Whitehaven Palace
Brandenburg
Praetoria

Metternich let out a growl as the training droid caught him by surprise and landed a solid punch to his abdomen, but he stayed quick on his toes, tail lashing behind him, sweat matting his fur. He’d been a star boxer in university, and had very nearly pursued the sport in a professional capacity. It had been helpful on his first campaign as leader of the Crown Centrist party too. At the time, the Crown Centrists had been in opposition, and Metternich had played up his reputation as the brash young fighter by participating in charity boxing matches with some of his political rivals. It was the kind of thing he’d been able to get away with back then, in the tailing years of the Pax Ashtari. He’d won the Centrist leadership after just one term as a delegate in the Low House, a shocking triumph, and the Commonwealth had felt he might be able to disrupt the status quo that had held them stagnant for so long. Now of course, he was far too dignified for charity boxing matches, and his last opponent Emden Konig, Baron Highfield, was still a little loopy all these years later despite the best efforts of the neurosurgeons. Suffice it to say no one particularly wanted to face him in the ring.

The door to Metternich’s private gym opened, his Su’urtugal guard admitting Cato Telemachus. That immediately set off alarm bells in Metternich’s mind, and the training droid got in another body blow. Metternich snarled; he’d better wrap this up. A quick feint pulled the droid off balance, then Metternich let fly the devastating left hook that had put Emden Konig in a three week coma all those years ago. His fist impacted with a force that would have killed any member of most humanoid species, and the droid went limp and toppled over for a moment. It righted itself and went into standby mode at a gesture from Metternich, and the Lord Chancellor took a long drink of water, panting to catch his breath as he gestured Telemachus over.

The Minister of the Interior looked distinctly nervous and unhappy. “What is it Cato? I’m assuming not good news,” Metternich said between breaths.

Telemachus handed Metternich a pad. Veronia Gheertz, head anchor of Praetoria’s leading newscast, The Agenda, was displayed on it, paused mid-word in a rather amusing fashion. “This is the livestream, Lord Chancellor. The original piece came in over PsiNET a few minutes ago, and I did my best to get Gheertz to sit on it, but she says it’s too juicy for that. She appreciates our relationship so she’ll spin it as best she can, but she won’t sit on it completely. It should be coming up right about now.”

Metternich tapped the pad to resume the broadcast. It hiccuped slightly as it caught up with the live stream, then settled down. “-dispatched formal condolences earlier this week, but it remains to be seen how this will affect the Asran diplomatic stance in an already tense galaxy.”

Gheertz tapped her own pad, slightly below the camera’s pickup, the modern equivalent to shuffling notes. The camera angle changed, and Gheertz looked to the new camera with what Metternich knew to be a carefully rehearsed expression, a mixture of troubled concern and trepidation, her ‘serious news time’ face. ”Breaking news out of the Colonies this hour, coming in over PsiNET from FedNat media sources.” A motion of her eyebrows indicated that Gheertz was naturally suspicious of anything that came from the Federation, as all good and proper Commonwealth citizens should be. “According to a Federation journalist on the distant colonial world of Durand, disgruntled spaceport workers have seized control of a Rolvian atmospheric cargo shuttle and taken four Rolvians hostage. Sources say the workers acted in response to rumours of imminent food shortages. Minister of the Interior Sir Cato Telemachus was available only briefly for comment just minutes ago, and told us here at The Agenda that there is indeed a hostage situation on Durand, but in the interest of the hostage’s safety he would not comment further, and would encourage all media in the Commonwealth to refrain from giving the terrorist colonials a platform on which to air their grievances. He also wished to reassure the citizens of the Commonwealth and the leaders of the Republic that a swift and decisive operation is being prepared to secure the hostages. With all this in mind, we here at the Agenda won’t engage in speculation over the terrorists’ motives, but we will turn to our At Issue panel to analyse how this might affect the galactic diplomatic situation.”

Metternich stabbed a finger at the pad to pause the broadcast as the flashy intro for At Issue began. He carefully handed the pad back to Telemachus, turned to the training droid, and promptly let out a bloodcurdling primal roar as he punched the droid’s head clean off with a sickening crunch. The droid went limp and toppled over again, but Metternich pounced on it and tore its arm off with terrifying fury. Using the severed arm as a club, he methodically bashed the droid apart, pounding its reinforced chassis into small pieces. It took all of five minutes, which Telemachus watched with fascination.

