The Emperor walked down the sanguine halls of the Imperial Palace, treading on a path taken by hundreds before him. On either flank were his guards, the Praetorians, who stood resolute with rifles in hand while their liege stopped and gazed out a wide palatial window at the city of Olympia. Gathered in front of the palace was a consortium of citizens and subjects, eager eyes of many species gazing up in wait of their emperor, the Son of Orion, the Lord of the Stars and the Bringer of Milk. He looked to them with a smile, a knowing-yet-unknowing smile, a confident smile which yielded weakness, the smile of the learned fool on the face of the most powerful being in the Galaxy. And the Man-God went from the window to greet the eager-gathered pilgrims, so that the ants may nibble at the sap of his virtue.

The sirenian mob cried out when Catus gifted his presence, and those of the gathered who were closest to the Emperor did not notice the dark figures whose rifles were aimed at their cerebrum, who would assuredly end them without remorse upon the slightest movement towards Spiritus's chosen leader. The Emperor checked his amplification, and he spoke.

"Citizens of Orion!" As he addressed the porifera, a shrill cacophony came in response. The edges of his mouth curled up, but his palm was raised to bring them to silence. "As you may have heard, the Northern Exiles have been forced back to their expulsion, and our borders are secure. Peace has been restored, and Milk may flow again!"

"This victory, this triumph of our military, was no small feat. For our security, for our children, for our Empire, we sacrificed. Lives were lost, homes were burned, but still, we are victorious! We have built for ourselves a beacon of civilization in the Vast Empty, a great power that will stand the test of time."

"Five millennia ago, our human predecessors, those who laid down the path on which we trod, declared the Common Era. An era in which all Men were of equal stature, an era when all mortality stood beneath what they called 'God'. But we, children of Orion, we have proven them wrong! Now is not the era of commonality, and the Age of God has since expired with our terrestrial-bound existence. We have surpassed the brotherhood of men, as we sit at a table with countless peoples, countless races, in a limitless universe." The Emperor, blind in his farsightedness, stared out into those gathered below him. "No, now is the Era Imperium!"

The living corpses below cheered as buzzards gathered overhead which they could not see. For a will had been decreed, and their inheritance was a dead Earth.


The transport descended slowly above a long-dead Imperial Dreadnought, specks of spacedusts and ash covering the warship. Inside, Ghanzi was rattling off from within his helmet.

"And to think that the Commander General would let these fucking bugs-" The Xuha sniper was red with both frustration and the natural color of his skin.

"Scorpines have every right to be a citizen as you do, soldier," replied Lt. Animo. She was getting tired of his self-loathing alien conservativisms, leaning tiredly against the wall of the ship with her rifle in hand. The rest of the squad, aside from Major Astari, were behind them, too inexperienced to be rid of their anxiety going into a mission.

"Pft, of course you think that, human. Your family was never kicked from their land by Resser-"

"I am your superior and you will speak to me as such!" Animo shot back as she straighted her back, standing threatingly against the sniper. Suddenly, their commander interjected.

"Both of you, calm down," Astari said. "I'm both your superiors, and my head hurts too much to deal with your politics." The two soldiers slowly calmed before Astari nodded to the wreckage below. "We're here."

---

The First Cavalry descended slowly with their jetbacks as Animo cut a whole in the top of the ship with her wrist laser. Their lights were all turned on, and one by one they fell into the abyssal darkness of a Dead Empire's grave. The Major led the group, finding themselves in what must've been the quarterdeck, although not much was left to prove it. The squad slowly walked through the ruinous ship, until finally the newest recruit, a Janari, Private Koaga, shouted out, "Major, think I found something!" Quickly, Astari walked over to him, and looked at the wall he was pointing to. Happy Birthday, Captain! Astari glared at the private. "Might be a clue..." the young man timidly said, but the Major shook his head and walked away.

The Cavalry split into teams of two, and Astari was with Animo searching through the old arsenal. The Lieutenant was thumbing through Orionic rifles, when she said, "You know, you shouldn't undermine my authority like that, Commander." It took him a second to respond, as he was reading through some quarermaster's journal.

"What authority?" He replied, reading over a line about a malfunction in the escape pods. Animo shot up and looked at him.

"I am your second in command! Couldn't you at try and respect as such?" Astari grumbled, gently placing the journal in a front pocket of his armor.

"You shouldn't care about my respect." He crossed his arms. "I'm not who you're commanding. Care about your men, and maybe they'd respect you a little more, because right now, they do NOT." Animo inhaled deeply, then, exhaling, said,

"Permission to speak informally?"

"Permission granted."

"You're a dick."

Josephus was about to reply, when he received a signal from his transmitter. Allowing it through, he saw Koaga, who seemed...out of sorts. "Major," he said, "There's something you should see."

"Private, if this is another-"

"Just...come here."

In the hold, near the escape pods, an array of skeletons were floating against the ship's roof. The entire squad was gathered before them, looking at the perfectly maintained Imperial Navy uniforms adorning the corpses. They watched silently, some of them noticing the claw marks covering the escape hatch. Finally, Major Astari spoke up.

"Alright, let's get out of here, there's nothing to see."

“Starship Liberty radio, coming to you live from Communications.” a smooth voice said in the man's ears, as he drifted in space. An immense expanse, shimmering with a multitude of pins of light. Just a few hundred yards away, a black shape loomed among the stars. Flickering guidance lights shone and slowly pulsed across its profile, giving warning to no ship in-particular. They were cruising just short of leaving interstellar space for the system of a singular star. Hanging in perpetual free fall, he was poised towards the anonymous star, one of billions, one of thousands close by. At the distance they were, beyond its reach its light was little stronger than that of its more distant counterparts, some alive, many possibly dead.

The Starship Liberty - its long silhouetted mass a blight against the stars behind it - was by comparison to others, a medium sized ship. Some generations dated, but not without work having been done on it. It featured a forward-facing observations dock, a glorified dome of thick reinforced glass in several layers. The engine bays at the rear with the airdocks and great thrusters capable of swallowing comets pulsed a dull blue. Sandwiched between these two points, spun the rest of the ship. A long barrel that gently moved around a central axis. The guiding lights here moved with it, and to add more light a multitude of windows pressed against mountains and valleys of infrastructure were its windows, shining a pure silver glow.

Before the drifting man, tethered by a long cable to the airdocks floated balls of ice. In their glimmer they caught and refracted the many sources of light. Pure iridescent crystals, broken only by a few bubbles of trapped air. But those imperfections did not mire the brilliance of the light captured, but enhanced it as through the many sources were bent and refracted in many different ways so the entire spectrum was represented. As the one before him drifted up between he and the starship it captured the difference between the dark shadows and the light of the windows and he could see the broken bands of blue on black, and red on white bands that formed between the margins of light and dark. With a unrelenting, and unrestricted smack the ball of ice was shot away through space, towards the distant nameless star, trailing behind it a tail of stars.

The bat, stout and made of aluminum was gripped firmly in his gloved hand, double secured with a wound leather strap that wrapped around his suited wrist and bound tight. There would be no way it would leave his hands the same way there would be no way he would leave the Starship. Neither would be surrendered to the immense gulf of oppressive emptiness, where time and space both slowed and grew distant. But these balls of ice would go there. Like all the primordial matter, it would return to the harsh vacuum and someday – perhaps in a million years – mix themselves with some planet, some asteroid, some moon, or cloud of turbid matter. As the last one become a mere mote in the darkness, and disappeared from view he produced another.

“I got lined up for you next hour of enjoyment another set of music. Nothing new has come up, though I have been told we are entering our new vacation's heliosphere. Marcus Xhu, I'd recommend you come back in.” the voice on the radio said, breaking the meditative state.

The radio DJ silently flipped off and seamlessly passed onto music. In his ears Marcus heard the singing, torch-bearing lyrics of “Time is a Relevant”. He dumped the rest of his ice and let it all free into the interstellar medium. There was a control panel on his wrist, built into his suit. A white slab of metal and plastic with large buttons, spaced accessibly for the thick gloves of the space suit. Humming along to the upbeat ¾ signature song he reeled himself in.

His boots connected first with the starship's airdock and with a magnetic clunk audible through his suit he connected. Without the luxury of gravity, there was little to ground him otherwise. Once in, the airlock door closed and the room was pressurized. Air rushed in first as a whisper, than a roar until he was told he could move ahead and remove his helmet. He did so, and breathed the subtle acrid smell of recycled air. Compared to what was in reserve for the suits, it was only slightly better. He discarded the space suit into its locker, where in its weightless environment it floated as a bright red ghost behind wire mesh. Freed from the magnetic boots, Marcus Xhu kicked off into the ship and floated effortlessly through.

“How was your trip?” asked a crewman as they passed each other, headed different ways.

“Fine.” Marcus called back, pulling himself over a corner marked by a bundle of cables.

All the cavernous halls were wound with numerous pipes, wires, and vents. The air smelled slightly of ozone and all about regions of the wall were covered in a delicate looking reflective foil. All truth be told, there was no floor or no ceiling, all was wall in the weightlessness of engineering. Somewhere distant, the low hum of engines rumbled through all the walls.

Connecting into the main central axis, he found himself in an immense tubular structure. Grandiose, it stretched on for over a kilometer. Its length supported and reinforced by a system of beams, and the entire space had enough room to be a large high way. And in it teams of men, women, and aliens skirted up and down the long shaft, or across it. Either as a shortcut into one part of the ship from another, or to move large containers the size of trucks, in the relative weightlessness of the heart of the ship's gravitational production it was relatively easy to move anything heavy.

Space regularly along it were large elevator shafts, large enough to be freight elevators. He joined in with a couple who were latching a small crate to a platform, and together they descended. The air was full of humming as the elevator moved. Holding onto the handrails Marcus felt the gravity return, he was slowly lowered the further they went until it became absolute and regular. His feet planted against the metal of the deck. The couple laughed awkwardly, it was a hard process to get used to.

The freight elevator stopped, and the door opened to the inner chambers of the starship. The other two moved to hoist their crate onto a dolly, and Marcus stepped out into the hall.

An impressive and spacious area greeted him. Several stories high, the vaulted ceiling of the Starship Liberty was a shifting panorama of a mural of space, of other worlds, or of the old Earth. He looked up to watch the spectacle of the invisible gasses of a nebula, as seen in the false imagining of scientific imaging turn and shift in patterns in the ceiling projection until it became a blue sky, complete with clouds. Birds, real, flittered along at the top of the ceiling and along with the commotion of life across all ranges and the radio music their bird song joined to create a complete orchestra for life.

Hanging against the walls higher up, a series of walkways formed long balconies and verandas that made a high-street, which was bridged across to the other-side. Potted plants, survivors from Earth and Human colonies and of alien fauna compatible with them grew and hung from plant pots. There was a fresh spring-time smell in the air, the flowers were blooming, nurtured along by the lights, which served as replacement to the light of the sun and other stars.

At ground floor, as with the upper balconies were computer terminals set into the wall. He approached one and idly searched the messages. There was a concert to be played in the next forty-minutes in the auditorium of Deck 10. The Painters League was to meet in the next thirty hours in the observation dock to render the alien worlds – if there were any – into paintings, any style they chose. An open debate was ongoing in the auditorium of Deck 12, which would be broadcast as well on Communications Channel 3, the topic: the present condition of the galactic political landscape.

He scratched the side of his face and thought for a moment. “What is Sal up to?” he thought to himself, and leaned in.

His fingers moved across the onscreen keyboard as he logged in. Submitting his request he waited, the screen went black and he looked at the reflection of himself.

Tall, skinny, not the most handsome man; he was the sort who thought of himself as average. Not one to be upset with himself, or over confident. His nose he felt was too big, a misshapen door knob. His eyes were narrow, a sort of tell tale of his ancestors somewhere hundreds of generations down the line. His black hair was unkempt, a result of the helmet more than anything. He wore it long and it wrapped around his ears. He compulsively combed his fingers through it to straighten out his hair as the system confirmed his personal log in. Everything he needed or wanted from a computer appeared on screen.

---

The sign on the door said “Dreamer 12-3”. Pulling open the door, he stepped into a dimly lit chamber. Arranged in rows down a short alley sat banks of pods. Amber lights in the floors illuminated the pods. As the door shut behind Marcus the sound of the rest of the ship died away, leaving behind an empty sound, like the soft rustling of static or the constant breath of a soft breeze. Every so often there would be a muffled bubbling to break the silence, before returning again to the sepulcher silence.

As he walked passed them he reached out his hands and gently touched each, feeling the pulsating lukewarmth radiating from within. Each pod was long and smooth, like a grain of rice. And printed at the tip of each was a number. 1. 2. 3. He stopped at eight and gently tapped his knuckles on it. He sat down to wait.

He lay his head back against the pod and was about to close his eyes to rest when a noise disturbed the silence and he leaned forward and looked. A few feet down a pod had opened and in the darkened light a figure sat up. Tall, lanky, and covered in wet dripping fur. With clawed hands he worked on some straps around a head piece covering his eyes and ears and detached it, on a cable it was slowly wound back into the pod. Groaning the alien rubbed his eyes and looked around, removing a pair of gloves on his hands and saw Marcus. “Hey, Marcus” he intoned dryly. Wiping water from the bottom of his chin with a rag.

“Daro.” Marcus said, “How's it going?”

“Ah, another bloody day.” said Daro, getting out of the pod. He was mostly naked except for a pair of tightly fit trunks. Haunched over he went about drying off his back, “What I don't do fer art though.” he added, half-complaining and half laughing.

“What is it? A new project?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah, wouldn't'cha believe some damn cunts around here want a simulation on Earth's final moments?” Daro said, turning to face Marcus again and smiling with a mouth full of uneven teeth. “Blimey, tell me that ain't masochism.”

“Maybe some people are just nostalgic?” Marcus asked. He felt his chest tighten. It had been centuries ago, so long it wasn't important. But he felt hurt that somewhere out there had been a home especially for them, where they had come from, and against the backdrop of the university it had simply ceased to be. He was aware the star it orbited was still there, the system tacitly existed. But Earth itself wasn't.

“That ain't no fuckin' nostalgia.” Daro sneered bitterly, perhaps sorrowfully. Marcus could empathize with him. “Ah well, all the same. It's got a bunch of us goin'. I was just testin' a new rendering algorith. It'll be a lot more data heavy than the others. Fuckin' humans, you're all a buncha dags though.”

Marcus smiled and laughed. “Anyways, what'cha in for?” asked Daro.

“Come to see what Sal's up to.” Marcus said, tapping the back of his head against the pod for emphasis.

“Ah yes, I seens the Sallers come in and take a bench. She was going in to some concert thinger, event. Woodstock or some shit. But see: that's the thing people aughta like. None'a these homeworlds dying shit.”

Marcus smiled, “Oh?”

“Yeah.” replied Daro, “See what we got here,” he began, raising a long finger to point at the numerous pods, “He over there is at performance of some Beethoven fellow. She there just to Athens golden age. He to the landing on your old moon! She the first landing on Mars. There is much better to experience again, but why the loss of something so great?”

“Maybe it'll be something like closure? To finally put an end to Earth's story.”

Daro dismissively waved his hand. “Whatever.”

Something moved behind Marcus' head and he turned and looked up. A hatch on the pod was opening, and he moved aside to get out of the way. With a hiss the door swung open. With a pop it sprung open all the way. “I'll have to fix that someday.” Daro said, whipping his hands on a towel as he turned and walked away. Sitting up from the pod, dressed in a bathing suit, was a woman. She detached the head set and crossed her arms over he knees.

“Who'd you see?” Marcus asked.

“Oh, a whole lot.” the woman said, with a smile, “Arlo Guthrie, Joan Baez, Jefferson Airplane, The Doors.”

“You ever heard of them before?” he asked.

She laughed and shook her head, “No, not really. But now I have.” she swung her legs out of the pod and asked, “How was your space walk? Hit a hole in one?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, “It was fine.” he answered. “You hungry?”

“I am, and I was wondering if you would ask.” she answered. She grabbed a towel from the ground nearby and wiped away the water, “Let me get something on and I'll follow you out. Lower station, the Starlit Cafe?”

