Enigmatik

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

And another bump - still looking for all of those plots!

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

@TexanJanus

You are accepted!

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

The Birth of a Company

A collab between @Enigmatik and @Eldritch Puppy
_{Feaaturing Coronel Martillo}

Kamenymir’s capital had a new addition to its streets and boulevards. At first it had just been one or two new people showing up, slighter and shorter than the usual towering fellows out and about. Then, slowly, day by day, week by week, more people started to move in. Where once there had been a couple, now entire families started to settle in, and as they did, the buildings around them began to change with them. Clustered around a space elevator station in Novyras, the area now known as Little Esperanza or if you were so inclined, Esperanzita, had come to be.

It was a bright, overly sunny day as the man known by the GRA as Coronel Larenzo Javier Martillo stepped outside and looked around. Back home he would be considered powerfully built- tall, with visible muscle, and the first few flecks of grey creeping into his hair and beard. Here, he felt dwarfed for the first time in his life.

Still, he had business to conduct, and it wouldn’t do to look weak to what he sincerely hoped would be his new business partners.This whole voyage had been a huge gamble- he didn’t have the authorisation or the influence to get away with the level of diplomacy he was about to conduct, and if this fell through he’d be lucky if he ever got a relevant command again. No matter: there was little time or reason to think about failure.

The Gran Republic had never been a nation particularly interested in mercenaries. It was too top-down for that, too well controlled by the Senate and by the patricians that populated that institution. Under any other circumstance, his little gambit here would have been casually dismissed without a second thought, but this wasn’t usual circumstances. New Terra still smouldered from the destruction levied on it from above, and across the galaxy nations uneasily eyed each other up, each one reaching out to try and forge another piece of this new order.

And Martillo had never been one to let an opportunity slide by him. Reaching into a pocket, he drew out a set of bulky, gold-framed aviator sunglasses, then set them carefully down over his eyes, now flecked with purple. The ‘Hekate serum,’ he had been informed up in orbit. A permanent change to one’s eye colour, in exchange for immunity from Kamenymir’s strange radiation. He had elected to go for the lite version- he had no particular desire to bulk out of his wardrobe.

Pressing the sunglasses up so they sat more comfortably, he tugged out at the collar of a wool-lined leather trench coat, underneath which sat a faintly shimmering, well-fitted brocade shirt. Beneath that was a g-suit that had originally been invented for Azulvistan pilots , but served well enough to keep Martillo’s organs pumping in the heavier gravity of the planet he now found himself on.

He checked his watch, freshly updated for Kamenymir’s strange timezones and day-cycle, and nodded once. Time to make the meeting that could make or break him.

A few dozen meters away from the station’s exit, the passenger door of an expensive-looking black car with tinted windows opened as Gregor Rayk Mayer stepped out. The founder of Strigoi Global Security, a successful, notably heavily equipped and organized in a military fashion private security firm, looked like the image of Kamenyan businessmen at first glance.

Standing near the Kamenyan average at 2.6 meters tall, and wearing a deep blue suit with a black tie, his face was clean-shaved and remarkably square-shaped, with thick lips and a protruding jaw. Aside from his mundane clothes however, Mayer had his brown hair cut short, the kind of buzzcut more typical of active duty soldiers than of CEOs and stock market traders. Rings of solid gold and silver adorned five of his fingers; three on his left hand, two on the right.

He closed the car door and walked towards Martillo. He smiled widely, and spoke in English with the typical heavy Kamenyan accent. “Mister Martillo, I presume?” He sounded jovial, with a deep husky voice. “Or should I call you colonel?”

Larenzo turned, then craned his neck up to attempt to look the man in the eyes. Once again, he was struck with a sense of not measuring up, before crushing it down. “I’m not in uniform, so Señor Martillo it’ll have to be.” His English was flowery and accented, a far cry from the harsher tones of Gregor. “But yes. I’m here from Azulvista because I think we have a real opportunity on our hands that I wouldn’t want to let slip.” Finally, he offered his hand forward.

“I do not wear the uniform anymore. Some of my men still call me ‘colonel’, though.” He took Larenzo’s hand and shook it firmly, although he did refrain from engaging in a little game of squeezing too hard. “I am Gregor Rayk Mayer. A pleasure to meet you, Señor Martillo.” He released his hand’s grip. “Be welcome to Kamenymir. Now, it wouldn’t do to discuss such things standing in the streets, with a dry throat to boot. I know a good café nearby, my treat. You can tell me if it’s as good as it is on Azulvista, eh?”

The lack of posturing surprised Larenzo a little… But then again, their size and weight difference would likely make it a pointless affair anyway. They knew who was physically stronger here, but this wasn’t about that now, was it? His research on the Strigoi firm told him they cared more about power born from money than they did any physical might.

“Likewise to meet you, Gregor. From some of what I saw up in orbit, I have high hopes for what my countrymen are brewing here. Do you smoke? I brought a small gift.”

“I do. Nebula leaf, that is. Although I have heard about this tobacco thing that some of the other colonies retained from Earth. I’ve read it was quite widespread back when the old planet was still alive and well.”

“Nebula leaf? Hmm. My research doesn’t seem to have brought that up. Incomplete information and all that.” He smirked a little, then reached into his overcoat’s inner pocket to draw out a cylinder only a tad larger than the Kamenyan’s thick fingers. “It’s sized for us, but considering you’ve never smoked before, perhaps that’s for the best.” A quick twist to take the lid off, before he shook out the cigar, taking the time to clip the end before handing it over.

“Not to be fully inhaled,” he informed Gregor. “Keep the smoke in your mouth - it’s for tasting, not sucking.”

Gregor took the cigar with his thumb and index finger, examining it for a few seconds. “Interesting. So you smoke the leaves like that, just dried? I’ll have to get you something in exchange as thanks.” He slid the cigar in his chest pocket. “I’ll save this for a good occasion.”

“Indeed. Hand harvested, sun-dried” Larenzo waved a hand. “Don’t worry about paying it back. That’s why we’re here, no? Hopefully by the end of this little meeting there’ll be a good occasion to light it.”He grinned a little, even as he had to double-time it to keep up with the bulkier man.

“I’ll tell you plain, if you don’t mind the launch into straight business. I have a lot of boys and girls back home, fresh from New Terra or Boot, fire in their eyes, guns in their hands, and nobody to shoot them at. The way I see it, we have a product. We just need to ship it to the right market.”

