winds in the upper layers reach seven thousand kilometres an hour. Cloud cities float at those heights, held up by antigrav platforms. Their people never see solid ground. They say those people have no word for falling.

Blue oceans, oxygen in the air, gravity between 0.8 and 1.2 g. The rarest type there is — one system in a thousand. Everyone takes Terran worlds: traders, pirates, the Council alike. The War of the Cores was fought over them.

At minus 230 degrees, living matter turns into figures of glass. The ice giants are the galaxy's natural morgue: ships lost in warp combat are sometimes thrown here by the currents. Thousands of years later they are found intact.

Planets that lost their atmosphere. They often hold the ruins of civilizations that died millions of years before humanity existed. Archaeologists whisper that all of those civilizations died the same way, and all on the same day.