“Sounds good to me.” Marcus said, would be about as good as any.

She gave him a smile and slid out of the pod, wrapping the towel around her. “I'll see you there.” she said.

---

The centerpiece of the cafe was a small tree, a lime tree. Its rich green fruits weighed heavy on the branches and every so often a woman dressed casually would reach up and pick one from the over hanging branches and take it to be juiced, sliced, or otherwise used for some dish. The Starlit Cafe featured a soft red coloring over all, with the edges of the counter or table trimmed in white chrome. Alongside the table Marcus had picked out an inclined window connected the floor with the wall and looked out at the expanse of space. The star lit backdrop panned slowly by as the airship's core made its rotations. The table was for two, and between them and the window was a railing, less for protection and more for convenience sake; it made something nice to lean on.

On the table were the basket for the condiments, mustard, ketchup, and a variety of spicy alien pastes. There were also an odd collection of real paper books scattered there, with a stack of paper-thin digital menus. Marcus was scanning through the list of things the Starlit Cafe offered as Sally took a seat across from him.

Sally Voutis, taller than Marcus. Her black hair was almost always a nest of lively curled hair. She never wore it back in a bun, or a pony tail, or any way but as-was. Marcus found her smile infectious, and when she smile at him he smiled back. “I just wanted a sandwich or something, what are you thinking?” she asked.

“I had my eyes on the lime shrimp. With rice.” Marcus said.

“Oh, that's good.” she said. She looked up at him. Her eyes were a dark green that shone bright in the warm lighting of the cafe. A contrast to Marcus' dull brown-gray eyes.

“You want tea?” asked Marcus.

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Then it's settled.” said Marcus, going through the menu and putting in the orders. He turned to look back outside. There were not-to-distant flashes of light just outside the thick plated windows. Smaller asteroids, comets, and the left over debris from a system's formation were sparking against the ship's shielding. This was the outer most rogue material. It wouldn't be more than a few moments until they passed through the heliopause.

“So, what are you thinking?” Sally asked, leaning on the table. She too looked out the window.

“Oh, nothing. Just waiting to see when we break through.” he responded.

“Really? Is that all? How long did you spend out on your space walk? An hour? Two hours? Couldn't see it coming?” she teased.

“And how long were you in that pod?” Marcus asked, “Wasn't that festival a few days long?”

“They're called Dreamers for a reason.” she laughed, “Besides, it's not like I can jump between moments.”

“Anyways, I was talking to Daro before you got up.” Marcus said, “Apparently he's trying to help out making something involving Earth's last moments.”

“Really? That's spooky.” Sal said.

“That's what I said to him, he's not fond of it at all but doing it because it's his art. Someone wants it done.”

“It wouldn't hardly surprise me. There's some nasty moments in the library. But, this I take it is what happens when there's an endeavor to catalog and accurately reconstruct history. Earth is gone, the memories are all we got left. Short of rebuilding Earth one-to-one, virtual reality is the best I suppose we get for its history, and everything else.”

“Isn't that all just escapist though?”

“Escapist? You bring it up every time we talk about this.” Marcus laughed, “But really though, is playing base ball with whatever you have on hand in open space any different from what I do?” she asked.

“I am though being a part of the universe.” Marcus said.

“Oh please.” Sal laughed, “How about not now?” she added rolling her eyes.

“OK then, so you thought about heading to Observation as we close in on the system?”

“I'm not interested.” Sal said, “I'll certainly go and look when or if we find a planet to land on. But I'm not partial on being in free fall and watching. I was interested in the debate, but is that too late?”

“I don't think so. Marcus said.”

“Then later, I guess.” said Sal. It was her turn to stare out at the passage of space.

After a long moment of silence, Marcus asked, “What are you thinking?”

“Oh you, shut up!” Sal laughed.

As she soared above the clouds, the only evidence of what was happening below a diffuse orange glow in the overcast, the cockpits radio crackled to life, “This is Bravo 4-9, calling for air support. Repeat, Bravo 4-9 calling for air support. We're under fire from a building at grid coordinates 651.789.442, repeat 651.789.442.”

Jasmine cringed and rubbed her ears with her off hand. It had been a long time since the Scorpine jammers could actually block a transmission, but by god the interference was uncomfortable to listen to. Bravo 4-9's every word was punctuated by shrill static, and by the time they were done she had the beginnings of a headache for what was the fifth time in the day. Seeing the rest of her wing signal they were busy on the fighters HUD she opened her comms and intoned, “Bravo 4-9 this is Romeo 1-2, fall back to safe positions I've got this one.”

As she she banked hard to set up her attack vector and plunged into the clouds she took in her surroundings. It was beautiful, in a sick sort of way. The mega city below her was on fire, and dozens of her peers were periodically swooping down to keep it like that. Her target was rather obvious, an old looking tower she didn't doubt had been built before the empires fall; the building was easily one of the most venerable left in the city. She saw the flash of a weapon from one of its higher floors and swerved, the few shots flying wide.

With a sigh she armed her standoff missiles and sent six flying towards the buildings base. The Scorpine resistance had been getting stiffer for years, but ever since the damn bugs had managed to isolate the fifth and ninth fleets they'd been all but impossible to root out. It would be decades before anyone lived in this city, the way things were going. Without waiting to confirm her hit she pulled up, only listening to the eventual call that told her if she'd have to make another run, “This is Bravo 4-9, nice hit Romeo 1-2, the whole things dust.”

She didn't have it in her to do more than tap her comms transmission switch twice as confirmation. Ever since the fleet had bombed this planets fortifications into dust her job had been a bore. Bomb this convoy, hit that mech, level another city block. There was hardly anything left to make things interesting, just millions of Scorpine refusing to admit their cause had been lost months ago.

Evening out she looked down on the planet from the edge of the atmosphere, ready to swoop down again if the call came. As if in challenge to her complacency, that was precisely when a call she specifically hadn't been expecting came, “This is theatre command, all Odysseus Fighter Bombers fall back to your carriers. I repeat, all Odysseus Fighter Bombers fall back to your carriers. We have contacts jumping in past the heliosphere. Estimate one hour to intercept.”

It wasn't what she expected, but Jasmine didn't even try to suppress her grin. What was the point of being a pilot without getting into a good old dog fight once in while?



As he robotically went through his pre-flight checklist Dominik kept his eye on the oversized digital clock on the hangers far wall. Fifteen minutes until launch, and after that he doubted it'd take long for the fight to begin. The Odees had stopped landing a while ago and now it looked like they were all being refitted for space combat, hopefully the lot of them would be ready by the time the Scorpine fleet was in weapons range.

His Bellerophon, or Belle, was a hell of a strike craft, but he couldn't scratch anything larger than a destroyer. At least, not without mounting long range guided missiles and sacrificing the maneuverability that would keep him and his wing alive in combat. That wasn't their job, and to be frank they'd not done their job since the planets siege had begun, and he was anxious as all hell to be doing it now.

From what he'd been told they were outnumbered, not by much, but hell when he joined up there wasn't a battle where they didn't outnumber the Scorpine two to one. Fleet command really dropped the ball a few years back and the thought that some complacent admirals fuck up would end up killing him wasn't one he particularly liked. He figured that made him a bad soldier. A problem for another time, that line of thought.

When the counter hit five minutes the alarms started blaring, and Dominik swore loudly, “Motherfucker! Chief get these god damn chocks off me!” In moments the deck crew was removing the wedges and clearing him for combat long before they'd ever expected to need to, another fuck up on the fleets part he figured.

He taxied onto the runway and set the dampeners to max just before the decks mag catapult blasted him into the void of space. A quick look out his window showed his carrier shrinking behind him as dozens of other fights swarmed out of its four hangers like angry bees. Bringing up the battle overview on his HUD showed him why they'd launched early.

More than a hundred Scorpine bombers with a light escort were burning towards them, having snuck through the frontal battle line before it was formed. The fuck did the bugs have that was that fast? Over the radio the wing leader addressed them all “Ok wing, Lima 1-1 here. Those bastards managed to skirt our defences and they're closing in on our carriers with the intent to tear us all a new one. So, it's our job to kill them before they can. All of you on me, we're punching it and breaking up their formation.”

Dominic flicked the transmission switch, “Lima 1-4 to Lima 1-1, orders acknowledged.” With a grunt he put everything he had into engines and followed his wing into the fray. He supposed his hands didn’t shake, and he didn’t piss himself, but as the Scorpine fleet behind their vanguard resolved on his sensors a chill went down his spine like it never had before. He all but whispered, “Oh come on...”

In the great windows of the rotating decks the crew of the ship could see the planet before them. A great – if small – ball of blue, with thin brush strokes of land speckled across great oceans and from the great blue sapphire seas trails of ancient mountains. Here and there the sea dropped lower, and from orbit around the unknown world it was known that in those darker waters the crust dropped deep into dark, strange trenches and abysses. Capping the world was ice, thick and brilliant in the purity of its white. Curious, enraptured, and awed by the foreign earth world those who were interested in going down to it listened to the radio as the survey crews voted to deploy to the world their drones. As the swarm of silver robots left the engineering deck and fell down to the planet the clock was ticking until they had the information they needed to confirm their visit to the world below.

The interstellar, warp cruise had come on its newest destination in orbit around a foreign star; but all was foreign and strange to the life on board the Starship Liberty.

Seated in one of the shuttles bound to head to the foreign world, Marcus sat strapped into his seat. The weightlessness of engineering as familiar as it had been. He felt the hair on his head rise and hold itself up right in the void of gravity. Next to him sat Sal, she held the restraints that held her in, her wild hair for once in a rare while held back by a cap. The shuttle was filling and finding their places the men, women, and aliens that had been collected by them waited for launch. All that was needed was a final piece of data by a drone. In so-far, the planet's profile turned up healthy for humans with an atmosphere rich with oxygen was an algeanated sea.

“Ah! Rā-Kålêm! I thought you had not made plans?” a man on the shuttle said, as a wirey avian looking alien came in, gingerly pushing off from the wall and navigating the most gentle of care through the middle of the shuttle. While he was covered shoulder to feet with what looked like feathers, and they fell from his exposed arms like the sleeve's on a monk's jacket his face was far from being like a bird, leathery and sagging, his cheeks and face dropping in exaggerated hanging jowls like the beard of a turkey.

“I had not made plans, that does not mean I would not be coming.” the creature said to his friend. There was a seat next to him, so he sat down.

“Well that is nice to hear. So, what are you expecting as we get down there?” his friend said.

“That too I do not intend to interest.” Rā-Kålêm stated succinctly.

“Well, what reason do you have to go down there, the planet?” his friend asked him. Despite the directness of the question it was not meant as insult. Marcus could see that much from the conversation as he watched it and listened in. He looked over and noticed that Sal likewise was paying attention.

“I thought you agreed that reason is the greatest thing to posses, so what is acting without reason?”

“Reason for doing utilitarian things, I was speaking of it as it applies to such acts as constructing a space ship, or performing inventory, or any of the creative or mechanical pursuits one takes. Less so for anything or everything someone can or could do. It is not that I have no reason to go down to this planet, nor that I had any plans. But that now being here, I have the inspiration and the want to go down. While I have no reason, I also have no reason to leave if I want to. To act in any event, is to act on a passion. Passion is the rationality of action, and thus the reason that an individual does the thing, or is with the other.”

“But there are things done with reason. You do not simply do whichever. I don't walk on ceilings because I will it.”

“No you don't, because that is limited by the universal rules. Though by perspective someone might say we walk the ceiling of Liberty, though it acts as a floor. What are you trying to get at?” Rā-Kålêm asked.

“I suppose what I am trying to say, is that to do a thing, to act on what you want to do – I suppose. That requires some thought, a plan.”

“It does, but in so far as to the next step.”

“But what if you are prevented?” asked the man.

“Then I might suppose that really, I can not go do the thing. That in the end it doesn't matter, and I can try something else. Where as I suppose had I made so much effort to go to the thing, or do the act, and had invested so much in it; I would find myself in some frustration had I found that after all I would not be able to go, or do.”

The shuttle had filled and there was a dull thud and the sound of the catch sealing. There was a moment of tension as the shuttle began to rumble. It hummed and rumbled, raising in intensity as a tiger ready to bounce. The walls of the shuttle had windows, small and narrow but Marcus could look between the the two conversing subjects to the window outside and watch as the shuttle bay's walls began to move. With a sudden jolt the craft was ejected, and the slow crawl of the pipes and plates rocketed from view and outside and beyond there was a small armada of space craft leaving the Liberty. Contrasted against it, in the warm glow of an alien sun the many small ships were dwarfed against the immensity and girth of the Starship Liberty.

“Suppose though I had set up strong plans ahead of time,” Rā-Kålêm continued, unperturbed by the launching of their shuttle, “I had decided that specific things would happen at specific times and there would be specific things about these times, places, and objects. That I would have made the most scientific, well engineered plan for a day, an event, or a goal.”

“This sounds like a good thing.” the man said.

“Is it really though, is what I'm proposing. Do you make plans to breath? For your heart to breath? How about when and how you will digest your meal?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You see, this is ultimately what it comes down to. That while the rational ability to do a thing is good, that doing things to improve the quality of life is too, that recognizing there are things outside of one's control and should be left to be carried out organically is the best of all options. Take for instance our voyage down below.” Rā-Kålêm finally acknowledging that they had left the Liberty. “There need not really ever be a plan to go there, and that just that we could. The option is there to take on passionate free will. There need not be any crunching of numbers or in depth statistical analysis. We have no accounts to keep on it. Had something as casual as this been done in the formality of an institutional will to bring something of it, then we would worry about what it is we should bring, how we are to control certain factors. The better organic way to live in situations such as these is to simply go do it, and build on top of it as it comes.”

“You speak of not needing to make calculations. This sounds to me as if no decision should be educated. If taken that way, it sounds to me that- that no matter where it is you're going or what you're doing. You should ignore any implication.”

“No, I don't think so. A few moments ago I talked about not walking on ceilings. Because the theoretical option to do something is present doesn't mean it is possible, or should be done. If it makes you happy, I guess I concede some rational thought and planning is needed. But this simply evolves as an outcome of spontaneous inspiration. A case where you say to yourself: there is a thing I can do, and I will need or not need this. So, you go and do it. Self preservation will require some knowledge or intuition on something you're to do ahead of time, so at the very least you can be basically prepared. Beyond this, I would contend that any additional planning is unnecessary, as it can trap you in a predefined cell.”

“Let me get this straight. What you're saying is that to have too strict a plan is bad, that doing things as they come to you, knowing what you need to know about it, is a good thing?” Marcus asked, interjecting himself into the conversation. Such a notion of life was familiar to him, “In the end, take what you will and do with it as you want?”

Rā-Kålêm bowed his hand and smiled the best way he could, “That is the... 'gist', as you will.”

“Suppose someone is writing a story. How much license do you believe they should take in setting up strict controls?” the other man asked, looking between Rā-Kålêm and Marcus searching for an answer.

“I suppose only as much as someone would consider needed to do the thing.” laughed Rā-Kålêm, “What is it you are thinking?”

“I'm only trying to broaden the scope, see how far it goes.”

“Well then, what does a story entail?” Rā-Kålêm inquired.

“Well, a character, a goal, or antagonist, a beginning, a middle, and an end.” the man said.

“But, does it really need either?” Rā-Kålêm asked, “could a story not be written with a character and a chain of circumstances?”

“Well, this is the way I know about it.” the man said, rather sheepishly.

“You might, but it doesn't mean it's the only structure. We might call all of life a story, it has its characters but none with clearly defined roles within your proposed simple structure. Life itself is not yet complete, and what is it humans have? Syndicated movies? Television novels? When broadcast in your systems, are they ever complete?”

“Sometimes they are.”

“Well regardless, are there those that are still called stories when there is no advertised or prepared end? Or the end is not yet broadcast?”

“I mean sure, yes. It happens.”

“Then I would call them stories without end, or yet without end. So we do not need to worry about end. And if we do not worry about end then we do not need to worry about direction. We can worry about direction, how it might concern our characters. Yet I have also heard of societies which will concern themselves with purely location, I am sure you humans have that too at times. Here the characters as individuals are merely something like passers by, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then a story might be written on the notion of a single location. The story of one planet, a star, or even a Starship. Its characters – its actors – are merely circumstances aboard it. So would this negate the need of characters, in the sense of individuals?”