Gregor chuckled. “I like what you’re saying, Señor Martillo. Most of my current workforce came from the demobilisation of the Uhlans, like I did. The Constitution forbids conscripts from serving in the army in peace time, you see. But a lot of them found that they quite liked the life of a soldier, so now they work for me. Not quite the same thing… Yet.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“Two hundred years of peace. And now that this generation finally gets a taste of the glories of war, it’s been taken from them so quickly after a measly few years of conflict. It’s almost cruel, don’t you think?”

“I’m glad to see we have similar thoughts… And it’s unlikely that our nations are the only ones to be experiencing such a… ‘problem.’ So, here’s my suggestion:” He paused for a moment to straighten his shirt before continuing.

“Your Strigoi are already a functioning mercenary company. We can call them the ‘proof of concept,’ if you will, a sign to investors that our business model works. I have connections within the Republican Army. High connections. A few favours called in, an arm or two twisted, and I can secure us a significant amount of startup capital. Enough to say… Set ourselves up somewhere nice and prominent on Sol, and take your operation from one planet to the entire galaxy.”

“Sol?” He smirked, an eyebrow raised quizzically. “I do hope that your friends are in as high places as you say. The Sol system is subject to… ambiguous legislation, it is true. But that is a blade that cuts both ways.” The two of them walked past a large public park planted with a grove of trees with big, iridescent leaves. Loud buzzing came from that direction as dozens of bee-like creatures the size of a large house cat with multicolored bioluminescent fur frolicked in the canopy, occasionally coming down to play with the children below who were giving them fruit bars. “But if your plan works… Yes, that would put us in a good position. I take it you wish to be partners then?”

“Why not?” Larenzo returned the smirk. “Any system claimed by one nation would draw accusations of favouritism, and as you’ve accurately assessed, there’s no consensus at the moment on who controls what there. So long as we frame ourselves as a neutral third party, there shouldn’t be an issue” He paused for a moment to examine the flora and fauna, although any astonishment that might have been going through his mind certainly didn’t make it to his face.

“Indeed,” he continued, turning back towards Gregor. “Separately, neither of us are even on the board. Together? We can be one of the players above it.” Another few strides to catch up to the goliath-sized Kamenyan.

Mayer chuckled, before letting out a burst of laughter, giving Martillo a none too gentle pat on the back. “You’ve got some balls, Señor Martillo. I like that! Consider me interested in your little scheme. But for now, let’s get ourselves something to drink. We’ll go over the details later on, yes?” The large man smiled with a toothy grin fit for a wild predator.

“They call them cojones where I’m from. But let’s wet our lips - I’m curious to see what you have here.”

---

The Fate of a Desert

_{Featuring Crown Prince Raaid Ghani al-Karim, Aisha and Ögedei Khagn.}

“Tracking four ships, one seems heavily damaged.” The tiny hub that was Azulvista’s defence grid aboard the Meeting Place had suddenly become a swarm of activity. For the majority of its life it had been nothing more than a glorified traffic camera - watching those who came in and out of the Gateway. It didn’t even have offensive weapons, and the few point-defence guns it had would be useless to reach out to the vessels that had suddenly spilled through the wormhole.

“Can we get a response team out there now? If that message is accurate we have a huge opportunity on our hands.”

“Negative. They’d have to come from our side of the Gateway, and that ship doesn’t have that kind of time to waste.”

“Mierda. What are our options the-”

A new voice cut across the frequencies, run through a distorting translator that did nothing to relieve the guttural viciousness of its tone.

“This is the Bai-Ülgen vessel of the Great Khagn of the Steppes and Sky. You have entered the Sol system, and we do not approve of this violence.”

A long pause hung in the air as the crew of the Meeting Place stared at each other.

“Shit… That’s a lot of Khagnate ships…”

“Where the fuck are they coming from? How did we not have them tracked?”

“Someone trace their fucking flight paths right goddamn now, how did we-”

“The asteroid belt. They’re in the fucking asteroid belt.”

“But that’s around Mars? How in the fuck are they planning on getting to Luna orbit that quick?”

“I don’t think they need to. Flagship’s right here.”

“Joda! Right, you.” The officer jabbed a finger out. “Don’t let these saindsdamned Khagnate ships out of our sight. I have no idea how they squirrelled a fucking armada out there and I don’t want another surprise like that. Check under every fucking rock out there if you have to, comprende?”

“Si, señor,” came the grumbling response.”

---

If it wasn’t for the EVA suits that had been included in the shuttle Raaid had stolen, he’d be dead. They were losing atmosphere from three different places in the hull, had lost half of their thrusters, limiting their movement to precisely two directions, neither of which were helping them stabilise their trajectory, and they had somersaulted so many times that it was a miracle his dinner had stayed down.

But they were seemingly safe. After… The Great Khagn? Had signalled their vessel, and a whole suite of new IDs had begun to flash up on the fritzing rangefinder, the three Caliphate vessels that had been so eagerly snapping at his heels had peeled back, hanging next to the Gateway.

Aisha turned to look at the prince, confusion plain on her face even through the semi-reflective visor of her suit.

“Are we safe? What’s happening?”

“We’re in Sol, it seems. Home. And others got here first.”

The voice returned, sputtering out through the comms console.

“Crown Prince Raaid, the Great Khagn has extended his beneficious hand towards you, sovereign to sovereign. He invites you aboard the Bai-Ülgen to take tea, and welcome you to Sol.”

Raaid opened his mouth and was about to reply, when another voice - this one untranslated, its Arabic clearly rusty, came through.

“Ahem… This is translator Candelaria Barbosa, speaking on behalf of the Gran Republic of Azulvista. We would also like to welcome you, your royal highness. If the Khagn would permit, we would also like to send a representative to meet you.”

There was another long pause, and this time Raaid stayed quiet. There was already politics going on, and while normally such a thing would excite him, he was smart enough to recognise that right now he was the pawn in the negotiations, not the queen.

“The Great Khagn has vouched for your Republic, Candelaria. You are permitted aboard the Bai-Ülgen.”

“Many thanks, your Majesty.”

Finally, Raaid spoke. “Your offer is most gracious, and we will of course come aboard your vessel. Unfortunately however, we have lost control over our vehicle, and are una-”

“That will not be an issue.”

---

Aisha wasn’t sure what she expected when she had heard they’d be taken aboard by the ‘Great Khagn,’ but this certainly wasn’t it. A massive starship - bigger than even the mightiest ones used by the Caliphate as propaganda coups, had cruised towards them, then unceremoniously pointed some sort of device at their broken vessel and reeled it in.. They’d made contact with a juddering clank, and less than five minutes later, a small swarm of people, all fitted for the void they’d found themselves in, were clustering around the vessel.