Metternich looked up at his friend. “Cato, please inform the rest of Cabinet that we’ll be meeting in full at the Imperial Palace in one hour,” he said with deadly calm. He walked to the opposite wall of the gym to activate another training droid, and Telemachus left him to demolish that one in peace while he went off to gather his colleagues.

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The Scarlet Gallery of the Imperial Palace
Brandenburg Old Quarter
Praetoria

It was quiet around the conference table when Metternich’s cabinet assembled before the Imperial Queen. Everyone had seen The Agenda’s coverage of the story. To her credit, Gheertz had done an excellent job of steering the At Issue panel’s discussions away from the question of food shortages and focussed them on foreign relations, a safe area where the panelists could verbally spar with one another without causing any major headaches for the government. Across the Core Worlds and most of the Constituents, the coverage would be similar enough that it wouldn’t cause problems. Certainly there were some argumentative Constituent worlds out there (Arraven came to mind), where the local media would harp on about the government’s imperialism, the plight of the poor colonials, and so on, but even on Arraven, people were far too comfortable in their lives to actually do anything about the situation. But in the Colonies, things were less certain, prompting Celia Temkins, Minister of Planetary Environments, to give voice to the question they were all thinking.

“How bad is it going to get, Cato?” She frowned, and shook her head. “Let me be more specific. I recognize that the domestic and foreign affairs situations are tied together, so let me put it this way; how bad is this going to get if all we have to deal with is rumours of food shortages?”

Metternich glanced at Temkins sharply. It was an uncharacteristically precise question from her; she usually preferred to keep things vague when it came to the Colonies. Could it be that she wasn’t as attached to her heritage out there as he’d thought? Or was she just rising to the challenge of a new crisis? Curious…

Telemachus nodded slowly. “Thank you for the specificity, Celia, that will indeed make things easier to discuss. If we only have to deal with rumours, we should be fine. Actually, even if the Rolvians confirm the shortages, we should still be fine, now that I’ve been able to use the hostage situation to raise the alert level of our Civil Order assets. That wasn’t an option when we were trying to keep things quiet, but the forward deploying we decided on did help get the alert level raised faster. If it’s just food shortages, we’re now deployed in such a way that we can crush any uprising that becomes too problematic for local authorities. In short, it won’t be good, but it won’t be too bad either.”

Temkins indicated her understanding with a slow roll of her shoulders. She glanced at Metternich, who simply gave a small shrug and gestured for her to continue, curious where the scientist-turned-minister would go. She turned to Castlereagh. “Robert, I’m assuming you sent a message off to Rolvius as soon as you heard?”

The Minister of Foreign Affairs sighed. “Yes, but it can’t possibly get there any faster than the news piece from FedNat. Hell, even that episode of The Agenda will get there a few minutes sooner over PsiNET. I’ve held off on sending specific instructions to Ribbentrop for the moment, the physical dispatch we sent when this situation started should be arriving soon enough to give him the full details. Further instructions can be sent over PsiNET as needed once.”

“You’ve always told us Vannifar’s a pragmatic sort, even if she is facing domestic pressure. What I’m actually more worried about is FedNat.”

Eyes around the table locked on Celia Temkins as she said it, but she continued doggedly. “Gods know they love playing peacekeeper. What do we tell them if they offer assistance in recovering the hostages?” She held up a hand as Mathias Bosch began to sputter in indignation. “Yes, normally we could tell them to suck vacuum, but these are Rolvian hostages. How do we convince Vannifar we’re serious about getting her people back if we won’t accept any help doing it? Cato, I’m assuming of course that accepting that help is out of the question.”

Telemachus nodded again. “An admission of impotence on that scale would shatter us. Not just Colonies, but Constituents and even a few Cores would start asking why the hell they need us if we’re going to let FedNat in to take care of a few rowdy dock workers.”

Catherine remained silent from her place at the head of the table. She wished Martuf were here, but he was off making arrangements to take care of the Durand situation; it was possible he was on his way there personally. At last she spoke. “We might be able to pin that on me,” she said quietly.

“I’m not sure I understand, your Imperial Majesty,” Temkins said with a frown.

“It’s one possibility, at least. Clement and the rest of you decide to ask for foreign help resolving the situation, but your temperamental and capricious monarch unilaterally forbids it. There’s great risk, of course, but there always is in these things.”

The rest of the table looked thoughtful. Catherine leaned forward. “It could be done the other way around too, but either way, one of us looks better internationally while the other looks better domestically. We’re all here; why don’t we kick the idea around and see if we can figure out who can take the domestic hit?”