“I suppose so.”

“And what of histories, anthologies of groups whether – I'm going to use your terms – anthropological or xenopological? Can a species be a character? A nation?”

“I suppose in some sense they may. Though there are some that act more or less collective or individual.”

“Yet they act in groups, by group nature, and thus serve as a collective character. Especially if they are enough to be written of, to write of themselves, or of others?”

“If we suppose that only society can write of society, or that the only focus on stories are those in society?”

“Yet it seems for what I've watched or read that is what the subject is. The character is little more than subject. Even non-social subjects take on the form of character in some way. A planet or a star becomes like a god, deified to have a defined identity behind bland molecular structure.”

“So then, how do we approach this as a plan?”

“Do we need a plan? Do we need tightly ascribed roles, attitudes, or conditions to approach specific things, subjects? Elements?”

“I suppose, perhaps. If writing a history, research must be done. Evidence found and interpreted. This would be like making a plan and a structure for the thing to be written. Much in the same when writing a fantasy. You decide on the subject, the world, and what is in it. Then you need to know where you go.”

“Yes, that sounds right. But what do you feel about spending too much time on that?”

“I take it that maybe the effort isn't well placed.”

“Yes, that sounds right. Might it burn up the inspiration for the story before it is written?”

“It may as well, I say.”

“Then you may as well write it, and not worry too much about the rest. Give yourself the bones, and interpret those.”

A shadow cast itself over the planet below as the massive Heavy Carrier Righteous Truth, pride of the Ecumene Navy, loomed in low orbit overhead. Stationed within the 1st Fleet of Faithful Intent alongside seven other Heavy Carriers and dozens of smaller Ecumene Corvettes, the Righteous Truth served as the fleet’s flagship and a mobile command center for Ecumene High Command, particularly the elite priests of The Conclave, whenever they left the Ecumene’s homeworld: Orion Prime.

The bridge of the Righteous Truth was sprawling, with various consoles and terminals manned by a small army of pilots. At the forefront of the bridge stood Admiral-Lord Talaran, Commander of The Ecumene Navy and the 1st Fleet silently observing the planet below. Since arriving in orbit above the Planet Cygnus V, the 1st Fleet had maintained a threatening stance, but not an outright hostile one. Even without explicit warning, the intent was clear and it was well known what an Ecumene Carrier group was capable of when it came to orbital bombardment. Negotiations had already been opened between Cygnus and the Ecumene, and a delegation of the planet’s representative had been welcomed onboard only hours before to meet with one of The Ecumene’s High Priests. Meeting with a member of The Conclave was out of the question for such a relatively minor negotiation, and so a High Priest had been sent in their stead who was high enough ranked to ensure the delegation would not be insulted.

Lord Talaran shifted easily on the bridge, not out of nervousness or apprehension but out of general boredom. The bureaucratic intricacies of the Priesthood of Orion never interested him. His concern, first and foremost, was leading his fleet in battle. Should negotiations fail he would be given the word to start the assault and that was what he was waiting for. He would not have to wait long.

The doors to the bridge behind him slid open with a soft hiss and High-Priest Raynald stepped inside, the elderly priest leaned heavily on his sacred staff of office and was trailing a long tail of fine robes behind him.

“And?” Was all Talaran said. The question was implicit.

“They agreed to all of our terms.”

“Good. And so what are...”

“Except one,” The High Priest interrupted, “I tried deeply to explain how the faith of Orion was incompatible with their primitive social structure and how The Mantle of Orion could only be held by humanity as our divinely ordained duty and right. They were unconvinced.”

“How unfortunate,” Talaran said flatly, not even attempting to hide his disinterest.

“Indeed. I suspect that the non-human elements of the planet are too ingrained into its power structure. On worlds with a predominantly human population, this is never an issue. We will have to liberate them from their Alien oppressors.”

“I see.”

“Lord Talaran, Cygnus V planetary defense fleet is inbound.” One of the bridge pilots stated.

Talaran turned back towards the bridge and could see the rapidly approaching hostile fleet in the distance, “That was quick,” He murmured, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they may have been using the negotiations to stall for time….”

The High Priest simply shrugged, “Perhaps. Such is the treacherous nature of the non-human.”

Talaran sighed and then began walking down towards the front of the bridge, as he did so, he relayed his commands, “All Carriers open fire, target lead vessels. Corvette strike groups Alpha through Delta move to intercept. Fighters and assault craft standby for boarding actions.”

“Yes sir.”

“Strange, it's almost like you were expecting this Lord Talaran,” The High-Priest said, and while his face was covered with his ornate mask, it wasn’t hard to discern that he was probably grinning, “Have you so little faith in our diplomacy?”

Talaran ignored the comment and continued focusing on the fight at hand. At his word, the Ecumene Heavy Carriers began opening up with their forward guns. As might be expected, the bombardment was devastating as it tore through the enemy fleet. The targeted forward vessels were almost immediately destroyed by the Heavy Carrier’s firepower but the smaller light frigates continued their push towards the Ecumene’s battlegroup unfazed in an almost suicidal gambit. The Corvettes as per the battle plan moved to intercept these vessels. The Corvettes were far more suited to this close ship-to-ship action than the Carriers were, and quickly disabled or dispatched the majority of the enemy ships. The few remaining halted their advance, knowing that further resistance was wasteful at this point. Talaran had been wondering if perhaps there was a hidden objective to this ferocious surprise attack, which is why he’d kept the majority of the Corvette groups in reserve, but it seems there had not been. It had simply been the last ditch effort of a strong people unwilling to accept surrender without a fight.

“Admiral, incoming communication from one of the Cygnus ships.”

Talaran nodded and looked up at the holographic projection that appeared on the center of the bridge. The image shown was that of a blue-tinged humanoid female with long wisps of tentacle-like appendages where normally might be human hair.

A Laaadaruuan perhaps? Talaran wondered, Or perhaps an offshoot species? Difficult to say.

“We surrender,” The alien captain began, “You can cease your attacks. We’ll offer no more resistance.”

“I accept your surrender,” Talaran replied politely, “Stand down and have your crews prepare for boarding. I will dispatch boarding parties to all remaining vessels to accept your surrender in person and to disarm combatants.”

“Very well,” the captain replied, and with a slight bow, she ended the communication leaving Talaran to turn back to the High-Priest.

“Send for my guard,” Talaran ordered one of his assistants who was awaiting instructions nearby, “I’ll be meeting with the fleet commander.”

“An expected outcome. Pitiful resistance really, “When will these lesser lifeforms learn that humanity’s place is to act as guides and to lead them to the fulfillment of Orion’s Great Plan? So much violence could be avoided if this was just accepted.”

“They fought valiantly,” Talaran replied matter-of-factly to the High-Priest, “In the face of ignoble defeat, they chose to fight with the slim chance of victory rather than allow themselves to be subdued. I can respect that, even admire it.”

“You always did have strange eccentricities Admiral-Lord Talaran. Were it not for the exceptional favor you’ve curried with the Archpriestess and your exemplary service to the Ecumene, I might wonder if you were a heretic.”

“Respecting the tenacity of a well-fought adversary isn’t heresy. It's a matter of honor.”

“Be sure that respect does not morph into something more….radical.” The High-Priest gave a final warning as Talaran moved to step-off the bridge.

“Noted my lord Priest,” Talaran said as the doors began to close. He barely contained his insolent tone. Technically a High-Priest of Raynald’s age and experience was above him in rank, but it went without saying that he disagreed with that assessment personally. He would never admit it openly, but there were many times where he preferred to deal with enemy commanders, even non-human ones, rather than suffer through a meeting with one of Orion’s elite Priests. He imagined that this would be one of those times as well.

“Time to see if I’m correct…” he muttered to himself as he hit the button on the elevator to take him down to the hangar bays.

The room had two entrances, in addition to a large window of the most secure acrylic, which displayed the city of Olympia prominently and in full view. Busy people who spoke in rapid, clandestine whispers and were tapping away on brightly-lit screens walked briskly through the hallway with lapideus steps, their clearance removing them from any threat they might otherwise pose. Yes, despite a few possible blunt objects scattered around, the room, the meeting room, the glorified hallway of the Praetorians was rather secure. And in the midst of it stood a nameless man with a stout reputation; there stood Ulysses. A celebrity of espionage and subterfuge so unknown that most did not notice as they passed him, and those who did only did so with a subtle glance before returning to their screen. His beard clung tight to his face, hiding in their roots for fear of his razor, while above, his black hair settled nearly, much longer but restedly combed to his professional standards. His uniform, the uniform of all Praetorian commanders, was trim and sable, angular and formfitting in its fall.

The agent squinted at the red Martian sky, and with eyes narrow, he could make out the impish Phobos, hung high and lazily over the ruddy landscape, hiding from the eyes of the citizenry, but was present in their minds nonetheless, the malformed asteroid being a joke of the system since ancient times. He knew that Deimos, smaller but there all the same, was somewhere else in the Martian sky. A familiar figure entered Ulysses' peripheral vision, but he said nothing until it spoke.

"Looking for Phobos?" He said. He too looked for the small moon, but his Janari eyes weren't made for such human endeavors.

"Not hard to find," Ulysses responded. He stepped back to face his superior, General Banelo, the director of all Praetorians, and the commander bowed in respect. "General," Ulysses said.

"At ease, Commander," Banelo replied, and Ulysses obliged him, straightening his back. "How were the Free Nests?" The human smiled, having spent the last few months in the southern confederacy, doing usual Praetorian political work there, as well as pursuing more...devious endeavors.

"I should've brought more bug repellant, but it was fruitful. Planted a wave of new recruiters, set up some comms…" He trailed off when his black eyebrows knit in consternation, before continuing, "but you already know this, so I'm unclear as to the purpose of your asking."

The Janari sighed. "It's called being friendly, Commander Oculto. You should give it a try." He exhaled. "Now are you ready to head to the warzone?" The General began walking towards the door, beckoning Ulysses to follow, and they continued to the next room.

"Of course, General, once I learn the details of the operation." There was a large, gold table in the middle, complementing the hungry blood-red walls. As Ulysses and the General walked in, the subordinates who were examining a presentation on a holoprojector in the middle of the room hurriedly exited, and Banelo went to the console, uploading a picture of the upper Orion-Cygnus arm to the projector. Zooming in, he displayed a detailed map of the Resurrection-Scorpine war, complete with dots indicating the current location of Martian mission bases. Ulysses quickly found his seat.

"As you know," the General began, "You are to consolidate the varied anti-Resurrectionist militias under one banner." The screen shifted, displaying an overlay of troop locations; both the Scorpine government forces and the anti-Res militias. There was also a basic list of militia categories; Scorpine irregulars, Xuhajann reclamationists, foreign volunteer outfits, coalition-sponsored mercenaries. These were further broken down into those beneficial to the needs of the State and those that were not. Those that were not, Ulysses knew, were to have their leaderships replaced with commanders more amenable to Martian needs. For a bit longer, General Banelo rattled on more information that the Commander already knew; build more bases, outfit the new army, bring in more mercs.

Eventually, the General pulled up a new diagram onto the holoprojector, one of a large naval vessel. "You will be lended full command of a cruiser; the Calypso. She will act as your base of operations, and is to primarily remain in orbit of the Scorpine capital of Scorpius."

Ulysses nodded. "Of course, General. I understand the importance of the situation at hand. I promise you I will not allow this mission to fail."

"Good." Banelo turned off the holoprojector, which made a pleasant sound as the hologram dissipated. "You will depart tomorrow morning, the shuttle to the spaceport will pick you up from your residence. You'll find the Calypso waiting." The Commander stood and gave a curt bow, before turning to leave. "And Commander," the General said, stopping him. "Good luck."

Ulysses smirked. "I have the power of the Martian State at my disposal. Luck is unnecessary."

“There he goes.” Lucretia whispered as she felt a slight tremor roll over the ship. She kept her gaze locked through the viewport, hoping to catch one last view of the coffin as it began its journey towards the star. There it was! She caught sight of the coffin for just an instant and then it was gone.

She ignored the hustle and bustle behind her. The sound of soldiers raising their ceremonial rifles. The call of the officer to ‘Present Arms’ and fire. The sound of the blanks discharging. The posh. The ceremony. None of it mattered to her.

“He goes to rest with our ancestors.” Her twin brother startled her as he placed his hand on her shoulder. She could hear an undercurrent of anger in his voice and couldn’t blame him. When she thought of what the Martians had done to them she couldn’t help but feel outraged as well and she had always been more calm and level headed than her brother.

“At least he can continue to watch over us” Lucretia said, trying to sooth her brother a bit. “And his light shall wash over the throne forever more.” Her brother gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he turned away from her, towards the pomp and ceremony.

“Your highnesses!” Lucretia let out a sigh as a man approached. She kept her gaze locked on the viewport as the man continued. “Allow me to offer you my condolences for the passing of your grandfather. May his light shine on us forever more.”

“Thank you Lord Meyers” Lucretia’s brother answered. Lucretia tuned the remainder of the conversation out, content to let her brother handle the lords and ladies that would soon come swarming. He could act as her shield this one last time.



“That’s quite the setup they have here” Isaac Stuart, fourth prince of the Astranan Empire commented.

“This is the Resurrection’s forward operating base in the region” Commodore Sinnett didn’t sound especially impressed. “Those shipyards” He indicated towards a map on the bridge with the sweep of his arm, “are set up for retrofitting ships. Useful to be sure, but not exactly what I’d want at a navy base this close to the front.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment further as Sinnett began giving orders that would bring his ship, an Illustrious-class escort carrier, and the four leopard-class frigates escorting it closer to the Resurrectionist facilities. The reason behind the Astranan arrival in the region was well known, to provide aid to the Resurrectionists in their ‘little’ war. Isaac had been assigned to the ship so that Sinnett could act as a teacher of sorts.

“I have a question.” Isaac said once Sinnett was done giving orders.

“Just one? That’s rare.” Sinnett’s response was enough to cause Isaac to scowl. He looked over his shoulder towards the two Imperial guards who stood at the rear of the bridge. The junior of the two guards did his utmost to not look Isaac in the eyes while the senior simply shrugged.

“Why aren’t we hiding the fact that we’re helping the Resurrectionists?”

“Hiding? Hell your father has made it damned sure the Coalition knows exactly what we are up to.” Sinnett answered.

When no further explanation was forthcoming Isaac pressed further. “Why?”

“Because he doesn’t want to fight a war with the Coalition.” After a moment Sinnett glanced at Isaac and, obviously seeing the prince’s confusion, admitted “I probably should walk you through that Your Highness. Right now we are not at war with the Coalition and they aren’t at war with the Resurrectionists. Chances are they are preparing to send troops to aid the scorpines, if they haven’t done so already. Now even when those troops arrive they still won’t officially be at war with the Resurrectionists. Much like we are, they’ll hide behind the fiction of sending a peacekeeping force.”

“Why would we allow them to do this?”

“For two reasons. First barring a major commitment of Coalition forces, Resurrectionist victory in this war is all but assured. Secondly to fully prevent Coalition intervention we would have to wage war on them and even then we couldn’t prevent them from interfering. Now as long neither of our peacekeeping forces actually attacks the other we can both continue to not be at war with each other.”

“And that’s why we’ve made no attempt to hide our involvement?” Isaac asked.

“As I’ve said before, His Imperial Majesty has made damned sure the Coalition knows exactly what we are doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sent the Coalition the exact date we left Astranan space and everything. He’s personally ordered me to set up a direct hotline with any Coalition force in the region once we’ve identified them. That way we can both be sure to dance around each other.”

“That’s insane.” Sinnett grinned at Isaac. “So despite the fact that we are both sending forces to fight in someone else’s war, we are both going to do our best not to shoot at each other?”

“Assuming the Coalition doesn’t want to fight us for real, yes.” Sinnett answered.

“And if they do want to fight us?” The only answer Isaac received was a small shrug.