She and the prince were both ushered out one of the gaping holes in the hull, then pushed and pulled through microgravity towards a cable that had been shot between the damaged shuttle and an airlock some distance above them.

“Quite the welcoming party, isn’t it?” Raaid’s voice came through their internal comms bright and clear.

“Are we sure this is a good idea? Sure, they scared off the Nizam’s goons, but…”

“Do you have a better suggestion? We could stay in the ship until we run out of air in our suits, if you’d prefer?”

She bit her tongue. This entire thing stank to high heaven, but the prince was right - they weren’t in a position to turn down any help, no matter how bizarre or concerningly offered it was.

As she pulled herself along the length of the cable, she took the opportunity to turn back and stare at the craft. She wasn’t sure what she had expected these strange folk to do, but even so she hadn’t expected to see the plumes of plasma cutters as they ate away at the hull, nor sparks flying from the internal engineering as besuited spacers set to work.

“They don’t look like they’re fixing it…”

“They can have the damn thing if they’re taking us aboard”

“Prince, with all due respect, that’s our only way to get around here, with-”

“Aisha, it goes down and left, and that’s it. It wasn’t getting us anywhere anyway. It did its duty, it did it well, and if these Khagnate fellows want to see how it ticks, they’re more than welcome to it.”

“I like this even less…”

“Concerns noted and filed away for later.” Or, to put it in a way that wasn’t distinctly Raaid-ish, she was being ignored.

“On our heads be it.” She sighed.

As someone who had never had to move around in zero-gravity, she felt distinctly disadvantaged as she slowly crawled along the cable. Around her, their rescuers zipped around, either assisting each other or using movement suites - something she was seriously wishing her suit had right now.

“Odd to see people who seem at home in space, no?”

“They seem way too used to this, yes.”

“You fret too much. We’re not dealing with Al-Sahra any more Aisha, these people are probably very different to us.”

“That’s exactly why I’m fretting.”

The prince chuckled, but finally the pair had arrived by the airlock, two more besuited individuals reaching across the gap to tug them in. Once they were both firmly situated inside the cramped space, one of the figures slammed a button and the blast doors crashed shut, vapour pouring in from the sides of the room.

Three long, silent minutes later, and the first individual removed their helmet, showing themselves to be a swarthy, short-haired man, who promptly genuflected and gestured towards the other door.

The prince removed his own helmet, then beamed at the man. “Thank you very kindly. I assume you-” The man’s blank expression told both the Dinnin that he had no clue what the prince was saying.

“To the airlock it is. Out that suit Aisha, it won’t be helping us here.” The prince busied himself with shedding the reinforced over-layer of the suit, and Aisha reluctantly followed suit, until the two were left in the thin, heat-positive jumpsuits that they had stuffed themselves into.

With that done, the door swung open, and immediately Aisha reached for the weapon she no longer had. Five walking behemoths, each one seven or eight feet tall and carrying weapons that looked like they weighed more than she herself did, all clad in bulky armour and only one without a sealed helmet. The last of them, slightly shorter than the others, had his under his arm, and was accompanied by a woman that he absolutely dwarfed in size and stature, wearing a peculiar device over her mouth and nose.

“Greetings, Crown Prince. These are the Khagn’s Kheshigs, led by Commander Temürdai. We are here to escort you to the Khagn himself.”

The prince let out a low whistle. “God rest the souls of those we left behind but… If we had five of these fellows, perhaps everyone’d have made it to the ship…”

Aisha gulped a little. These were the Khagn’s soldiers? When combined with the massive vessel they had been unceremoniously yanked onto, she was starting to feel like the Dinnin were a tiny fish in what had just become a very, very large pond.

“If I may ask.” The Prince was currently having to wedge himself between two of the airlock walls to keep himself stable in zero-g. “How on Earth are they all standing upright in this?”

“Their armour contains magnets for just this occasion. Now please, there are more important matters. The Khagn has laid out the ‘Red Carpet,’ for you, and the Azulvistan delegation will be arriving shortly. Do you require aid to move around?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” The prince nodded several times, finally letting himself float when Temürdai reached out a hand, then promptly tugged him forward, through the crowd of Keshigs, and then practically launched him across the corridor. Bracing herself, Aisha also reached out, then felt her stomach churn again as the huge man sent her too flying along the hallway. The translator simply kicked off from one of the walls and shot along behind them, while the five soldiers turned together and began to march in lockstep behind them.

Several more weightless manouvres later, and they had finally reached what the translator helpfully described as the “inner sanctum,” and the pair of Dinnin found themselves suddenly under the effect of gravity once more.

The kheshigs escorted the pair through a set of massive blast doors that groaned as their gatekeepers hauled them open, and finally the group were through to the Khagn’s own court. Aside from the bullish figures of kheshigs and the rather downplayed appearance of the man himself, the rest of the court was stuffed with a myriad of different faces. Women and men, wearing everything from a thin gauze to shamanic robes had stopped what they were doing, curious eyes watching these two newcomers to the galactic scene step forward.

Raaid let out a low whistle at the sight. “Just think Aisha. Once upon a time, the arcology houses would have looked just like this. Hells, maybe they might even come to look like it again.”

His bodyguard let out a quiet grumble, but even she couldn’t hide how impressed she was.

For his part, the Khagn let out a wide smile, spread his arms wide, and in a cheery tone began to talk, the translator quickly filtering it through.

“He says that you are honoured and welcome guests, offers you sanctuary, and offers to treat you and your companion as befitting royal status.”

Raaid blinked a few times. He had to admit - he’d have thought that convincing people he was, actually royalty might have taken some time, but here it seemed none of that suspicion had come through. No looking a gift horse in the mouth though. He offered a slight bow - he was a prince, and thus below a king, but only slightly. No deep prostration here.

“Many thanks, Khagn, for your swift action and welcome hospitality. I had not thought such kindness and generosity would be so easily found through the Gateway - there is perilously little for me back home.”

The translator paused for a moment as the Khagn processed Raaid’s words, then resumed his translation. “The Khagn bids you to think little of it. This is sacred ground - those who would profane it not just with blood, but that of royalty, should thank themselves that we merely frightened them off. He says that even though he is eager to hear your tale, he wishes for you to wait until the third delegation arrives, so you may save your breath. In the meantime, do you drink?”