Telemachus spoke up first, and Catherine settled back in her chair. This was a problem her cabinet could work on, a way to keep their brains busy while they waited to hear from Martuf about Durand. Hopefully the hostages would be safe soon, and the entire discussion would be moot.

The Purple Chamber, Finisrol Palace
Maratilm, Jharya
Yaratilsh

Salos was loath to enter Finisrol, the grand and unrepentant modern palace at the heart of the capital of Maratilm. A standing edict passed dozens of generations prior decreed that the Emperor's seat ever renew itself, and even now construction crews were at work renovating the south portico. It was ever changing and chaotic, but worst of all it reminded the old Emperor just how far advanced his years truly were, for he now saw nothing in the structure that reminded him of his youth. All was new, and the old had been brushed away.

It was fitting then that he took up residence in the Purple Chamber surrounded by the new. Descending upon Maratilm, he had ordered every adult member of the House of Taulros to attend to him in the massive throne room, so that all his heirs may be present and know his will. For it was now his time to do something new, something that only the force of his will could make the more conservative members of his lineage accept.

He finished reading aloud from his reply to the Chancellor of the Federation of Nations, and waited for what outrage would come.



The Emperor was pleased, though not entirely surprised, to see that there was none. He was by far the oldest person present, for all those of his generation were dead, and a great many of the next two were as well, taken in the fires of the Great War. The eldest present was his own son, Ardisol, who was in agreement with the idea to begin with, and the prince's surviving siblings tended to defer to the peace loving academic. Salos' grandchildren and their descendants would never think to speak against him so publicly, when rebuke was so certain. But still, he knew it was a false peace. One that would only last so long as he lived.

"If we are all agreed then, I shall have this sent to the humans for their response," Salos said in a soft voice, scanning the faces of his children, nieces, nephews, and their own children to see who was still inept enough to mask their dissent. He was equal parts pleased and concerned for his succession that none failed.

"Father, why are we writing only to the Federation? The Lokoid and the Kadathi sent us messages as well. Surely they, at least the Kadathi, deserve a measure of reply," Ardisol asked, the entire family looking first to him - and then to Salos to gauge his reply.

"Oh, my son, it is simple. We do not write to them for we as of yet have nothing of import to say. The Lokoid and the Kadathi respond favorably to our entreaties, yes, but we are not yet in a state to ask anything concrete of them. Worry not however, for should the crisis in the Commonwealth continue, I think we will find ourselves reconvening for such letters to be penned. Now leave me, my children, for I tire."

Ardisol tarried as the ranks of the House of Taulros left their lord to his chambers, as was his right as heir to the throne. When only father and son remains, the younger sets himself opposite the older, his wings hanging limp and uselessly from his back. "You insult those who could be friend."

"You think me miserly of my affections towards a people who are friendly towards us solely because our atrocities were committed against either their foes, or a comfortable distance away?" Salos asks, but there is no sting in his voice.

"I do, father. So long as they only see us as distant conquerors, they will aid us against common foes, but bear us no love."

"Perhaps so. Very well. Make ready your household, my son, for there are none who will think as you in my service save for yourself. Travel to Kadath, and see what love you may engender in their hearts." And so he began to write, penning a response to the Crown Princess.



Camp Kalando, Imperial Research Base
Outskirts of Point Jakurna
Agdemnar

Janfras Camoll was annoyed, and everyone in the room knew it. The strange communication signature had suddenly vanished as soon as it had appeared, and his own genius - at least, in his words - idea had been for nothing. So it was with equal parts amazement and relief that the comms officer on duty reported that the Commonwealth wanted a word with the base.

In most any other research post, the role of Principal Investigator would go to a scientist with sterling credentials in his or her field of study, respected and cited by peers. For Camp Kalando, this was insufficient. Camoll was all of those things, yes, but more important for his current posting was his first love - xenobiology, and psychology, and linguistics.

"The Commonwealth? Unless someone's died the leader of their ground side forces is General Verenkin var Gnaesh, Szitzu. Hard nosed, doesn't take shit, is probably going to hate me. Let's do it. Give them a chirp back and see what they have to say."

Remnants of the Asrian Outpost
Agdemnar

Raw power flowed through the Ghostseer's body, the psychic echoes of the dead amplified through him until they could take on a life of their own. Though the force of special operations troops kept a discrete distance, none could escape the unearthly feeling of their wings standing on end, and a sudden chill in their bones.

And then the dead walked the earth again, if but for a time.