A dim red glow bathed the ships bridge, the active combat alert a tangible reminder of the Scorpine’s continued presence in the system. It had been hours since their attempted bombing run on the still organizing fleet had been repelled, and in that time they’d done nothing more than move into a high orbit of the frozen and undeveloped rock that represented the systems third planet. Olivia drummed the arm rest of her chair in anticipation, the Scorpine were either waiting for reinforcements, or for her to make the fatal error of chasing them. If they expected the latter then they’d learned nothing from the last year of skirmishes.

Even in the faint light of the bridge she manifested a distinctive appearance. Her short porcelain hair, the result of some genetic tampering a generation back, seemed to soak in the light, appearing as red as the status lamps that produced it. Her eyes, long since replaced with cybernetic equivalents, could be seen scanning the bridge, her pupils actually glowing a dull yellow. For what was easily the fifth time she shared a tired look with the ships Captain, and as if on cue a crewman on the bridges lower deck shouted, “Contacts exiting warp! We have a... A Scorpine patrol fleet on an attack vector, they’re burning hard, twenty minutes to contact.”

Before Olivia could even stand another woman on the level below her, one of the ships targeting officers, spoke out, “The main Scorpine fleet is setting a course to rendezvous with the newcomers. Enemy fleets will merge five minutes before contact, well outside of current weapons range.”

Now upright and surveying a tablet handed to her by her adjutant Olivia openly scowled, “They’ll hit us with more than twice our number, then.”

The ships Captain regarded his own command chairs screen, “I must recommend a withdrawal Admiral, had they been waiting on stragglers we could have fought them off, but to contest a hostile fleet of this size is beyond our capabilities. We should rendezvous with one of the reserve fleets and return with the initiative.”

Her eyes only flitted upward to acknowledge the Captain before she went back to analyzing her tablet, “There are four hundred thousand men and women on that planet Captian Gray. How many will there be once we return? Half that? Our soldiers won’t give up, and the Scorpine have long since learned that lesson. We shall match the resolve of our men.”

Paying no mind to the Captains worried expression she strode up to the railing of the bridge’s raised command platform and spoke commandingly, “Communications officers, inform the front line they are to keep themselves in the silhouette of the planet relative to the encroaching Scorpine formation. They wont risk firing long range munitions if they might hit one of their own population centres. We’ll make this a knife fight for the bugs. Inform the rest of the back line they are to to feign retreat and position themselves behind the planet before going dark. All battlecruisers are to exploit the gravity well to find firing solutions around the planets curvature, even if they have to drop projectile velocity, so that they may provide the cruisers with support when the Scorpine engage”

“Captain,” Olivia turned to face the portly man, “Contact our surface command and inform them that they are to refrain from using their surface to orbit cannons, but that they are to be ready at a moments notice.”

“As you say, Admiral Lahti.” As much as the Captian tried to keep the relief at being indirectly ordered away from the combat out of his voice, the look of disdain he received at acknowledging the Admirals orders attested to his failure. Nevertheless he carried out his duties with the well practised efficiency of an experienced, if not courageous, man.

To the Scorpine it might have looked like the Resurrectionist front line was covering the retreat of some dishonourable commander fleeing the fray, or perhaps defending a hasty evacuation of the planet. Regardless of the conclusion her counterpart came to, the Scorpine formation accelerated its advance when it saw Olivia’s back line move out of sensor range.

The Scorpine combined fleet, like all things in space, seemed to take forever to close the distance even as it moved at was almost assuredly maximum burn. The tension on the bridge grew with every minute, every officer and crewman fidgeting or demonstrating whatever nervous tic they espoused. When the fighting started, it was both anxiously awaited and unexpectedly sudden.

The Scorpine, clearly hungry for an easy victory, all but ran into Olivia’s trap. Their fleet closed to a distance where they could be certain they wouldn’t be clipping their own planet with particle beams and opened up on Olivia’s front line. The cruisers and their destroyer support ships wove in and out of the larger Scorpine force, trying their best to keep to one side of the formation in anticipation for what they were buying time for. As she watched the fleets duke it out on her tablet Olivia tapped her foot against the deck and lightly pursed her lips, impatiently waiting for the moment the Scorpine fleet gathered just so. With no preamble, and reading data that on first glance didn’t appear much different than it had been a moment before, Olivia commanded, “All battlecruisers open fire on the Scorpine formation, carriers assign all assets not screening this formation to the fight.”

The effect was immediate, and dramatic. The massive hypervelocity railguns aboard the battlecruisers produced enormous and revealing flashes in the darkness of space as the formation fired as one. The rounds lit up in brilliant fireballs as they scraped the planets upper atmosphere and arced around to strike the Scorpine formation in the flank.

The Scorpine reaction to such a volley would have been immediate, had they expected it at all. No doubt the back lines position behind the planet had lit up on all their sensors when it had fired, but the chaos as the slugs impacted the Scorpine formation was evident in the time it took for nearly a quarter of the enemy fleet to break off to engage Olivia’s back line. More than three volleys had been delivered before the fighters and bombers hit the forces the Scorpine had assigned to eliminate the formerly hidden threat.

Olivia had caught them by surprise, but as the minutes added up it was evident that the Scorpine still held the advantage, even if they’d been savaged by the ambush. As the picture became clear a dour expression took hold of her face. “Captain, inform the surface to orbit batteries they are to saturate all known Scorpine fleet assets with nuclear flak.”

To his credit, the man only shook his head in resignation as he delivered the orders to the artillery positions on the planets surface. The Scorpine detachment heading towards Olivia’s back line had only begun to crest the horizon of Hestollon II, tiny orange flashes around it speaking to the plight of Olivia’s fighters, and she watched the white lines rising from the surface to meet it.

The nuclear blooms made the previous fighters efforts look like a mere skirmish in comparison, and she knew from her tablet the same was happening at the site of the main battle, out of her view. Contact after contact, fighter, destroyer, and cruiser alike, vanished from her screen as the nuclear flak exploded among the combatants without regard for their nationality or intent.

A minute later the gored Scorpine formation was warping out of the system, its numbers nearly halved. Olivia was deliberately expressionless as she took account of her own losses. “A victory then, Admiral.” The Captain all but spat.

The Radioactive Center of Ancient Knowledge, Sul Vopal

Sartot as a opal colored Fosskemian with yellow eyes looks upon the ruins of some unknown ancient societies loosely connected to her species with some sense of disillusionment. She perches one of her hands on the railings of an exhibit showing the fossilized remnants of ancient fosskemians engraved into a metallic structure with looks of shock on their faces. Sartot has no clue what this is, but is just so taken back by just the… static nature of it. Just reduced to that crystallized state for millennia and likely millions of years to come. Sartot looks feverishly around for someone to explain this to her and raises her right flipper leg to get the attention of another Fosskemian, a short vibrant blue male fosskemian sulking about the place likely as some custodian. Said Fosskemian looks at Sartot and asks “Curious about this one?”

Sartot replies “Yes.”

“This here is from the Opulent era. It was extremely long ago, nearly a thousand years ago. That was way back when fosskemians nearly died out due to the excesses of the plutocrats causing multiple radioactive wars. The fosskemians are profoundly lucky to have had the machines descend from the skies to get us to the stars- in a way our existence is a freak coincidence. Those ancients when they were visited by the machines were very lucky they didn’t euthanize fosskemianians and instead got them back on their flippers and into spacecraft. Still the legacy of the Opulent era haunts us- why just look outside. You will see we learn nothing.”

Sartot is a bit irritated by this fosskemian, pushing itself away from it and rants “Your negative outlook makes me wonder how you haven’t provoked any lootings! We always are learning! We are the burning fire of the galaxy, the world of the imperials and the regime of silence, stability and stagnation crumbles as ours expands.”

“And every fire burns out.” It retorts, before dismissively leaving Sartot to herself. Sartot decides to just go elsewhere instead.

So she moves her way out of the center, looking at the lobby area to make sure none of the security turrets are about to fire on her. For if there is anything Sartot knows, it is that the owners of properties love their defense systems. Leaving out the front door, she sees some loitering Urgzehu nakedly slumming about with worms and engravings on their bodies while making her way to a personal transport.

Sartot as she enters the transport finds that there is something on the ground that wasn’t there before. It is a data pad. Sartot curiosly pecks the data pad on and a series of humms and screeches play before a message from the auditor itself is heard.

“Want adventure?” It says before the transport suddenly is enclosed by something. Panicked, Sartot bashes the windows with her limbs to not much effect.

“You have adventure!” It says again.

Sartot than shouts at the pad, “I don’t adventure!”

The pad doesn’t seem to care and just continues its message.

“You will have adventure! Just remain calm as we take you to your adventure. The Red Cross has been very naughty you see.”

“I am just a city boss, why do you want me to deal with this?” Sartot asks the data pad.

“You are the city boss of Old Vatat, the Red Cross has been naughty. That is your adventure!”

The sense of movement Sartot realizes to be somewhat akin to being placed into a spaceship. This is a kidnapping, it dawns to Sartot.

“I hate that! Let me have my break!” She shouts in frustration at the data pad.

“We voted for you. You will have your adventure. The red cross is and will be naughty.” The Data pad re-iterates.

“I won’t.” Sartot defiantly tells the data pad before flinging it around the cabin of the transport.

“You will. You requested this a day before. You want adventure!”

Sartot than realizes she may have forgotten something important she had to do back at Old Vatat. Was this what it was? The Red Cross has been a bit of a nuisance in Old Vatat. They promised to help with some public works and then proceed to not even do that and just blather on with their stupid mindless flesh idols.

Still, Sartot isn’t sure.

“I had other important things I was doing on Sul Vopal and you, whoever you are need to just stop this and put me back on that planet!”

The data pad starts just inexplicably laughing in a modulated pitch, than says “Drug fueled coastal running contests are not an ‘important business’! Adventure is more important.”

“Yes they are!” Sartot insists.

“We are headed to Old Vatat now, be prepared.” The data pad tells Sartot.

Dismayed, Sartot shrugs and proceeds to go get the official’s cloak from the back of the Cabin. Back to work sooner than hoped.

“Also Nutok called, she is currently not available due to selling drugs to outsiders again.”

The Central Amphitheatre Complex, Void Prison

Within the scope of a small trade craft of metasyndicate origin, a Fosskemian identifying as Nutok makes her landing at a port in orbit of the somewhat disturbing named ‘void prison’. The insides of the ship have her in a circular pilot’s room and a passage way for climbing to the storage area. By and large, Nutok pilots a superficially civilian vessel with plating that makes it hard to discern what is inside. As for Nutok herself, her is very standard by the accounts of any biological female Fosskemian. Being seven feet in height, having curved, broad antennae and As with all Fosskemians not starving to death or injured, she has two incredibly large, flipper-like appendages filled with air that get used as legs that surround the sides of her body. Indeed the upright position she finds highly discomforting, but it is the position to which looking eye to eye with most other species like her clients is possible.

Looking at large stores of the drug she is here to give- on explicit demands from the client to be discreet she double checks to make sure none of the worms have escaped. For these are no normal worms- they are worms, they are worms sourced from the depths of Tradlos and its biomineral rich soils whose enzymes cause all matter of uplifting, stimulating effects to those who have them leeching off of you. They also are what Nutok knows are in high demand and the Central Amphitheatre Complex, beyond having ancient imperial dramas is also a hive of proxy black market sells.

Nutok collects a lot of the worlds from the luggage, hiding them in the inner side of her two large flippers while being draped with a standard Hargonian robe filled with many arrow-like symbols. Nutok is fluster in embarrassment wearing Hargonian attire and pink eye covers, but it is to throw off identification. Nutok leaves the ship with the contraband and begins to use her neck pad to contact her client informing them she is here.

Excor-Tek Headquarters
Esevrenn City-Hive
Ske'sta'Rvastre

To anyone in the Vacuus, the name of Excor-Tek would not have brought to mind associations with any particular aesthetic, much less a given people. It was the epitome of the cosmopolitan, shiftingly multifarious corporate body, almost unrivalled in magnitude and reach in the stellar region. Indeed, Issrin could barely think of a handful of non-national groups that could plausibly have been competitors in its league - Istri'ar, Uglath, maybe KhuurTseri (full of Qiormu, too) - and such a size inevitably brought with itself equally great variety, like a gas cloud becoming less dense the more it spreads. Thus it was on every world Excor-Tek had a foothold on, which was all of them: their bases were of that brand of standardised anarchy which dominated Confederate public spaces taken to an extreme, with skewed floors, smooth motion ramps between levels, large, broad passages, generic podiums for members and visitors alike and a mingling of shapes and smells it was hard to describe to someone who had never been there. By all reason, the physical apex of that behemoth, the headquarters on S's'Rvastre, should have been the fullest expression of that spirit.

And yet, what Issrin found on the highest floors - the most important ones were the highest, she had noted, despite the company's Ulthari-like name - bore no trace of that condensed diversity. Doors and surfaces were stark, smooth and a of white-grey colour which slightly irked the eyes, and the ramps had asymmetrical dents suited for Zsresriir-like steps. The blankness of those rooms and corridors, far from cosmopolitan, clearly spoke of Atnar Vistan Qiormu tastes. And, by the looks of it, it was mostly Qiormu in high-end custom forms that prowled about them, barely sparing Issrin a glance from their dull, immobile eyes, and that crouched behind the membranes in the walls, judging by the name of the one she had come to meet.

It still surprised her that, in all the Nests, she had been recalled for this task. It was difficult to believe that things in the core were so bad that a bio-culture plant inspector was the Assembly's best choice for negotiating with one of the Directors of Excor-Tek. Granted, she was technically one of the Pacifiers, who had swallowed the diplomatic services a few cycles ago, and, as far as she was concerned, anything beat shoving those infuriatingly placid fat slugs around, but it was difficult to believe that those paramilitary actions she had been briefed on had truly gobbled up every competent agent on the planet. Well, there was no more time to wonder at this now - the portal to the last locule in the gallery was already open. Director UtkalDar awaited.

The Qiormu superior's room was a perfect continuation of the corridor outside. The only trace of colour other than the ubiquitous white-grey was the metallic body crouching in its center, whose carapace was an earthy red as per the prevalent Atnar Vistan custom. There was virtually no furnishing, save for two uncomfortable-looking split podiums, one for the Director, another for its visitors, and a set of variously angled small lecterns between them which would have been impractical for anyone with less than four forelimbs.

As soon as Issrin stepped into the chamber, her foremost eyes focused on UtkalDar's dim, inorganic visors. The Qiormu had eschewed any attempt at realistically imitating a natural Zsresriir body: besides the disproportionally long upper arms and almost atrophied lower ones, oddly reminiscent of a typical war-form, the shape of the head was distinctly off, with vestigial mandibles and three abnormally large pale circles instead of eyes. Although these circles were entirely featureless, she knew that at least one of them was following her now, however those circuits behind them might have worked. It was no sooner than she had approached the podium on her side of the lecterns that one of the shrunken mid-limbs motioned for her to squat upon it. The surfaces were just as painfully small and slippery as they had seemed, and Issrin struggled not to topple down from them with all her bulk, awkwardly curling her clutches around the smooth edge.

"The Assembly wants our support." The Director's mandibles did not twitch to match the otherwise flawless, though overtly metallic vocalisation. And they sent you to do their business, Issrin mentally concluded its statement. Her split back shell rose up in reflexive irritation, which the Qiormu obviously gave no sign of noticing.

"Not only your support. We ask for your participation." She had no idea what the Excor-Tek representatives at the Assembly had been told, but she knew her own part well enough.

"The Assembly would not be satisfied by support." A tinge of inflexion finally appeared in UtkalDar's tones. It was almost a question. "Any meaningful contribution to the recruitment network alone would have to be a large expense. The weapon supply scheme would drain our stores. The Directors are not eager to commit to all this on faith alone, and you want more."

"Your involvement would not need to be more than logistical assistance. The Assembly is not offering an expense, but an investment, and we have more than faith to show. Our analysis shows that -" she caught herself beginning to tap on one of the lecterns with her claws, and slowly lowered her forearm "- your market expansion has already suffered from the conflict."

She paused, all but motioning for UtkalDar to confirm it. The Qiormu made an acquiescent gesture with the same faux-vestigial arm.