A smile slowly spread across Raaid’s face. “You’d be surprised how long I’ve waited for someone to ask me that.”

---

Slaughter over the Sands

_{A long overdue collab between @Lady Lascivious and @Enigmatik}

Transports screamed through the sky, and the small train of warriors paused, gazing up at it. “Quivers out!” Barked the lead warrior, and almost immediately the procession halted themselves, vaulting off bikes, dismounting from horses, and scampering out of buggies. Missile launchers were pulled from their moorings and set into place, the convoy forming a loose circle just in case others had had the same idea.

The foremost warrior unfolded a long, telescoping device and aimed it at the trails of smoke and vapour in the sky. A tiny display winked into life on the device, and the quivers automatically turned themselves, locked on to new targets.On the horizon, the specks that were their marks soared merrily along, ignorant to the danger, yet majestic in their movements.

This would not continue for long. The horses huffed angrily, and the engines idled, the quivers of high explosives bristling in the blistering sun. “Shoot,” the lead warrior ordered, and with a single chop of his hand the quivers were emptied. The rush and whir of missile engines engaging filled the air, the small plumes of smoke barely noticeable against the pale sands of the Steppe. As they hurtled into the sky, their primitive robotic minds were fixated only on the transports above them. This was their purpose.

Before they had even hit their mark, the warriors were moving. The tubes were hefted up and tossed over mounts, engines revving and horses snorting as they were kicked into action, clouds of dust kicked up in their wake as they moved to pursue the same targets the missiles now wung towards.

It was a small warband, not even a full clan’s worth of power. Really, it was just a raiding party that had seen an opportunity and taken it. Several buggies roared beside a single small-rig, boosted speakers blasting out the deep, melodic, and throaty wartunes that so often accompanied violence on the Steppe. The leader, clambering back onto the small-rig unfurled a warbanner, horsehairs angrily fluttering in the wind, and a small host of bikes and horses rallied around it, heavily augmented beasts managing to keep pace with their mechanical counterparts in a startling display of raw force.

The three aircraft in the formation were mothballed transport models from well over eighty years prior, kept in storage awaiting decommission. The opening of the Gateways had prompted a slew of interest from groups of Ishtari interested in procuring them for foreign adventurism. The allure of Khagnate archaeotech in particular prompted the creation of many a group seeking to pillage the remnants of yet another ancient civilization to bring back home to the commonality. Though these models lacked extensive weapons suits, armour, or more than basic defensive measures even for their time, they were nevertheless cheaply afforded.

Within the cockpit of the lead craft of the formation, the pilot kept her eyes trained on the horizon. Nothing but sand and rocks as far as the eye could see, interspersed with the remnants of bygone battles and crumbled civilizations, picked over by human carrion and left to gently rust away in the desert. The monotony of the desert was almost dangerous in and of itself, even speeding along it towards the promised coordinates as they were. They were making good time - but even so, she’d had to hit the stimulant drip more than once during the transition. The girls in the back had the luxury of waiting for a drop to the ground. Up here? Her eyes had to be peeled, constantly, for any sign of danger. And yet as she scanned the horizon she saw nothing once more. Her bored expression mirrored that of the copilot.

The monotony was quickly shattered as the old craft’s missile warning system called out at her. Reacting on well honed instinct, she disabled the autopilot with a simple nervous impulse, pulling the antiquated joystick control sharply as she began evasive maneuvers. Her copilot reacted just as quickly, activating the decoy flares. A series of muffled shouts and shrieks met her from the rear of the craft. “Contact!” She yelled out, “Buckle in!”

The second craft was not so fortunate, a missile slamming into one of its engines and erupting in a fireball that sent the stricken aircraft slowly careening into the ground, coming to a screeching crash landing. She winced as she watched its crew hastily evacuating from the wreckage, already brandishing weapons or dragging the wounded clear of the flames. The third aircraft fared little better, a missile tearing a chunk out of the fuselage and dangerously near the reactor. It had little time left in the air, but even as they began to lose altitude its pilots relayed to her location the rockets had been fired from.

The side door opened as the door gunner took up her position, taking aim at the enemy position and letting loose a burst from the E60. Those on the ground joined in, directing every ounce of firepower they had at their disposal towards the enemy.

She yelled back to her crew, “We’re putting you down! Ceratis! Keep their heads down! Anything pointing a launcher at us dies!”

The sounds of engines and hoofbeats were nothing in comparison to the music now blasting out across the Steppe. It shook the earth, drowning out the noises of the engines and the screeches of dying machines… And the sounds of mortars being fired. One of the buggies had fallen back a little, internal stabilisers allowing the crew to begin dropping indirect fire all around the vague vicinity of the downed crafts.Even as it slowed though, its fellows sped up, and now, barely audible over the guttural singing was the whoops and howls of the steppefolk as they tore their way towards the Ishtari.

The smallrig’s huge frame slowly began to turn, turrets atop the cumbersome construction’s beetle-like shell whirring to face the enemy position. The explosive rounds of the E60 thrummed through the air, bursting and raining shrapnel down upon the advancing warriors. One bike spun out, the rider thrown clean into the air, smashing down into a sand dune. As they tried to recover, limbs wobbling, the rest of the raiding party pressed onwards, disregarding their first casualty. Now, the smallrig’s turrets had found their range, cannon shots returning the displeasure of the steppefolk.

The bikes and horses began to peel apart from each other, each one clearly serving a separate role in this battle. The bikes wheeled about, throwing up a wall of dust as their tyres spun, then gripped the sand. From the back of the bikes weapons were aimed, and as the cavalrymen revealed long, bulb-tipped lances, a host of arrows, grenades and bullets were sent hurtling through the air towards the Ishtari. A few missed entirely, but many more did not, rattling off the vehicles or bursting into billowing smoke.

More Ishtari took up cover positions near the crashed aircraft, neurolinks slotted in and weapons calibrated, they began unleashing a withering hail of fire on the enemy in disciplined bursts. A power armored Gorgon Strain pulled herself from the rubble and, hefting the two E60s from the downed aircraft, positioned herself as the center of the impromptu defensive line. More of the GPMGs joined the fray as the passengers from the undamaged transport, and the ones from the wounded craft took up their positions, 26mm rocket propelled armor piercing explosive and airburst fragementation rounds hurtling downrange towards the onrushing steppefolk. Of course, it wasn’t as if they needed to pierce armour or explode- these were not the heavily armoured foes these weapons were designed for, but nonetheless steppefolk fell as explosions rocked the sandy plain.