The echoes were legion. Many of them tortured and broken. The flow of psionic energy warped around them like shadows. Only dim lights indicated that they truly were alive and not shade-like automatons. Never the less, the rogue Conflux forces were monstrous even as quickly fading whispers. Amid them, it was not hard to find the revenants of the Asrians. There were no commanders. They had fled after giving the last order to their Thralls. Even though the soulless automatons had no life, there was something of them that stayed behind. An imprint that was only slightly tainted by emotions. The precise orders were quickly fading but their intent was clear: ‘fight until you die’. The coldness by which that demand was given would shock any living creature to its core. It forced one to resign survival. Forsake yourself. Pay with your life. It went against everything being alive but the Thralls were not technically alive. They had given it up willingly and gladly. Some had pulled a Conflux acolyte down with them. The tortured creature’s echo no doubt wrapped around the cold psionic command. But the brightest stars in this fading, incorporeal world of whispers, echoes and dust were those of the fallen Sorcerers. Those great and powerful beings that flung psionic energy. Their echoes were strong and clung to the ground. Unwilling to release themselves. They were clear. Clear enough so the echoes carried more than just faint feelings and psionic imprints. Images and even sound rippled from the blazing psionic nuclei.

“Come die before me! I will burn you all down to ash!” One screamed as he flung empyrean flame at his enemies. Their armor melting as he felt nothing but glee. Which quickly turned to sorrow and coldness. He looked down and saw claws through him. Blood dripping from them. Sorrow was replaced with a vengeance. A clear thought rippled through the echo: "I will take you all with me." The echo ended with a blazing explosion.

Another echo crackled with thunder. Lightning destroyed all in its path as the Sorceress desperately tried to fight off the shadowy enemies. Behind her was a wreckage of a shuttle. Her thoughts were clear. A constant stream. “Sister. Sister. Sister.” Her sadness was intense. “Why didn't you listen? Why did you get on the shuttle?” It was the only deviation from her constant chant. Even when Conflux weaponry ripped through her, dooming her to her last moments, she kept repeating her chant. Until she fell unconscious.

“I am a Prince of Asra! Come at me! Die at my hand!” Another echo repeated. The Prince’s. His was not arrogant like the first echo. It did not have the intense, dreadful sadness of the second echo. There was rage but also a remarkable other thing: a sense of purpose. The echo made it painfully clear, Nautilian knew he would die. Never the less, at the edge of the abyss the Prince stood and found his place. Lightning burned his enemies. Telekinetic forces crushed armor. His echo’s images were crystal clear as well. Untouched and unsullied. They showed the culprit of the attack and the victims of the Prince clearly: Conflux Troops. Even when the lightning died down and the energy of Nautilian vanished, his resolve never changed. Even when his executioner came at him. Only when claws went through him and he laid on the floor did the echo change and emit one last sound: “Are you happy now, brother?”

The shades of the departed faded away, leaving only the desolate landscape of new made glass behind, and a trembling form kneeling upon the ground. With mechanical efficiency, the retinue of soldiers lifted the Ghostseer away from that place of death, and faded into the darkness of the night as the visions themselves had.

Taulron Embassy
City of Andalusia
Corinthene

Larthia Velansa held the envelope in his hands, doing his best to suppress his curiosity at what his Emperor had placed inside his letter of introduction to the Commonwealth's monarch. Two messages had been reposed for him to transmit to the leaders of the Commonwealth upon his arrival at the embassy, but it was that one to their queen that was by far more interesting. A physical letter, dispatched by regular courier, it had arrived some time ago under strict instructions that he must give it personally to Catherine - and that no one must read it save her. The second, far more recent, missive was sent on an emergency courier with no delay and concerned the Durand crisis.

There was a great deal of information within those simple facts, and the ambassador smiled as he began to speculate on what his sovereign had planned. The simple matter was that the physical letter was by far the more important of the two, for not only was it penned with such meticulous care, it had also been sent in such a manner to arouse no undue suspicion. While the contents of the second were well secreted, its matter was obvious to all, and the sheer speed with which it was sent would well imply that it contained nothing earth shattering.

With both due to be sent, the ambassador endeavored to simply deliver them as one to the Imperial-Queen and her Chancellor. Straightening his cranial crest, he exited the embassy, and began the long journey to the audience chamber of the only monarch whose power challenged his own. His longtime aides simply shook their heads as they made note of the jaunt in his step, for they knew that far from being excited at what he knew he was delivering, Larthia was ecstatic at not knowing.





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"Remnants of the Asrian Outpost" was written by @Legion02 with my thanks.