"Ending it, or at least pushing the front back, would not only reopen the local states," she continued, "but immediately give you a place in the Empire. And Mars and its allies. Public opinion would be favourable. You know the advantages." Issrin stopped again, for a shorter time. The Director made no sign of wanting to reply, so she continued, perhaps a little too soon. "Your access to foreign space would make you a better link for rim companies. With this leverage, you could have privileged contact with Vostork."

"The Assembly wants us to do its diplomatic legwork." It was by now clear to her why UtkalDar preferred a mechanical form. The intimidation of ambiguity was one reason - even though physically smaller, the Director had the advantage now - but, more than that, it must have been a matter of economy. Whatever it might have been, UtkalDar was certainly not a deviant by Qiormu standards.

"In addition," Issrin quietly swayed her tense lower arms, as if almost about to strike those odious blank eyes, but subdued the motion and let the Director's remark slide, "We offer an immediate return investment." She was about to make an inviting pause again, but, thinking of UtkalDar's remark, decided against it. The worm was a little too good at taking opportunities. "A selection of mercenary units, free of taxation, for the Assembly's uses. Some Tkarixxi."

As could be expected, there was no noticeable change in the Director's countenance. Nor was there any delay before its answer, though it must have been calculating a series of more or less optimistic estimates based on contextual data. "You have detailed information."

Issrin gestured affirmatively and produced a sleek storage spine from her side-sac. UtkalDar took it with a flawlessly smooth motion - she did not even feel the weight of its talons pulling away the item - and stabbed it into a small fissure in its steel carapace. "Provisional. Satisfactory in that function." The body's eyes seemed to grow even dimmer for a moment, though that might have been an impression. "The Assembly's projections have been factored. The Directors will consider its proposals."

Issrin rose, knowing this was all she would get from the Qiormu. From what she could see, Excor-Tek accepting the entirety of the Assembly's conditions, and perhaps remaining open to further negotiation, was, if not a certainty, very likely at the least. Yet something else remained unclear. Nothing she had said to the Director could not have been relayed remotely, even without a direct communication. Even the information of the spine was nothing so sensitive it could not risk a virtual transfer. And yet, the Assembly, despite obviously being short on people, had decided to send someone in person. Unless there was, somewhere along the administrative line, an improbable knot of laziness and incredibly bad terminal interfaces, she could think of no better explanation than someone high above was scraping together everything there was left for some greater purpose. Times being what they were, this did not seem unlikely.

All things considered, she had done well to tell her nest she might be offworld for a while.

Zuukind civil war zone, Celestuial bureaucracy controlled space.

Rotatha 4 was an arid planet with two habitable areas around its poles that made up about 30% of its total surface. Colonised initially by Forensakai wanderers who had introduced a domesticated herd species best described as the animal equivalent of tumbleweed to the center desert regions to make it in some way useful, the world was only notable for being close to the border between the Celestial bureaucracy and the Republic of equals, two of the major factions in the Zuukid civil war. The civil war itself was in one of its colder periods, an armistice signed 5 years ago had led to an era of recovery for the opposed groups, one focused primarily around military build up, civilian relief, infrastructure repair, diplomatic intrigue, political restructuring and, in the case of the republic, preparations for its first election in 125 years. Rotatha 4’s only real gain from this period was that the celestial bureaucracy had finally had time to focus on civilian affairs again, which had mainly involved sending agents of the bureaucracy to assist/interfere with things that had been handled locally out of necessity for fifty+ years. As part of this the town of Saltspire had received not one but two officially trained priests, though sadly the second had come to look for the absentee first.

Saltspire itself was a small settlement on the coast of one of Rotatha’s 3 seas, where its primary purpose was to maintain the large network of wind turbines situated out on the tid-less ocean beyond, as well as the related storage and transmission equipment. It was made up of a combination of prefabricated buildings set up by the original settlers and newer structures made out of local red stone, all surrounded by a ring of farmland. The only thing setting the place apart from a one belonging to a type 1 civilisation was the combined sea, air and space port nestled against the shore, a drab strip of concrete and aloys housing maintenance craft and small cargo haulers. The other stand out pieces of tech in the vicinity where found at the local temple, an unremarkable building denoted only by a large anchor shaped symbol bolted to the wall of an otherwise unremarkable larger redstone building. Inside the recently arrived priest, one Vemt Rasdathian, was holding mass with a disappointingly small congregation in a large chamber that had once been a meeting hall that was currently filled with a thin haze of blue smoke. Suspended in this smoke drifted the congregation, given an illusion of a freedom from gravity by 8 anti gravity field generators, each holding a meditative stance appropriate for their myriad of body structures. Giant hexapodal Rodorphins, their mouths covered in oxygen enriching equipment tailored to still let the hallucinogenic gas in the air in floated alongside stout Lonoxi drones, rugged Kalixurans and insectile Forensakai trying their best to avoid instinctive use of their wings. At the front was the priest himself, a Sethhanide clad in a red toga that reached down to the first half meter of his tail which itself was coiled into a neat bundle blow him. Adoring his head was a crown of red gold adorned with a small anchor made of onyx that held the spaced out serpents affixed to his skull in order as he preached to the assembled faithful.

The priest spoke of the Anchor, how it surrounds them all, how it held the galaxy together and how all its people should be united together in reverence of it. He guided the faithful in first relaxing, then meditating and and finally in entering a trance like state to try and open their minds to the Anchor’s wonder, to reach out with their spirits to make contact with that great universal soul, so that they might learn of their place in the universe, of their purpose. To find meaning in the seemingly chaotic galaxy, to see patterns in the madness. To achieve enlightenment.

Eventually the session wound down, with the priest brining his flock back up out of the trance via a slow countdown, using a device to release a clear white mist into the room that scrubbed the air of the blue smoke and slowly turning down the anti-grav. The congregation drifted slowly back down to the floor and landed with varying degrees of grace. There was a small period of general mingaling afterwards during which most people drifted out of the temple. A handful stayed longer, wanting to talk either with each other or Vemt himself, but after a few minutes they too filtered out.

And then she walked through my door. She was a Forensakai woman in early adulthood wearing a dark green Abolla that mostly hid the flight suit she had on underneath it. She was also trying to hid some kind of injury, 2 of her 4 hands pressed against her side covering a small patch of blood anyone not examining her closely wouldn't have noticed. Perhaps staggered was a better description of how she came in, because she gave up hiding the state she was in once the door slammed shut behind her and I was the only person who could see her. Hands freed from her side she fell into my arms when i rushed to her aid”

“Senfont? Is that you? Thank the Anchor” she muttered, her voice slurred and wracked with pain at the same time.

Senfont. It was a surprise to hear someone actually familiar with the name of the man I had been sent here to replace. He’d been the first official priest this little town had had in years, he had apparently been instrumental in getting them one, and yet from what I’d gotten out of the locals he seems to have been an entirely absent figure from their community. He’d never introduced himself let alone held mass, that had been left to a local untrained preacher who had been doing improvised sessions for decades and who a lot of the populace still seem to prefer despite my arrival, yet had sent glowing reports of his positive effect on the community. Reports that the pencil pusher that sent me out here was still receiving by the way. Here then, completely out of the blue, was my first real link to that traitor and she was rapidly fading in my arms.

“Stay with me ok. Keep talking, tell me what happened while I try and help you” The priest used his long serpentine tail to support the woman as he used a small wrist mounted device to send a message to the only doctor the town had, asking for help.

“I. We were attacked. Damned snakes.” she managed ever so slowly

“Where? Here? Are we in danger?”

“No. no. got away. In the ship. Its safe.”

“Good. I’m going to help you with the wound. Where’s the ship?”

She was slipping away from me, must have used all her strength just to get here and now that strain was rapidly catching up with her

Vempt pulled the cloake aside revealing the flight suit beneath, which at her left side had been shredded by some kind of flechet weapon, creating a gruesome mess of cloth, carapace, and flesh through which she was losing blood. fast. As the priest futility tried to press the woman's cloak against the wound to stem the flow she managed a last “Dock. Hanger. 12.” before losing consciousness. The resident doctor arrived moments later, having been one of those attending the earlier session.

---

Vemt entered the back of the temple, his hands still covered in the woman’s blood. The doctor, an aged Lonoxi Queen who had had her long since had her pheromone glands removed, was taking care of her as best she could but was unsure if she would recover. There's nothing more I can do for her, so I’ll need to follow up on what little she had given me while I waited to see if she would recover. I’d managed to get a look at her her personal effects and they had been telling: A small wrist communicator, locked by voice id. A series of wallets containing numerous, presumably fake, ids and a variety of currencies and battering chips including a number of microprocessors, compressed gold and vials of panacea. A force-knife and gauss pistol with a variety of munitions. She was, by my bet, some kind of smuggler or mercenary who made illegal trips to areas of the empire currently not under our control, and my predecessor had something to do with that, though what exactly I didn't know. The answer lay in the ship no doubt

The rear of the temple had more in familiar with a police station than it had with the depths of a temple. The drab dull space housed, among other things, a dedicated interrogation room, a weapons rack housing Pilums: short spear like weapons who’s two pronged blades were enhanced with force fields that let them stab or cut through near anything and could also fire lasers from a lense located between them, a selection of less lethal weapons and restraining devices, an attached garage housing an armored car mounted with a siren and painted in inquisitional colours, a small number of spy drones and a old fashioned billboard that had Vemt’s limited knowledge about Senfont pinned all over it. At the far end where a number of holding cells that had been blessedly empty upon his arrival, but now held one occupant. His ‘partner’ who had been secured safely behind the steel door, their only access to the outside world a small barred window. From within the armored chamber came a voice sounding like a low predatory growl tinged with iron. “Blood. Yours? No. Wrong kind. Hmmm. Wasp. Female. Your first kill?” The monster asked, its inflection making it clear that it believed such an event was well overdue.

“No. Someone who was shot. Smuggler probably. Might not recover” the beast moved like lightning inside its holding cell, armored talons grabbing at the bars of the tiny window as the beast pushed the visord dome covering the top of its head to the small gap, its six eyes barely visible below it. “Hunt”

Vemt took a few seconds to catch their breath. Both he and his serpents had recoiled in fear when the predator had surged forwards. Their natural predator, one enhanced with alloys and artificial sinew to the designs of some long dead mad genius. A Rekshai. Anchor damn whichever clerk had decided I needed this things’s assistance.

“You will be staying here. You’ll only scare the people here and it's been difficult enough getting them on side without having a monster following me around”

“Death. Danger. Protocall demands I go” the beast told him matter of factly.

“Protocol be damned, I have evidence there’s no threat here. I am ordering you to stay here” He turned to wash the blood from his hands, the matter, in his mind, settled.

“Have higher orders. To protect you”

“Good luck fulfilling those orders inside that...” there was a hideous screeching of metal on metal interspersed by 3 metallic clunks and followed by the sound of the door unlocking. The beast pushed the door open, some of the bars on its window having been severed so that the Rekshai could reach through and down to unlock the door“...Cell”

The creature, designated REK 0001 6613 7906, was a two meter tall bipedal monster coated from head to toe in unremovable metal armor that had been painted a sharp regal blue, the color of the inquisition. Its head was mostly hidden by a helmet that left only the creatures mouth, a voracious maw filled with razor sharp teeth, tuly exposed while keeping the rest of its visage hidden beneath a cloudy visor. Running along its back where a number of long scythe blade like spines that it could used to communicate with members of its pack. Behind it was a long prehensile tale that undulate lazily, maintaining the creatures balance as it walked with an almost raptor like gait. It’s fingers and toes all ended with the claws it had cut its way out of the cell with, each as deadly as a Pilum’s blade. The freed monster stalked past the horrified priest and picked Pilums from the wall rack, tossing one at Vemt which the Sethhanide just barely caught in his fumbling bloody hands.

“Lead the hunt holy one.”

Well then. this is one cobra that's not going back in the jar any time soon. Just my luck.

"You have my formal surrender Admiral. I'm putting myself and my soldiers at your mercy." The alien Cygnus V captain stood before Admiral Talaran in the hanger bay of the Righteous Truth, after their ship had been captured and the crew spirited away to Ecumene's flagship. She offered her sole remaining weapon, a non-lethal energy pistol as a token of surrender in customary fashion. The weapon was hardly anything worth offering or even valuable at all, but it was a symbolic gesture, and Talaran recognized it as such.

Talaran took the weapon and nodded to her, "And I formally accept your surrender. You and your crew will be treated fairly and according to Ecumene prisoner of war protocol."

"Even the non-humans?" The captain asked, a grimace crossing her face.

"Yes...they'll be processed and tagged. But no further harm will come to them..or you," Talaran replied, knowing full well how she had to feel as a non-human Laaadaruuan asking that question. He wasn't lying, but he wasn't explaining the full truth either. She didn't need to know the details of how the Ecumene processed alien prisoners of war. He would be able to spare her from that at least for now.

"Thank you Admiral." She gave a sigh of what could almost be called relief. But it was clearly tinged with anxiety.

Talaran gave a nod to his men and indicated that the crew should be taken to the brig for holding until the priests were ready to begin. As he watched them leave, a message came through on the HUD of his visor.

"Admiral. Your presence is requested in the Sanctuary. High-Priest Raynald says its urgent."

It was Talaran's turn now to give a heavy sigh, "I'll be right there. Did he indicate what this was about?"

"No sir. Only that you shouldn't tarry."

"Very well."

-----

Minutes later and Talaran, alone, walked into the hallowed Sanctuary of the Righteous Truth, an inner sanctum at the center of the massive ship that was normally reserved only for elite Orionic Priests. It was intended to be a place of prayer, meditation, and introspection. The large room was dimly lit with low artificial light, and its smooth sloping walls gave no impression of elaborate decoration. There were no statues, paintings, or furniture of any kind. The only thing of note was a raised circular dais at its center, where Talaran could see the figure of High-Priest Raynald standing. He approached slowly, and as he walked up the steps to the dais, Raynald turned to meet him.

"I'll leave you alone then." He said simply, showing no signs of arrogance that he'd displayed previously. In fact, he seemed almost a bit unnerved himself.

Confused Talaran watched him descend the steps and then leave out the sanctuary door, the door hissing to a close behind him. As Talaran looked around confused, he suddenly saw the holographic images of seven figures appear around him in a circle, seated on floating chairs. A moment's recognition was all it took, and Talaran fell to his knees.

"Blessed Elders, forgive my impertinence."

The Priests now presenting themselves as holograms were none other than the Conclave. The highest ranking priests of Orion and leaders of The Ecumene. Six of them had their faces obscured by long hoods, but one did not. The Archpriestess of Orion herself, Vayla Dretheen. It was she who spoke first.

"Rise Admiral, there is no need for such shame. You've done well here to bring this planet into the fold of our Holy Ecumene. High Priest Raynald informed me that you acted decisively and without fear in the face of an unexpected enemy attack, and that your losses were minimal. Truly you are favored by Lord Orion. My trust in you is not misplaced."

"I don't deserved such praise from you Archpriestess. I only ask how I might serve The Ecumene further. What do you request of me?"

"The Resurrectionist War with the Scorpines progresses at an alarmingly fast pace," Another of the holographic priests began to speak, "The Martians seek to use the Coalition to intercede on the Scorpine's behalf and supply aid to their forces in an attempt to turn the tide."

Another priest continued, the Conclave priests appeared to be almost taking turns speaking, each one fishing the others thoughts as if they were a single person, "This places The Ecumene in a complicated situation. As official members of the Coalition, we are bound to supply aid when requested and it would look ill if we did not show unity in this matter. However..."

"A Scorpine victory itself is unacceptable. For such non-humans abominations to hold Dominion over a human civilization is the pinnacle of heresy. The Resurrectionists, profane as they may be, at least understand this part of Orion's teachings. An alien's place is beneath the ones who hold The Mantle of Orion. They cannot be allowed to win on such terms."

"Equally so, a complete Resurrectionist victory would be equally unwelcome. To allow their heresy to grow and flourish to threaten our Ecumene is...unwise."

Talaran had thus far been listening quietly with head bowed as the Conclave priests explained the situation, but he had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. He lifted his head and spoke,

"And so what is to be done then?"