The pilot of the remaining transport radioed in to the mothership in orbit. “Ryu, Washite 1, ambushed by war party of steppefolk, Washite 2 and Washite 3 down, request immediate reinforcement, I say again we require immediate reinforcement, over. ”

“Washite 1, Ryu, acknowledged. Sit tight, we’re sending the gunship. How long do you think you can hold out? Over.”

“Washite 1, we’re down two out of three and we’re taking heavy fire. Get here as fast as you can. We’re doing our best. Over.”

The pilot redoubled her efforts, pulling her craft to face the enemy as her second door gunner swung out and began directing her own stream of heavy shells towards the oncoming enemy.

On the ground, a Tiamat Strain hefted another piece of surplus equipment - a shoulder mounted launcher, taking aim at the largest of the enemy war machines. This was what they had trained for, albeit only for a short time. The gunner waited for the lock on, and cheered as she pulled the trigger, watching as the missile streaked towards its target. The crack of .50 caliber smart-rockets breaking the sound barrier was muffled by the explosion as the rig was engulfed in flame. A second later, an explosive tipped arrow struck its operator, blowing a crater in her chest and sending her sprawling backward where she was dragged into cover by another.

Despite the size and seemingly cumbersome nature of the smallrig, it was clear that taking it down would not be as easy as the Ishtari had perhaps hoped. The missile fired, streaking through into the air, then cracked against the carapace of the rig, engulfing it for a brief moment in flames and force. The rig rocked unsteadily, the front cabin threatening to jackknife the vehicle, but then, with a blast of its horn and gouts of flames and smoke from its exhaust the vehicle steadied itself. Smoke trickled from the turret that had been directly struck by the missile, but the others steadfastly continued to fire, one even adjusting itself up and pounding fire at the transport that was still airborne, hoping to force it into a landing.

Now however, the cavalrymen had vanished. The smoke and dust kicked up by the steppefolk concealed them to the eye, and the pounding music, explosions and the whoops and howls of the tribal warriors all around the Ishtari made the distinctive hoofbeats of the troops impossible to make out.

Then, from a cloud of white smoke just behind the most damaged aircraft, they emerged. Six steppefolk, lances lowered, mounts whinnying, burst from the concealment and aimed themselves towards the firing line. A volley of explosions went up as their demolition lances made contact, the horsemen desperately wheeling away to avoid return fire… Apart from one. Despite having struck an Ishtari clean on with the lance, the tip had not detonated, and, instead of leaving her a smouldering corpse, he galloped through the line of bullets and smoke, only to find that impaled on the end of his weapon was a still very much alive foe.

The impaled Tiamat Strain bared her teeth at him as she clawed for the rider, instinct wearing off after a second as she pulled herself further down his lance toward him, clawing for a bulky sidearm holstered on her thigh. She freed it and fired off a half dozen heavy caliber rounds into his chest and toward another rider in the distance, the explosive rounds detonating inside their targets with devastating force.

Unfortunately for the tiamat strain, this might not have been the smartest idea. As the shells exploded the rider’s arm went limp, their lance drooping down until they were dashed into the sand. Although unpleasant, this would not have been fatal to her… Unless, of course, the steed that the late warrior had been riding on galloped over her, its colossal hooves smashing down first onto her ribcage and then her skull, the force of the tremendous beast every bit as potent as a man-made weapon.

As if to ensure that she was out of the battle, another rider whose lance had blown itself as intended had drawn a bow, and as she galloped past the Ishtari she loosed an arrow with an instinct drawn from decades of practice. The arrow burrowed its way into the Ishtari soldier, and then, in a final moment of revenge for her fallen brethren, the horsewoman pivoted her steed, yet another set of hooves crashing down onto the unfortunate Ishtari. A moment later, the lance’s explosive tip finally detonated.

Elsewhere, the battle still raged. Several of the steppefolk bikers had peeled off from their harrying tactics and now tore towards the firing line. As the rider of one kept their mount steady, their passenger rose to his feet, holding out a ramshackle and boxy-looking construction with one hand.

With a howl, he activated the archeotech, and a bright beam of black light burst out, streaking towards the Ishtari line.

The beam struck an unfortunate Tiamat Strain square in the chest, her surplus armour of little use against the archaeotech beam as it, seemingly, bored a hole through her chest, her body and armour crumbling into dust as it was atomized by the blast. Instantly in return, the man was struck by a dozen rounds of various calibers, great gaping holes torn from his body as a hail of fire threw him from the bike. The rider, to avoid a similar fate, tipped the entire vehicle up, sending a plume of sand and dirt into the air to provide them with a smokescreen. By the time it cleared, the bike had already begun its retreat, the rider throwing themselves violently from left to right in order to avoid any more retaliatory fire.

“The actual fuck?!” An Ishtari yelled as she hunkered down to reload, eyes wide at the burnt remnants of a former comrade. “The fuck they get that kind of weapon?!” She slammed a fresh magazine into her gun and dropped it, the sling catching it, and threw herself onto another onrushing buggy. She pulled out her sidearm and a knife, plunging the blade into the skull of the first steppefolk and firing off a trio of bullets into the other.

The combatants were treated to the sight of an untrained Ishtari wrestling with the controls to the buggy, two dead steppefolk being thrown from it as she veered wildly off course, nearly slamming into another buggy as she tossed them a crazed salute, taking aim with a grenade and hurling it into the buggy’s driver’s seat, and peeling off towards the largest war rig with a mad cackle.

Hefting her rifle in hand, she waited the split second for the software to pick out targets, and pulled the trigger. In seconds the weapon’s magazine was empty and she was slamming another one in, her hands working on autopilot as dozens of explosive rounds slammed into the rig and its occupants.

She would regret being so careless with her ammunition. No sooner had she finished her barrage before a figure pulled themself up through the smouldering scrap that had been a turret on the small-rig, hurling herself across the gap between the two vehicles, a spear held overhead. She slammed into the Ishtari, the weapon punching clean through the tiamat strain’s natural armour, her weight causing the entire buggy to lift precariously off two of its wheels. The Ishtari retaliated, hurling the steppewoman back with almost as much force, sending her careening backwards and into one of the decorative spikes that adorned the sides of the buggy.