The Archpriestess herself gave the final summation of the plan,

"We will be enlisting certain...unsavory elements, in the galaxy to assist us in our efforts to prolong the war as much as possible. The longer the war continues, the greater the benefit to our Ecumene. Within the Coalition, we will express full support to the Martian's proposal. However, should the Scorpines begin to gain the upper hand, we will begin to supply the Resurrectionist forces with intelligence and munitions through independent channels and criminal syndicate elements that will make it very difficult to trace back to us directly. While also intercepting Coalition supply runs where possible."

"I see...it is not my place to question The Conclave's will, but is this not a dangerous proposition. Should the other Coalition members suspect this sabotage..."

"The Coalition is a useful tool. But its usefulness will eventually come to an end. Without Orion's guidance it cannot last. We must secure The Ecumene's future as humanity's shepherds into a new age. One that will be blessed by Orion's holy teachings as we carry out his Great Plan."

"Of course my lady. I did not intend to question Orion's divine plan. What then do you ask of me?"

"Ready the Fleet of Faithful Intent Admiral. You are ordered to move to the edge of Ecumene space near our border with the Scorpines."

"But surely the Scorpines may see that as an act of aggression and assume we are preparing to attack to aid The Resurrectionist forces?"

"Your official role is to act as a deterrent to ensure that the fighting does not spill over into Ecumene controlled space. The Ecumene wishes for nothing more than to secure its border and protect its people. A perfectly reasonable action. Once Cygnus V is pacified, you are to depart at once. The 3rd Fleet of Enlightened Justice will assume martial control of the system. " Archpriestess Vayla replied.

"Very well. I'll order the fleet to begin preparations immediately."

"See to your expedience Admiral. Orion be with you."

With that, the holographic projections dissipated, and Talaran was left alone in the darkened Sanctuary. The lingering question in his mind was how complicated this war was about to become.

With little fanfare the third fleet warped into the Xakolant system, having been recalled for reinforcement following its near obliteration over Hestollon II. Of course, Olivia knew the media would be spinning wild tales of her unbelievable victory against what was surely the better part of the Scorpine navy; after the Spaceborne Arms humiliation two years ago even the slightest success was something to be extolled. The truth was far more grisly. Of what was once a fleet at full strength now there remained only a handful of vessels. The back line had been mostly saved from the violence, but nearly every front line vessel and fighter craft had been destroyed by the Scorpine assault or her own gambit.

Since the battle the ships captain had been terse to the point she'd be within her rights to censure him for insubordination. She wouldn't, after all he didn’t act without reason. The third fleet had never sustained such damage, and at least in name it had been involved in the desperate backward fighting of the wars early years. In fact, nearly every member of the crew treated her with a stiffness far beyond what was expected of them then interacting with a senior officer.

She was, in a way, a pariah in her own home. It wasn't the first time there been losses after she'd been attached to a fleet she hadn't commanded before, but rarely had they been anything that was beyond what would be expected. No doubt the soldiers on Hestollon II were drinking to her name, but to her peers she'd condemned their friends and, on occasion family, to death.

She bitterly reflected that it wouldn't be the last time. For the better part of three decades the Spaceborne Arm had grown used to supremacy, gotten used to thinking of the enemy as helpless. It was only natural they sought out a scapegoat when disabused of that notion so savagely.

After the fleets ships docked at their respective moors she took her leave. Without more than telling the captain she commandeered a shuttle and flew herself to systems main command post, a nondescript station easily mistaken for an installation of lesser importance. Everyone had a job to do, and was she tired of being escorted everywhere since she'd been tentatively promoted to the Spaceborne Arms highest post two years ago.

The docking procedure went smoothly, but when she stepped out of the shuttle and dusted off her white uniform she was met by a sight she hadn't expected in the least. Waiting just beyond the shuttles ramp was her sister, Kaisa dressed up in the ghastly wrinkled garment that passed for the livery of the Irregular Operations Division. She shared Olivia's ghostly white hair, though hers had been permitted to grow down to her shoulders, but beyond that Kaisa was a different creature. Her face was a tad longer, but the real difference in Kaisa's face was in features that would have looked similar if they'd ever attempted to hold an expression beyond smugly satisfied. Olivia adopted a slight and bemused smile as she greeted her, “Kaisa.”

Kaisa's toothy grin met Olivia's lukewarm greeting, “Olivia! My favourite and only big sister. I see the your new station hasn't rotted your brain entirely, still flying for yourself like you are.”

Kaisa stepped forward and took Olivia in a friendly embrace before she could reply to that, but when it passed Olivia straightened out her uniform again before asking, “As welcome a surprise as seeing you is, what brings you to Xakolant? More specifically, what bring you to me? We both know you'd not be here if there wasn't something going on.”

Kaisa's grin withered at the callous statement, but with a shrug it rebounded, “Always business with you Olivia, we've not seen each other since your promotion! You're not wrong though, the IOD keeps me busy. Its not a conversation for the hanger though.”

Olivia sighed and wordlessly set off towards her quarters, beckoning for Kaisa to follow. They caught up, or at least as much as was possible given their jobs, on the way. It wasn't that Olivia didn't enjoy the smalltalk, but she hadn't suffered from Kaisa's career taking her to the ends of the galaxy. Theirs hadn't been an unhappy childhood, but their personalities weren't the sort that meshed easily.

Eventually Olivia reached the door to her quarters and motioned Kaisa to step aside as the little sensor on the door verified Olivia was who she said she was. The room wasn't spartan, but it was the sort of domicile familiar to anyone who spent the bulk of their time elsewhere. A library of suspiciously pristine texts dominated half of one wall, a few screens on the walls displayed scenes from tropical planets, and a large table took up the space not separated from a small kitchen by a glass pane. For a military space station it was luxurious, and Olivia often wondered why they'd even given it to her if she rarely used it.

Kaisa helped herself to a seat as Olivia prepared tea, not needing to ask and not bothering to either. When she returned with the cups Kaisa had a serious expression and was focused a small foldable tablet. Olivia cleared her throat and Kaisa looked up before she spoke, “So, to business?”

Olivia nodded and Kaisa went on, “Alright, I suppose we both have things to do. I hear the Astranan delegation arrived a little while before you did, I won't be keeping you from them for long. The IOD has become aware of certain worrying patterns abroad, it looks like the Coalition might have something up its sleeve beyond what we've come to expect from them. We have nothing definitive, but there have been whispers of 'No Man', which we can safely assume is code for some sort of Martian asset, being dispatched to Scorpine space. Where Mars acts we can only expect the Coalition to follow, and probably the Free nests at that given their stated position on the war.”

Olivia cradled her cup with one hand and pinched the bridge of her nose in thought with the other, “What are we looking at then? A potential intervention?”

“No,” Kaisa sipped her drink, “We'd have more to go on if that was it. Our best guess at the moment is a multinational spec ops contingent. Which is why we're informing you before we know enough to really respond, it could be that they intend to damage the war effort through sabotage and... Assassination.”

“So you're telling me to watch my back then, Kaisa?” Olivia asked fondly.

Kaisa begrudgingly reciprocated Olivia's little smile, “Yes, Olivia, I am. In seriousness though, you're the head of the navy now, and the Scorpine have never had the capability to take a shot at our senior staff before. It's not how they operate, and that's not true of Mars. You need to take this seriously, the IOD, and yes me personally, are suggesting you order additional security staff be assigned to all officers captain and above.”

Olivia drummed her fingers against the table and took on a contemplative expression, “I'll do that, then. Like you said though, it's not a lot to go on Kaisa.”

Kaisa shrugged, “It's what it is, and it's all I was sent here to say. Be safe, Olivia.”

Olivia regarded her sister with concern, “You too, Kaisa.”

In the space of several days an empty island had taken on a new form. Smoothed out and sculpted to something new. A simple super-structure had been put down, the bare necessities of landing and as easy to dismantle as it was to put down. Standing over the tallest slime-covered rocks at the equator of this alien world, the landing pad was one of many that spread out a decentralized colony of landing pads and associated developments. From the Starship Liberty - from the surface a distant and hazy smudge beyond the atmosphere that slipped from the sky and returned at the speed of the day – tents had been acquired and haphazardly set out. In their cool shade counter tops and tables had been set about and alcohol served in the balmy tropical air.

It was by no means a perfect setting. The first remarks of the adventurers as they rotated on and off and on and off again was that the planet had a smell, like a moldy bathroom and a stale closet, with a tinge of salt. The primitive and primordial status of life on this planet such that nothing was really turned over. No new smells, no new experience was spread in the atmosphere. No flowers or orchids to bathe the senses in their perfume. Nor was there any other life here to give to it a smell of musk. All of it was locked under water. Given another million, billion years the conditions on the planet may develop so that there would be complex surface bound life. But for the time being what was above the tidal line were odd purple and red blossoms of fungal and lichen growth on the sea battered rocks and dotted in the sands. Nothing of which was tested to be harmful to the alien life that plodded about its sandy islands, stretching their legs for another indeterminate voyage through the interstellar void.

“So where are we going next?” a man asked, leaning on the impromptu bar. A large television screen hung over the low shelf of booze and an array of cameras on top of the monitor streamed the present drinker's back to the main ship.

“The persistent war by the Ressurectionists is creating a refugee problem.” one of the figures on the screen said, a woman reclining to the side on a couch, “At least I think so. It might be worth going over that way to relieve the pressure a bit and get civilians and dissident groups out of the way before the fascists can do anything about it.”

“Is that really our problem though?” another asked, “Isn't there someone else who can deal with it?”

“Far as I know no one has.” the same woman said, “So the opportunity's there.”

“They're a lot closer to us than the Zuukind.” Marcus chimed in. He sipped some rum and scratched the side of his nose, “So supposing we owed anything to anyone they'd be the most accessible.”

“It's not entirely out of our scope. We moved people out of the way of their crusade centuries ago.” another figure in the stream said, “Don't see why we can't again.”

“Yes but that was centuries ago. Is it really such an issue now? Let the statists duke it out. If they can't see the future might as well let them kill one another. We'll be the only ones left, the only life after their annihilation.”

“We're not talking about moving planetary government out. Just the sort caught in the middle. Those with the most to lose, at the least.”

Marcus was drawn from the conversation when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a familiar dark face around him. “Oh hey Dan.” he said, smiling.

“Ey, Marcus. About to do one last ride about the planet. I think we're starting to pack up here. You game?”

“Yeah, I was getting bored here anyways.” he said, putting down his half drunk shot of rum. Excusing himself from the table he followed the tall broad-shouldered black man out over the perpetual beach.

Parked at the frothy verge of land and sea sat a collection of small vehicles, sharp and pointed, their sides bulged out like pregnant whales in the armor shell of white poly shells. The cabins, a black enclosed space, were almost like the head of a grub. They rested on the sand, white fins struck out and burrowed in the white gray ground, the waves lapping up against them, the bodies held up from the ground by them. They sat waiting, fish like in appearance ultimately, and deadly patient.

“We're good to go, chief!” a small man said, a young child hanging out alongside him placing tools into a tool box. There was a small gaggle of people there, human, alien, man, woman, young, old. Those ready to ride out scrambled aboard the waiting hover craft and threw open the hatches and threw themselves inside. Dan did so too, and Marcus took up his own.

Inside the cabin was cool, there was the soft whisper of the air conditioning as the air inside was gently circulated, making the inside colder by fifteen degrees than it was inside. The seat, conforming to Marcus held him gently; it was as if he were floating. All around him he could hear the whine of the engines fire up and reaching to the control panel he flipped his own switches. Responding instantly the lights went on and a holographic display was projected onto the tinted windshield. Readings of power levels, engine performance, and cabin conditions were emblazoned in bright neon blue letters across the dim, dark window. As the engines warmed up, Marcus reached for a holographic dial and with the tips of his fingers turned it. The tinting of the cabin glass lessened, and the alien planet's colors were gently restored.

One by one the white flying fish lifted off from the barren beach and took off in a formation of one leading the other. Dan's lifted off, and Marcus was swift to follow pushing down on the throttle and releasing the pent up energy deep inside the craft's engines. He pulled up, and lifted off right behind Dan and headed into the sky.

They left the ground and went up to twenty meters above it. Moving swift the landmass they were encamped quickly shrunk in the rear-facing stream. The speedometer crept up. 90Kmh, 120kmh, 200kmh, 400,kmh. In the space of a minute they were beginning to geometrically increase their speed, a gentle maneuvering of the vehicles if anything. They went as high as 340m/s before safety mechanisms cut in and stopped the acceleration before they could break the sound barrier. By this point the effects of speed were at hand in the controls and as it sped along Marcus could feel the control stick wobble in his hands. His grip tightened. By this point the encampment was well beyond the horizon and the only indication it was there was a GPS signal to help navigate them back, projected through a compass in the lower-right hand corner.

Far out of sight, the group peeled apart with fliers going which ever way and essentially playing with one another. Racing low close to the waves or engaging in mock dog fights as they soared up and came down low, kissing the crowns of peaking waves.

Marcus chose to stay the course, and soon he was alone. Not truly. The speakers were alive with the chatter of the rest of the group. But it was sparse. As lively as it was, it hardly meshed together. Picking up altitude he climbed higher into the sky and looked out at the alien world below him. Expanses of water marked with interwoven tips of underwater mountain ranges beginning to break the surface. Somewhere far off there was a cloud of great black smoke, a volcano in the midst of a pyroclastic eruption. Below him, sandbars as thin as human hair drew long sweeping lines in the water down below. Here he could see the depth of the water, as its color. Vast regions were light and a misty blue. Others further off were dark and almost black. Here was the bare inundation of an entire world, almost as an atmosphere. Below it would be vast deserts, canyons, forests even of some alien kelp or seaweed. But they played above it, it barely a tenth of the entire planet. Perhaps barely a percent of it, there was so much more below the surface.

Someone spoke up, it was far different than the other chatter Marcus could overlook. “Hey guys, anyone else getting a new navigation signal?” he asked.

Puzzled, Marcus checked the map. Sure enough, a second directional arrow had been added. The former pointed back towards the island behind him. The other, somewhere towards the top and pointing to the right pointed to something else.

“I see it.” Marcus said, as the others reported in the negative. “What is it?”

“I don't know...” said the other pilot, “I don't know at all.”

A Spleen x Iso production



Under the careful guidance of Commodore Sinnett, the small Astranan flotilla settled into its assigned docking bays. The ships had barely settled into place before a stream of marines disembarked to partake in the oldest marine tradition of all time, that of liberty.

Having been asked by the prince what exactly liberty entailed, Sinnett had simply shrugged and said “Getting drunk and engaging with the local women. But mostly just getting drunk.”

A small contingent of Resurrectionist soldiers flanking a diminutive man in a navy uniform made their way to through the veritable tide of Astranan sailors on their way to drink away their sorrows until they reached Sinnett and his charge. The navy man greeted the foreign Commodore with a crisp salute, “Lord Commodore Sinnett and company I presume? I’ve been instructed to shuttle you to the primary command post in this system.”

“Very good, very good.” Sinnett answered. “Is there anything we should be made aware of before meeting with your commanding officer?”

The man beckoned for them to walk while they spoke before he replied, “Regarding that, it seems the third fleet arrived for reinforcement just after you. On it was the acting High Admiral, one Olivia Lahti, she’s decided to attend the meeting alongside the systems nominal commanding officer Rear Admiral Thomas Hall. I hope this isn’t an unwelcome surprise, I was not made aware of it until a moment ago.”

“If anything its most welcome” Sinnett said, letting a small smile appear on his face.

“Acting High Admiral?” Isaac echoed, speaking up for the first time. “Is that not a permanent position in your navy?”

“It is, however the current High Admiral on the books was demoted in absentia after the unfortunate setback two years ago. It is custom not to formally strip an individual of rank unless it can be done in person, and as the former High Admiral remains cut off from support he has yet to be formally relieved. Ah, here we are.” The man gestured at a door which lead to a small private dock where a conventional transport shuttle sat. Its pilots had been lounging against it and straightened up quickly at the entrance of their superior, their contrite salutes evidence enough they’d not meant to get caught.

“I see” Isaac said in a tone that made it abundantly clear that he actually didn’t. He stepped towards the transport, but stopped as Sinnett placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Isaac gave the commodore a questioning look before realizing that he had been delayed so two of his four personal guards could check the interior. A few moments later one of the guards gave Sinnett a quiet nod, after which he removed his hand from Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac waiting a moment before taking first one step towards the transport and then entering.

“Two years is a long time to remain cut off from supply” Sinnett commented as if the event with Isaac and his guards had never taken place. “Are your lines really stretched that thin?”

Their escort shook his head, “No. The former High Admiral permitted the ninth fleet to be trapped in a pocket during a surprise Scorpine counter offensive. The Scorpine have refrained from assaulting the pocket, preferring to starve it out, and so we’ve focused on consolidating our gains so our eventual offensive can end the war in one go. At least, that is my understanding. You’ll have to forgive me Lord Commodore, I’m not terribly involved in the decision making of the admiralty or War Council.”

“Of course.” Sinnett said as he himself stepped into the transport. “I thank you for your candor in this subject.” He took a seat next to where Isaac was and belted himself in. “I must say that it is quite an honor to have the acting High Admiral meet with the commander of a mere flotilla.” He glanced at Isaac before adding “Or is it someone else she is hoping to speak with?”

As the transports ramp retracted and doors closed the navy man admitted, “I couldn’t say. It might just be auspicious timing, what with the third fleet returning around your arrival.”

“I suppose so” Sinnett said after a moment.

The shuttle took off with little fanfare, only a slight vibration providing evidence of the vessels enormous acceleration. The flight to the command post was brief and before those aboard knew it the shuttle had landed in a wide hanger. The Resurrectionist guards and their leader departed first, the last guard to step off beckoning for the Astranans to follow.

The delegation waiting for them this time was a great deal more remarkable. At their head Olivia Lahti struck a notable presence, her hair as white as her uniform and her cybernetic eyes taking tracking those leaving the shuttle with unsettling focus. Beside her an affable looking man with a bushy brown beard and a good fewer bars on his uniform smiled widely, his nameplate revealing him as Thomas Hall.

“Lady Admiral Lahti I presume” Sinnett said after rendering a salute. It wasn’t exactly required that he salute an officer from another country, but it was good decorum. “May I introduce you to His Highness Prince Isaac?” He gestured towards the prince who rendered a slight bow.

Olivia returned Sinnetts salute and extended a hand to the prince, “Prince Isaac, Lord Commodore Sinnett, a pleasure to receive you.”

“The pleasure is mine” Isaac said as he eagerly shook Olivia’s hand. “Lady Lahti-” A cough from Sinnett had Isaac quickly rephrasing “Lady Admiral Lahti I hope you will see fit to share some of your wisdom with me.” Sinnett rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting.

Olivia gave the Prince a smile and stepped back, “Now then, there’s a meeting room just off the hanger here. I’ll be here to answer any questions, and perhaps ask some myself, but it is the Rear Admiral here that’s been preparing for this meeting and who’ll be largely leading it.”

Thomas Hall stepped up and saluted Sinnett before grinning widely, “Indeed! Come Lord Commodore, we have much to discuss!”

“Of course” Sinnett returned the salute. “Of course.” He and the rest of the Astranans followed Hall into the meeting room before he asked “So what is our first piece of business today?”

Hall gestured for Sinnett and the Prince to seat themselves in few chairs set around a large oaken table before he took his own spot and replied, “Well before we can plan on how best to integrate your force into the greater war effort we’ll need to know if you’ve received any overriding orders regarding your rules of engagement. Are there any specific actions you’ll find yourself unable to participate in, for example?”

“In short” Sinnett said as he took a seat, “I’ve been told to not fuck with any Coalition troops” The sudden foul language had Isaac flinching. “That word was His Imperial Majesty’s, not mine, by the way. And to act with honor. So no attacking hospitals or non combatant civilians.”

Hall and Olivia shared a look before Hall nodded, “That’s uh, more than acceptable. Most of the actions at the front are military in nature, though of course there are insurgent elements mixed in with the Scorpine forces. I trust that won’t be an issue?”

“We’ll have no trouble engaging any combatants” Sinnett answered. “And while we will try to limit the amount of civilian casualties we cause, we are going into this with the understanding that there will be some collateral damage.”

Hall’s smile returned, “Ah, of course. Well with that out of the way the question is what unit to attach you to, most are preparing for the upcoming offensive but I’m more than willing to leave it up to you to decide if you’d rather be the tip of the spear or its base.”

“We’re definitely hoping to get our troops some good combat experience.” Sinnett said. “We are, in part, intervening in this conflict to help ensure we have enough veterans qualified to serve as cataphracts.”

“So the tip” Isaac said with the smile of a teen who had just made a sexual pun.

“The Brilliant” Sinnett ignored Isaac’s comment, “my flagship that is, is set up in an assault configuration, so we’ve got about half the aircraft you’d normally expect. Of course that’s because we have an armored battalion, an infantry battalion, a company of Imperial guards, and a platoon of paragons.”

“Paragons?” Isaac was suddenly very focused on Sinnett, who seemed to be making a point of ignoring the prince’s one-liners.

Olivia had remained silent but pointedly raised an eyebrow at the Princes innuendo. However, at his question she said, “Special forces, if I recall correctly?”

“You do” Sinnett stated simply.

“They’re the best we have” Isaac added. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them being deployed.”

“They are the best we’ve heard of” Sinnett corrected. “And trust me, your father has had many uses for them over the past decade.”

Hall nearly replied before Olivia put a hand on his shoulder to indicate she had more to say, “Would you prefer they be deployed alongside your forces, or with autonomy? There is a… Representative of our own nations Irregular Operations Division aboard the station at the moment, if you’d rather they be deployed with discretion she could arrange for such to be case.”

“Honestly I would prefer to keep them close at hand” Sinnett begun, “but I’ve seen some of their best work, and it always takes place long before our troops are anywhere nearby. I’ll send their CO to your spec-ops division so they can work something out.”

Olivia nodded and gestured for Hall to move on, “Right, well I’ll admit I’m reluctant to put you right in harm's way but given the scale of the fleet actions being planned I’m certain a commander of your experience will come out better than most. In that case I’ll offer to assign you to the fourth fleet, they’re being equipped to lead the charge to open the northern pocket and relieve the fifth fleet. Now as for a time frame there I’m no-”

Olivia cut him off, “It will be within the month. Understand that such is highly privileged information Lord Commodore, and while I’m providing you it with the understanding I am sharing it with the Astranan government I would prefer you personally distribute it as little as you are able.”

“Should I interpret that as a desire that I not pass this information back to Astrana?” Sinnett asked in a neutral tone.

“Not precisely.” Olivia met Sineett’s eyes, “I am asking that you pass it to as few elements within Astrana as you are able. If possible, just the one I know you are accountable to. I don’t mean to question the integrity of your government, but as of now information security procedures have limited this knowledge to the highest State and War Councils of my own government. In total and at present, this information is known to just under a hundred individuals in the galaxy. For thirty years we’ve pushed the Scorpine back slowly, methodically, I merely ask you to understand the stakes when I say this offensive is meant to end the conflict once and for all.”

Sinnett simply shrugged. “I’m not required or even obligated to report the specifics of ongoing or planned operations unless I have a reasonable belief they’ll cause harm to Astrana or the Imperial family. Is there any message you specifically want me to pipe back to my government?”

Olivia drummed her fingers against the table, “I received orders directly from the War Council to inform you of the date we intend to act. The request that you limit that informations dissemination is my own. I won’t pretend to understand the intentions of the War Council, though I imagine they wouldn’t have issued the order without meaning for it to end up in the hands of your government. Personally, I’d have rather not informed you at all and thus the request you report to as few individuals as possible. That said, even as the acting High Admiral I am forced to submit to a higher power.”

“I’ll keep that in mind while making my next report to my superiors” Sinnett said. For a moment he looked supremely tired. But his weariness disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. “There will be no operational leaks on our end.”

Olvia nodded and leaned back, Hall scratched his beard and awkwardingly picked up the conversation, confusion evident on his features, “Well then. We know where to put you and, uh, when I suppose. If you’re willing to wait the month you can coordinate with the fourth fleet from here on, is that acceptable?”

“As long as you don’t mind a battalion of rowdy soldiers on your station for a month” Sinnett agreed with a smile. “Morale is high and our men are ready to show their prowess in battle.”

Hall, as much as he kept his expression neutral, paled. With a weak smile he backpedaled, “I’m uh, sure there are actions taking place right now. High Admiral! Is there anything these gentlemen can do to further the war effort in the next month?”

Olivia openly rolled her eyes, “Yes, there is. Lord Commodore if you’re interested the battle on Hestollon II is still ongoing, and it is unlikely the Scorpine will commit another fleet there after our third fleets victory there mere days ago. A reserve fleet is currently guarding the planets space, but less than a quarter of the planet has been secured by our forces.”

Sinnett let out a short chuckle at Hall’s discomfort. “I’m not sure what good we could do in less than a month, but if you want us there that’s where we’ll go.”

Olivia smiled, “I don’t expect you to conquer a world in a month, but I can’t imagine experience dealing with Scorpine regulars wouldn’t be valuable to your soldiers. They’re a capable enemy, even if you’ll never hear our news admit it. I’d be more comfortable committing you to the front in a months time knowing you’ve had prior experience engaging the Scorpine anyhow.”

“Very good then.” Sinnett stated. “We’ll focus our efforts to reconnaissance in force and supporting your troops in combat in order to acquire as much knowledge as possible while limiting how much our fighting strength is depleted before the big operation. Is there anything else we need to discuss?” He looked at Olivia and Hall each.

Hall glanced at Olivia and she shook her head, with a shrug of his own he spoke, “Not that I can see, we’ll provide you with an attache to smooth out any disputes with the local forces but beyond that I imagine our business here is concluded.”

Aurolia
Capital City of Yalvin

Yalvin, Jewel of Aurolia and the Seat of Power for all of the United Republic, a beautiful sprawling Metropolis stretching for miles on end, the various lights of the night and celebrations that sprang the city to life added to the its immense beauty, for today was a special day for the citizens of the Republic.

Today marked the 40th Anniversary of the end of Önargol War, A five year-long bloody conflict that saw millions dead, countless alien worlds scarred, left in complete ruin. The war had bitter, inconclusive end, the fighting simply...stopping, the long silence forcing both sides to come to an accord. However, the war's end was cause enough to celebreate as the brave men and women of the Republic's armed services returned home.

The time nearly upon them, time for the Chancellor to make her speech as millions gathered around Largest Holographic Projectors, others waiting at home to watch the broadcast, and thousands more gathering around the Yalvin Sports Stadium where she'd make the speech.

------------

Chancellor Cortez observed her reflection onto the mirror, making final touches to her white dress, becoming quite nervous, the thought of addressing to billions of beings from all across the Republic had always giving her a bad case of the butterflies. She turned to face a man a few years older then her, in a fine black suit, her husband, Danial. "So...How do I look?" she asked him nervously. "Honey, you're just fine." he replied. "Addressing live to billions can do that to you." she cracked a joke to him, followed by a chuckle from Danial.

"Relax, you'll do fine!" He embraced her. "Just a small speech, and you're done, and not a moment too soon, I'm starving!" He half-joked, although in truth, he was eager to get on with dinner already. Danial had moved on ahead of his wife, meeting with their children and other VIPs waiting at the stadium's field.

"Hehe, yeah...just a minute or two and that romantic dinner can be my reward." She smiled as she walked down the great hall leading up to the stadium field, pausing for a brief moment as she took a deep breath before stepping out onto the field and was greeted by thousands cheering citizens and blinding lights, a small cadre of republican guards standing at attention on both her flanks as they escorted her to the center, there stood a platform, where members of her cabinet sat, and next to them were four individuals, her husband and three children, one seeming to be his mid twenties, one in her late teens, and a young boy, around the age of ten. Alexandria walked up the short stairs leading up the platform, soon taking center stage as she approached the edge, one of the guards handing her a volume amplifying device, it was similar in design to Aldzir Translation Collars.

She snapped the device around her neck, green lights flaring up as the machine automatically activated, camera drones begun swamring around the platform, hovering around them as they record. Breathing deeply once more, Alexandria begun her brief speech.

"My fellow citizens, today is a day of both joy, and of grieving. Today marks the 40th Anniversary of the end of the War. For five years we stood strong, even against a foe that sought our total submission, for five years even as were caught in bloody stalemates, we held strong. Our military would not give in, and was all that stood between life and death." She paused for a moment, and continued.

"Some of those brave souls may be among you now, look to them in admiration and respect, for they fought for your very freedoms.....your right to live, and we must not also forget the countless sacrifices our allies paid in securing their own freedoms against the Önargols.

"Despite the bitter aftermath...we sought to rebuild, and lend our aide to the broken and battered worlds beyond our reaches, those caught in the crossfire, and although relations between our Republic and the Önargols are quite strained, I hope that one day we can leave this conflict behind us once and for all, and build a better future together." With that, she finished as the crowds cheered on, her waving at the people as she made her exist, the others soon following her, and so the festivities began throughout the worlds of the Aurolian Republic.

Adamar, Sinnsyk Star Network

Disease was rare amongst the Sinnsyk. Advanced technology combined with an authoritarian government meant that at the first sign of even a hint of sickness, the infected party was quarantined in a state of the art hospital, and wouldn't be released unless the medics were certain that they had been cured. It also helped that they had naturally powerful immune systems that could reduce the most debilitating viruses into a minor flu.

But not everyone had the Sinnsyk's impressive constitution. Enter Adamar. Once upon a time, this proud and impressive planet had played host to one of the vilest empires in the region. The locals, the Adamari, had been their slaves. To ensure their loyalty, the Adamari's overlords infected them with a deadly custom-made virus. This virus would slowly eat away at the Adamari's skin and deform their bone marrow, leaving them in wretched, painful agony. Most Adamari didn't live past fourty. The old empire would administer a medicine that would suppress the virus, and let rebellion slaves rot.

But eventually, the Adamari had enough of their cruel overlords. They rose up in revolution and, outnumbering the oppressors, killed them. The secret to the cure had been destroyed by the overlords in a spiteful bit of scorched earth tactics, so what was left of the antidote was swiftly used up and by the time the Network had reached them, every Adamari once again had the disease and no way of manufacturing a suppressant.

Dr Arban bat Kalju was new to the medical community. Straight out of the academy, he was assigned to Adamar's research team, to research and study the effects of the disease and, hopefully, help manufacture a cure. It was a surprisingly hands-on approach for the Commissioner, which only spoke of the desperation of the crisis. The Adamari were dying faster than they could have kids and many elected not to have kids in the first place so their children wouldn't be subjected to the disease. Even the estimates that gave them the best chances, the Adamari probably only had another 200 years or so. This disease needed to be fixed soon.

Arban's patients were a mother, around 36 years old, and her two sons, one 15, one 9. The woman was badly deformed, and it made Arban nauseous to even look at her. He preferred to keep his eyes on his reports.

"Well, Mrs Mahmar, the lab has sent us the results of your tests. They are... interesting, to say the least," the good Doctor had a habit of referring to the mysterious "lab". In reality, he WAS the Lab. That was the whole point of the research team. "I'm going to show you now a series of images. I will attempt to talk you through them as best as I can"

The woman nodded, that simple act making her groan in agony. The doctor produced the first sheet and handed it to the woman's elder son - he didn't trust her hands. The family stared at the picture for a moment while the doctor spoke. "We dyed the sample with a chemical that makes the pathogen show up in red. That one you're looking at is your own sample."

The sheet was almost utterly red. The cell walls were deformed, twisted and mutilated beyond the point of recognition. If the woman wasn't already aware of the shortness of her lifespan, she would probably have burst into tears. But the pain had hardened her, and she the sheet was no surprise to her. She just grunted and looked up.

"This one -" the doctor produced a second sheet and handed it to them "- is your eldest son"

This one was far more hopeful. The pathogen's cells had were mixed in there, sure, but the boy's cells were clean, orderly, and a proper shape. There was no doubt as to his infection, but he was yet to feel the brunt.