The changes in momentum was too much for the still-moving buggie to handle. Uncontrollably veering off to one side, it held course for but a second before it lifted off the ground too far, scrap metal flying off at odd directions from the crash. Blood seeped through the steppewoman’s teeth as she offered the Ishtari a final grin which her foe reciprocated in kind, the buggie managing another full roll before her grenades detonated.The concussive force set off the buggie’s ammunition cache, which, in turn, caused the hydrogen fuel tanks of the vehicle to also explode, the entire construct coming to a burning, smouldering end, shrouded in the dust its last manoeuvre had kicked up.

Her comrades hefted their rifles and cheered her display. Many of them yelled out “Banzai!”, one of the few untainted holdovers from the old earth languages that persisted within her own as they redoubled their counteroffensive against the Steppe attackers. Another, however, shook her head as she sheltered behind a burning hunk of scrap metal to reload, instead calling out, “Mediocre, Iuvetis!” before hurling a large grenade towards the enemy, the explosion generating a large noxious cloud of brown mist that ate at the flesh and lungs of anything it touched. Surplus weapons dug up from decades ago, but still appallingly deadly even now.

As the battle intensified further, the Ishtari counted down the minutes until air support was due to arrive. Outnumbered, surrounded, and with their ammunition reserves rapidly dwindling in the face of far greater numbers than they had prepared for, the situation grew increasingly desperate.

“How much longer we gotta hold these fuckers off?” An Akkoro Strain yelled to a comrade as she slammed a fresh magazine into her gun, firing off a burst of the explosive rounds into the chest of a charging Steppesman. Several more bullets pinged off the metal around her, one of them slamming into her armor and forcing her back into cover as she wheezed for breath.

“About seven minutes according to comms.” Her partner shouted back, pulling spare magazines from the headless body slumped next to her. “We might wanna prep self-destruct just in case because I’m not sure we can hold off that long.”

There was a brief pause in the battle, although the shells from the mortar vehicles in the back continued to fall, pounding the Ishtari and preventing them from gaining too much breath back. Even the small-rig’s guns stopped for a moment. The battlefield quietened.

The leading cannon on the small rig turned to the air and fired a single shell. It lanced upwards, then burst apart, a streak of bright orange smoke staining the sky. The pair of guns remaining turned to the three aircraft and resumed their barrage, except these shells didn’t detonate on contact- instead, wherever they contacted, thick, choking grey smoke sprung up, obscuring the vision of the defenders.

The meaning of the smoke was almost immediately apparent to the embattled Ishtari. “Regroup! Regroup! They’re going to charge! Don’t get cut off!” Called one of them, pulling a wounded comrade into the cover offered by one of the downed craft. The injured soldier, seemingly unphased by his lack of a leg or the intestines that could be seen dangling from his ruptured abdomen, continued to hold his rifle in anticipation of assault. The Ishtari were well prepared for battles in which quarter was neither expected nor offered, and they readied themselves as such, regrouping for a better defensive position for a final stand. Detonation charges were slapped onto the munitions too heavy to drag towards the craft they’d hold out at, deadman’s switches synced as a backup in case they were killed before they could destroy the craft and their payloads.

Every Ishtari carried a melee weapon of some sort. Some had them as natural parts of their bodies. Some carried swords, large knives, or axes on their persons in addition to their kit, but all were proficient in their use. Whatever charge the steppefolk had in mind they would find their quarry willing to fight to the last. A final radio message was sent out to the incoming aircraft that there was a likelihood they would find no survivors, and to drop whatever ordnance they had on the site and bug out.

The pounding music from the small-rig cut out. The only sound on the battlefield was the whistling of covering shells as they plummeted all around the Ishtari, and a faint, almost indistinct whine from somewhere outside the ring of smoke they were surrounded by. Then, building up slowly, was a low, indistinct, guttural noise, harsh and powerful.

It rose up in volume, the whining sound growing closer, the two sounds overlapping each other, both growing in intensity.

The smoke above them was ripped apart as skimmer-craft soared overhead. They were here and gone in a moment, but hurling themselves off from the sides, plummeting down, were steppefolk warriors. As they descended, the indistinct cry suddenly took on a more definitive tone, dozens of voices screaming out a single word together.

UUKHAI!

The Steppefolk burst from the smoke, spears, axes and blades held out before them, a few ripping off gunshots towards anything they saw that looked like it was twitching. An unfortunate Tiamat strain found herself practically leapt on by a warrior, a knife big enough and long enough to be called a sword flashing down as it struck the fish-folk’s neck, before coming down again and again and again, blood staining the sands as the blade punctured the armored membrane.

The Tiamat Strain in question bared rows of razor pointed teeth, dragging out a large knife of her own from a sheath strapped to her thigh and lunging at her attacker. She sank her teeth into the first soft flesh she could find, tearing away bloodied chunks from what rapidly became the remnants of a face. Raising her blade she plunged her knife into the steppefolk’s back over and over again, both combatants heedless of whether they lived or died as they savaged each other with the brutality of feral beasts.

The Ishtari, seeing the writing on the wall, pressed the self-destructs on two of the three downed craft, excepting the one they now sheltered by. Powerful shockwaves tore apart the air as fireballs erupted from these munitions, and the Ishtari pressed the counterattack. Those who lacked ammunition hefted melee weapons or even carried explosives on their persons as the remaining defenders sallied into the onrushing Steppefolk. Those too injured to run continued to pour gunfire into the oncoming steppefolk. The Ishtari warcry, preserved through their trials aboard the Ark, rose in defiance of the Steppefolk’s own as the doomed defenders launched their final suicide attack, gunning down or stabbing to death every Steppefolk they could see.

BANZAI!

Some charged into groups of enemies clutching armfulls of explosives, detonating them and wiping their bodies and those around them from existence. Others displayed tremendous prowess with the swords they carried, fighting ferociously until overwhelmed or gunned down. Others emptied the last of their remaining ammunition into the enemy before pulling out knives and swords and joining the doomed attack. The power armored gorgon strain, finally, burned through the last of her ammunition as the 26mm explosive rounds tore apart Steppefolk, the guns clattering empty as she disconnected their neural links and tossed them aside, drawing two sidearms and two primed explosives as she too joined the charge.

The sides crashed together in a last explosion of violence - one that was over almost as quickly as it had started. There was little time to revel in the victory though - the steppefolk had the rest of their clan to join up with, and the sheer number of explosives the Ishtari had deployed had rendered most of the battlefield naught but scrap and rubble. They salvaged what little they could and pressed on, the Ishtari air support only serving to pound the sand into even finer fragments.

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Bump!

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Dropping my first bump!

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Greetings Friend

---

---

Come on in, sit down and rest your weary bones. My name is Enigmatik (also known as Irredeemable,) and I'm a mature, advanced writer seeking a partner for a few of my more specific plots and pairings. A few things about myself first, so you know what you're getting into, and then I'll get into what, exactly, I'm looking for.

I'm a UK based writer (UCT 0 or +1) and have been pressing funny buttons to make words happen for over a decade now. I consider myself an advanced writer, and expect my partners to be the same, or at least very close. You should also know that I will not be responding every day. I endevour to provide replies for partners consistently, but life is life, and I'll do my darndest to let you know if I'm struggling, busy or otherwise incapable of writing. Finally, although I do write mature content, including 18+ content, I'd rather avoid writing smut without story. In moderation, in a longer running piece, it can be a nice break from everything else, but when it's the sole focus I find my attention start to waver rather quickly.

As a brief note, please either private message me, or hit me up on Discord using the name Engimatik. Odds are that I won't respond to anyone who posts in this thread.

With all that said, let's head onto the ideas:

Heroes and Villains
I've been wanting to play a specific superhero character for quite some time now - a young speedster by the name of Traverse, and I'm hoping to form a sort of 'chronicle' alongside a supporting cast that takes us across a longer period of time involving several timeskips. This would allow us to not only play around with character development, but also do some fun worldbuilding in the setting as well!

The Sunrise Kingdom
Blue Eye Samurai has got me going on another Jidaigeki kick, and I've got a few different but mostly closely related plots based on Sengoku and Edo perod Japan. Wandering swordsmen, western merchants and conniving yokai all included.

Fire and Steel
I have a wide array of plots and ideas for different low-fantasy pairings and settings. Anything ranging from late antiquity with crude hill forts and proto-medieval social structures to early modern escapades amidst gunsmoke and the churn of a printing press. If the idea of a small mercenary band caught up in a war much larger than themselves appeals to you, I even have a mostly fleshed out setting!

Space Truckin'
Sci-fi comes in many flavours. Hard, soft, chocolate-coated with a nougaty centre, you know the drill. Recently, I've been leaning more towards the 'nougaty centre' type, with a lack of typical soft scifi tropes while still maintaining a harder scifi feeling, minus the deep dives into physics that make my brain start to leak out of my ears. As the name suggests, space freighting or salvage is a current interest of mine, but I'm more than happy to work out different plots too!

Fandom
At the moment there are really only three fandoms I'm interested in doing, and two are cheating because they're from the same franchise: Warhammer Fantasy (not AoS, I know too little,) Warhammer 40,000, and Titanfall. If any of these interest you, hit me up and let's work something out!

I hope to write with you soon!

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

Dinnin WIP

Nation Name: The Dinnin People's Caliphate | The Dinnin Confederacy

Government Form:
One-Party Theocratic Centralised State | Confederated Parliamentary Monarchy

Demographics:
100% Homo Sapiens Sapiens, of which:
~ 68% live in Arcologies
~ 24% are settled outside of Arcologies
~ 8% are fully nomadic

Population:
1.3 billion

---


The official flag of the Dinnin People's Caliphate, showing the Golden Path delivering people from sin, and into God's light.
---

Planet Name and Description: The Dinnin name their planet Al-Sahra al-Kubra or 'The Great Desert,' a deeply unsubtle name for a planet that has so little water. Al-Sahra is dominated by wide, sweeping ergs, interspersed by towering mountain ranges and the occasional life-giving artery that is Al-Sahra's few colossal rivers. Al-Sahra's limited surface water does not stop it from having small seas and a few large lakes, where the climate is wet and cool enough to sustain agriculture nearly year-long.

Outside of these areas however, the desert itself ranges from life-filled to wasteland. Unlike the Sahara on Earth, which was predominantly stony hamada, Al-Sahra is dominated by 'sand seas.' Under the right conditions, these can be whipped up into tremendous sandstorms that roll across miles of barren landscape... Or rip out of the deep desert to assert the sand's due over settlements and cities.

Finally, Al-Sahra contains a rather peculiar substance known as Naqahdah. An extremely potent fuel source that can be refined into several useful forms, great effort is expended in order to drill, mine and frack Naqahdah out so it can be processed and used. Although it is not the only source of energy the Dinnin use, it would not be an exaggeration to state that if the substance ran out, the Dinnin would not be able to continue their lifestyle.

History: The first colonists to set foot on the bright sands of Al-Sahra were a particularly disunited bunch. The small fleet of ships that had ferried them across the stars were originally the pet project of wealthy Middle Eastern mangates - those few who still clung to the power of petroleum, corporate bigwigs and old royalty, along with their staff and crews, but as the situation on Earth continued to deterioriate, many of these private enterprises were hijacked by state or other private interests. What emerged on the other side was a collective of the richest, poorest and everything in between, but the group that would have the largest impact were the followers of the 'Prophet' Khalid Al-Ashgar, considered a sayidd (descendent of the Prophet Muhammad) by his followers. Khalid, a tech and advertisement mogul, had received significant controversy over his belief in the 'Golden Path,' an Islam-derived doomsday cult, and he and his followers laid the groundwork for what would become the modern-day Caliphate, based on his teachings.

Upon arrival of the planet, and the discovery of it being significantly poorer for colonisation than initial estimates had suggested, any sense of unity between the fleets rapidly disintergrated. The early days of the colony were marked by tragedy after tragedy, but out of these tragedies came enough small successes that it seemed all was not lost. Collectives of vessels forged the foundations for many of the most prominent arcologies of today. The discovery of Naqahdah and its use as a fuel source was the main driver of initial conflict, as these early city-states began to throw their weight around. These disunified and fractured states and their poorly-protected auxiliary settlements were also rich pickings for nomadic bands, who experienced a golden age that would dwindle as their targets became strengthened and governments more stable.

This fractious world would be turned over its head by the re-emergence of the Golden Path. Having become a de-facto recognised religion by almost every arcology, the tinderbox of religious conflict was simply waiting for a chance to blossom into an inferno - and the incendiary preaching of Dawud Al-Ashgar, great-grandson (in law) of Khalid. Successfully placing himself as the head of what he claimed was the one true priesthood, he and his followers sized control of the Rawdat Al-Nour Arcology, urging followers in other cities to rise up as he had done. What followed was almost 30 years of civil instability and outright inter-arcology war, ultimately culimating in the near-total destruction of the Manarat Al-Rimal Arcology and the declaration by the now-elderly Dawud that the Caliphate had been made manifest across Al-Sahra.