"This isn't anything new to us, doctor," the boy said brusquely. The doctor shook his head in response.

"Here, then. This might change your mind." The doctor handed both the remaining sheets to the family together. He didn't need to look up to predict their faces.

"No way. That's not possible."

"What you are seeing is your youngest's cell sample, as well as my own. I used my own as a control, and trust me, I was as surprised as you are."

The two sheets were almost the same. Both were spotless. Neither of them had even a speck of red of them.

"Does that mean-"

"He's not immune," Arban interrupted, knowing exactly what he was going to ask. "But this is a good sign. The infection has not yet begun to multiply. Call it an act of mercy, but it seems your oh-so-benevolent overlords thought activating the disease in children was too cruel. I've aggregated the results with some of my colleagues, and we've all noticed the same thing. The disease is not active in children from newborns to at least nine years. From then it gets a bit spotty, but the eldest we've had clean so far was thirteen."

The younger brother's face lit up like a christmas tree. The older one was a little less happy - he had missed the cut off, it seemed - but was nonetheless pretty pleased. The mother, well, she looked as she always did, but you could tell she was overjoyed.

"So what does that mean for us?" The older brother had to speak on behalf of the old woman.

"It means that either a child's body produces a natural suppressant for the disease, or that the disease only becomes active during puberty. Either way, that gives us a launching point. We're one step closer to finding out how to suppress, or even cure, this disease"

It was good news, to be sure. But Arban doubted that this little facility would be enough to study the disease with enough to depth to produce such a cure. The way he saw it, they had to either expand this facility and interfere further in the lives of the people here, or seek outside help.

Either way, the Network's non-interventionist policies would have to end.

Trees cracked, and fell over, the civilians of Arturio 3 running quickly from their positions in the tree line and into their town as Hover tanks punched holes in the forest, carving a path with their cannons as they closed in. It was devastating to the local populace they fell in droves, soldiers, and civilians alike. Starburst Valkyrie Corporation had little mercy for the locals, and soon several aerial vehicles were roaring by overhead. They released their contents large blue and purple explosions overtaking any structures, vehicles, and organic beings leaving behind only shimmering ash that danced in the air in varying bright colors that sharply contrasted with the destruction that they were the consequence of.

The assault raged on for several hours as the Valkyrie tore apart what little resistance the locals could put up. By the end of the attack barely anything remained of the locals in the area, and only four of the Valkyries had been lost in combat. Those who had been captured by the Valkyries were now lined up in rows on their knees, blindfolds around their eyes and hands tied behind their backs. The locals were a mixture of alien species and humans all of which were being looked over very closely, an inspection of sorts, from which the human women were pulled from the lines and led into the back of a nearby ship.

One woman stood out among the mercenaries, her eyes wandered over the prisoners a slight smirk upon her lips. Captain Valero raised a single hand pointing to the captives. “Execute them, use the blades don’t waste ammunition. As for human females put them on the Frigate Mephisto and have them taken to the Kevos 2 Research station for repurposing.” Turning she looked over the devastated area. “Smell that?” She said looking towards one of the troops, the woman turning towards the Captain.

“The Burning Flesh Ma’am?” The trooper was new, obviously a fairly recent recruit by the rank insignia on her shoulders.

“No Private… No, that smells like money.” In the horizon the mining ships were slowly descending from the sky towards the surface. This was just the first stepping stone, soon the planet would be one giant mining colony, and the citizens would be made into slaves to work in the tunnels.



The operation room was rather busy today, some breakthroughs had been made and were very much in the process of being applied. Three of the operating tables had a patient on them, each of them deep under anesthetics. Surgeons, and Lab Techs stood over them, as well as some engineers. Two of the patients were troops, one of them a volunteer, the other injured in combat, and the final patient was a woman who had been captured during a raid the company had been hired to do. The injured troop had had her arms and legs amputated, nodes were being installed into the stumps of her arms and legs, connecting to nerves, and muscles. Once the wires were fused to flesh several robotic limbs were brought in, some with attachments some without.

The next woman had her skin split in several places and her muscles were being removed from around the bones they were attached to and being placed aside, the scent of burnt flesh in the air from the energy scalpels being used. Soon metal plates were being attached to the bones in her arms, the bones that made up her rib cage, legs, skull, and even her spine, soon vials of synthetic muscles made up of some metallic fiber were being brought forth to be placed into her body next.

And the final patient, her head shaved bald, her scalp had been cut and peeled back like a tent flap, and the top of her skull had been removed like a cap. Her brain revealed the patient was having wires planted into the organ and connected to a series of chips mounted to the inside of the skull cap. The scalpels cut into the woman’s flesh removing bones, skin, muscles in some places, filling the voids with different devices that were both combative, and utilitarian. Even other body parts were completely removed such as one arm was replaced with what looked like a rivet gun, and her eyes were even replaced with some type of ocular camera that was attached to her brain to allow her to see, and to allow a control room to see what she sees.

From a glass windowed room watching over what the surgeries taking places was Dr. Krauss taking notes ona holographic datapad as she hummed lightly to herself. Turning she pulled up another screen, and the face that looked back at her was the Secretary of CEO Lyesmith. Krauss gave a nod in greeting, then without waiting for a response began to speak. “Inform Miss Lyesmith that the operations are repeatedly successful, and that soon we will go into field testing to ensure the products are in good working order. Who would have thought three different projects would have helped each other so much.”

Tucked away inconspicuously in one of the modest stations ship berths was the SAR Shalim, a Foch class corvette that was more or less identical to any of its many siblings in the system. That was, of course, the point. While the Shalim certainly didn’t lack the extensive sensor suite native to its class, it had a number of other systems hiding under its skin that’d make it the envy of its peers. If they even knew it existed, of course. The Shalim was entered into the records under a different name, and with arguably the least important job any Foch class corvette could have, border system monitoring.

That alone, usually deflected any attention. The persistent ‘encouragement’ to drop the issue commanding officers directed towards particularly curious subordinates generally did the rest. The Shalim was, in truth, not a Spaceborne Arm ship at all. It represented one of the secretive and heavily modified ships used by IOD as mobile command centers, and the IOD did their best to ensure nobody knew that.

Kaisa Lahti leaned against the side of a corridor aboard the ship, tapping her foot against the floor rhythmically as she impatiently waited for the Astranan special operations force her sister had dumped on her. Standing straight enough that any normal human would think he was at attention, the imposing figure of Mustafa Bahar glared at Kaisa, “Must you be so irreverent captain? I understand the IOD doesn’t demand much of its officers but you are this vessels commanding officer. Would it be too much to ask for you to act like it while our friends are here?”

Kaisa brushed a lock of white hair away from her face and shrugged, “Mustafa how many times have I told you to loosen up, you don’t need to act like a soldier when you’re not… Soldiering. Or spying. Or whatever we happen to be doing. The IOD cares about performance, not appearances. Nobody is going to reprimand you for taking a load off when we’re not on a mission, least of all me.”

Kaisa straightened up and patted Mustafa on the shoulder, “And that’s exactly what I intend to tell the Astranans! God help us if they insist on formality for the duration, we already suffer you.”

A happily whistled tune announced the arrival of the Astranans. A lieutenant and master sergeant stepped through the airlock that connected the Shalim to the station. The female master sergeant stopped whistling only after her superior officer halted and rendered a sufficiently polite salute. “Lieutenant Diets. Requesting permission for my command to come aboard.”
Kaisa returned the salute and smiled broadly, “Captain Lahti, and you have it Lieutenant. We’ve cleared space for you, not that we have even close to a full complement aboard. I’ll get someone show you to your quarters and the storage space we’ve set aside for you later, hopefully you’ll find everything suitable. With that said! Just as I was reminding my friend Ensign Bahar we don’t keep track of every scuffed floor here, so if you’ve concerns just let somebody know. It’ll get sorted out.”

“We’ve dealt with worse than a few scuffed floors” The Astranan master sergeant commented. She and her lieutenant could not look more different if they were from different species. Lieutenant Diets had a bland look about it, the sort that caused one to not even notice him if he were in any sort of crowd. And yet at the same time the way he wore his uniform and how he held himself seemed to scream ‘career officier’. The master sergeant, on the other hand, looked like she should be a model instead of a soldier. She drew gazes towards her simply by being in the same room and, despite wearing the same uniform as her commanding officer, somehow made her normally conservative and bland outfit look attractive. But more than anything there was a look in her eyes, one that only the most experienced of soldiers would notice, that promised that anyone who crossed her wouldn’t live to do so a second time.

“I suppose we have” Diets agreed after a moment. “Still it's always nice to enjoy better accommodations before taking to the field.”

“That it is.” The master sergeant turned to Lahti and gave her the laziest salute that she could possibly get away with without being insubordinate. “Master Sergeant Marphissa at your service. If you’ve got any questions about us ask me.”

Kaisa regarded the two and scratched the back of her head, “I’ve got to be honest, I don’t even know what to ask. There are other IOD officers who know more, but we’ve been operating in the warzone for a few years now. There’s not been much cause to keep apprised of other nations best. You do have my apologies for that.”

“Well I’m here if you need me ma’am.” Marphissa said with a shrug. “One thing I will offer to you is that we should not be used as ‘elite infantry’. Can we do it? Certainly, but that’s not really the best way to use us. Lots of frontline commanders make that mistake though.”

“That,” Kaisa chuckled, “Is certainly not what we’ll be doing. While Mustafa here might be an old soldier, our merry little crew isn’t in the business of fighting the enemy up front. Our mandate for the last year has been precision strikes paving the way for future actions, hitting targets deep in enemy territory and getting out before a proper response can be mounted. We do it right, we never have to hit more than a minor garrison. There are teams doing more subtle work, but the goal is the same, we make sure the Scorpine don’t have a chance when the fleet comes knocking.”

“Excellent” Diets said. “Looks like we’ll fit in perfectly.”

Core Worlds of the Resurrection - Alcesetra

If the Resurrection had a beating heart, Alcesetra was it. The erstwhile capital of the Northern Cygnus Republic, and the birthplace of the movement, while it had never been designated as more than a mere 'regional administrative centre' it was here that all the highest councils held court. That fact alone had turned this planet into hub of just about everything. It was no ecumenopolis, but more than a few urban planners were working towards that goal, enough that the lofty proposition was starting to look like an inevitability.

From his vantage point about a quarter of the way up one of the planets space elevators, it was already a sight that defied human comprehension. The lights never seemed to end, and even if he saw this sight every day Lucien Gulliot would never fail to marvel at the enormity of it, both in scale and meaning. What had started as a loose ideological alignment had evolved into this, a city that housed untold billions, a planet that held thousands of others in its tow, a government that might one day dominate the stars.

How so many failed to see it, Lucien would never know. The Military Council was so focused on its war it never considered what that struggle had precipitated back home, and so long as men and ships arrived at the front it never would. The Ideological Council saw it, but only as a caricature; centralization, with all its rewards, was their greatest fear. Some in the Economic Council facetiously considered themselves a part of some secret cabal, as if they were a conspiracy working towards their end against unfathomable opposition. Joke or not, Lucien knew better. The Economic Council was no cabal, it was merely an alliance of those who saw the potential of what their forefathers had wrought. The opposition they faced was far from insurmountable, in fact it was so fractured that the only dangers his fellows faced was in the uncoordinated flailing of their foes. Of course, that could well be a greater danger than any dedicated opponent.

He was waiting for one of his compatriots that understood that. A soft pinging from his speaker system announced their arrival, and without moving from his window vantage point he instructed the system to open his doors. Footsteps and an eventual amused scoff announced the arrival of Evi Mayer, “Mister Gulliot, as dramatic as ever I see. Will you be investing in a swivel chair next time? Or a roaring fireplace?”

Lucien grinned as he turned around, some lost their sense of humour as they aged, but he dreaded the day he wouldn't be able to poke fun at himself. After all, living more than a dozen kilometres up was melodramatic enough to warrant a joke. He made his way over to her and shook her hand before gesturing to the open kitchen space, “A drink?”

Evi nodded and Lucien filled two wide glasses with wine, the straining at the bottom of one spoke to his own recent indulgences. Handing Evi the other Lucien asked, “What tidings do you bring, my friend?”

Evi cocked an eyebrow, the lithe woman smirked before he face soured abruptly, “Not good. It's as we suspected, Markus Lahti sent orders to his daughter to reveal the offensives start date. We didn't manage to intercept the details, but it will be soon. Worse yet, the man is taking rejuvenation drugs like candies. Addictive or not, the doctors I consulted were emphatic on the dangers of doing so.”

Lucien sighed, “The old fool. There's a reason I wear my own wrinkles. This offensive is preposterous already, thirty years of judicious and circumspect progress and now he looks to end the war in one fell swoop like a conqueror of old. It seems our dear leader has done his damnedest to lose his mind, with considerable success.”

Evi sat on one of Luciens kitchen stools before speaking again, and when she did it was without a trace of mirth, “So we prepare the contingency, then?”

In a single motion Lucien downed the rest of his wine and furrowed his brow, “We prepare the contingency. What a waste, though. The man was, is, a hero. He already could have declared himself king a dozen times over the last twenty years, had he even considered it. If not for his vain obsession with total victory he'd have been the perfect candidate.”

Evi sipped her own wine, “The work of building a proper state isn't meant to be easy, Lucien. You said that.”

That brought a little smile back to his face, “True enough Evi,” Lucien took a seat beside her, “But this will meant a direct conflict with the Ideological council, and if we botch that we all know the consequences.”

The two of them spent a moment in silence before Evi finished her own drink and spoke, “Then we make sure we're ready.”

Lucien could only nod. Sometimes he wished he'd opted for one of the dozens of procedures to preserve his youth, for in times like this the burden of what was to be done weighed heavily on his old bones.

The Fleet of Faithful Intent came out of warp on the edge of the Scorpine's territory. As it entered back into real space, Admiral Talaran gave the command for the fleet to come to a full halt and hold its current position, as The Conclave had requested. His orders hadn't yet specified what exactly the Fleet's purpose here was other than that he knew that The Conclave was keeping the command close to the chest.

That being said, his orders had also included another directive, one which he knew that, while not the entire reason for the fleet's presence, would undoubtedly be part of it: the transmission of an encrypted message. Nobody but he and a few of his select officers, and The Conclave itself of course, knew its contents currently. But knowing what it contained, he could understand why the Conclave would choose to be secretive about this entire operation.

Admiral Talaran stepped out onto the bridge, only small number of bridge officers were present currently, the rest had been given leave for a time with the expectation that the fleet would be out of action for the moment. Of course, the only bridge officers remaining who those privy to transmission, albeit not to the contents itself. However, Talaran could trust them not to speak on its existence, or to whom the message was being directed.

"Everything is ready Admiral, long-range communication is open and encryption is complete. We're ready to begin the transmission at any time."

Talaran nodded, "Proceed."

"Yes sir."

With the press of a button, the message began its transmission. And Talaran sighed, both with apprehension, and with relief in knowing that for the time being it was out of his hands. He'd fulfilled The Conclave's request. Now all he needed to do was hold position and await a response.

"Let's hope we're being received well enough..."

The message was short, purposefully so, but the ambiguity was intended.

SJADKFJHKSHKFHHD82KK8828KHJHSU82392030SJFHJSF298
192349HGGYGH77868GGFTFTYG334FDRIGKGU87gGGKKKY562
-------------Begin Decryption-------------------
-------------Decryption Complete----------------
-------------Displaying Message-----------------
Leadership of [the Economic Council],
Most Holy Ecumene requesting [delegate], safe
conduct assured. [Transmitting coordinates].
231756..334234..342167..413434..562454..454625.3
[Message repeats]
------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------

"Transmission complete sir," The bridge officer replied.

"Open a channel to Orion Prime, contact the Archpriestess and inform her that we're awaiting response. If any Scorpine attempt to hail the fleet, provide the prearranged response, and warn that any encroachment on Ecumene territory is grounds for a declaration of war. Fire a warning shot if they become belligerent." Talaran replied swiftly, "That is the order given to me by the Conclave. I have nothing more than that for now."

"By your command Admiral."