The rest, as they say, is history. The Caliphate's fortunes have waxed and waned as anti-Path sentiment among the population has come and gone, and now, in the 27th century, their near century-and-a-half control of Al-Sahra is looking weaker and weaker. Many of the plentiful Naqahdah fields have started to run low, and ever-more extreme methods of keeping the population 'faithful' has caused widespread resentment. Once again, Al-Sahra is a tinderbox waiting to be lit.

Culture and Society: The Golden Path mandates strict aesceticism for its followers, mimicking the times of hardship that mankind endured during the fall of Earth. What other societies would call luxuries are instead branded as distractions and traps, designed to lead people into sin. To keep people from sin, the Path enforces harsh religious law, backed by a heavy-handed surveillance state and draconian punishment for 'sinners' and 'apostates.'

Despite this however, there has always been light, laughter and gaiety in Al-Sahra. The high-density nature of their acologies fosters a strong sense of community among neighbours, and communual gatherings and celebrations (even under strict religious observance) are common, especially weddings, funerals and festival days. The arcologies themselves - particularly the older ones, designed during the Confederacy, are prone to intricate and 'wasteful' flourishes, and the aesteticism encouraged by Al-Nizam has fostered a culture that recycles and upcycles goods to the nth degree.

---

Governance and Politics: The Dinnin are, broadly speaking, divided into two main factions, with several smaller splinter factions that vie for control and influence. The first of these factions, and the one that is currently in power, is the Caliphate, led by al-Nizam, or the priestly class. They are opposed by the Confederacy, united behind the al-Karim dynasty. As the current malik (king) is elderly and in hiding, his first son, emirRaaid is the centerpiece for this movement.

The Caliphate believe that the entirety of Al-Sahra should be ruled according to the tenents of the Masar Aldhahab - The Golden Path laid out for the Dinnin before the Fall of Earth. This manifests in what can best be described as 'collectivist theocracy,' with strong central planning, a rejection of the free-market, a heavy focus on religious law and where 'state' and 'church' are near-interchangeable.

The Confederacy on the other hand grew out of the fractured, disparate arcology-states that formed in the first century of colonisation. Although unified underneath a single malik, who acts the head of state, the majority of power is granted to various emirs, nizams and sheikhs, each of whom have significant flexibility in the rule of their own arcologies, alongside democratically elected viziers and parliaments. (In practice, the actual strength of democratic institutions in the old Confederacy could vary wildly, from crowned republics to absolute monarchies in all but name.)

Finally, there are the various nomadic peoples, who live outside of the laws of any arcology government. Although the nomads are hardly a unified bunch, they tend to have strong familial or tribal clan structures, led by chiefs, patriarchs, matriarchs and the like.

Technology Overview: Although Al-Sahra seems barren to the untrained eye, the Dinnin have long since grown used to using every scrap the desert can provide them to produce material wonders. The greatest demonstration of this technology are their collossal arcologies. 'Vertical cities,' typically only a few dozen square kilometres in area, but more than make up for this by being thousands of meters in height. Each arcology is almost entirely self-sufficient, with superstructures built from super-strong lightweight materials such as carbon nanotubes. They incorporate vertical farms, water and sanitation recycling and environmental shielding systems, and it's entirely possible for one to live their entire life within the arcology of their birth. In fact, the Caliphate would prefer it this way.

These wonderous structures aren't the only area in which the Dinnine excel in material science however - the rich, hematite-filled sand dunes of Al-Sahra are gathered in great quantities, to be fed into 'lattice constructors-' house-sized 3d printers capable of churning out almost anything that can be programmed in. Other than impressive feats of material engineering, the Dinnin can boast competency in most of the fields required for a state to consider itself 'modern,' with spaceports, gene therapy, advanced computing and early forays into nanomachines proving to be wildly successful.

Military Overview: Low-level conflict is fairly routine in Al-Sahra, despite what the Caliphate says, but actual large scale war has been essentially unheard of for several centuries. The Caliphate's 'military,' is really more comparable to a security force, acting as bodyguards for priests, armed police against riots and revolts or being dispatched to protect rural settlements from nomadic raids. Rebel groups (including those who support the Confederacy,) typically rely on guerilla forces, while nomadic raiders rely on lightly armoured and fast-moving groups mounted on vehicles, camels and local wildlife.
---

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

A New Challenger Approaches

_{Featuring Crown Prince Raaid Ghani al-Karim and Aisha}

A robed and hooded figure hurried through the winding streets of the Burj Al-Muqaddas, every step taken furtively, every new street a potential threat. They were flanked by five others, all each clad in the same lightweight robes that concealed every inch of their persons from any nosey passers-by. Over the course of the past hour, they had meticulously descended nearly a hundred and fifty stories of the arcology's colossal construction, slowly but surely making their way towards a fortress that could be their salvation.

The Al-Muqaddas spaceport was an unsightly mark on what was otherwise an elegantly designed city. Al-Muqaddas had been erected by Al-Nizam as their new capital almost a century ago now, a far cry from the older arcologies set up by the first colonists. While they had incorporated their spaceports into the heart of the city, al-Nizam could never suffer their 'perfect city' to have to endure the booms of suborbs or the roar of full thrusters being a part of the daily tapestry of life.

Not that it mattered. Six figures became three - half of the bodyguards peeling away from their charge to foray ahead. There was the sound of struggle, the wet thump of bodies falling to the floor, and then they were through the outer perimeter, scurrying towards a small ship that had been left in one of the colossal repair bays, placed there by an inside man who saw the truth of this world.

Throwing off his robes, crown prince Raaid al-Karim dashed to the controls of the small vessel, then praised whomever may be listening. They had been promised a warm engine, and here it was - fully fuelled and looking like it had only stopped idling a few minutes ago. It thrummed back to life easily - the prince's hands shifting across switches and gauges like a conductor before a symphony. Once, long ago, a royal could get away with being indolent and letting others do their job for them. But he had been born an exile. For him, 'jihad,' was not some declaration made by soft-skinned mullahs, it was his life.

"My prince." One of his guards turned to him, an eye still on the small camera built into a wrist-mounted screen. "We thought we would have five minutes but... It looks as if they are coming sooner. We need to go. Aisha!" He called out to another one of the guards. "Keep the prince safe. We'll give you as much time as you can."

There was a brief moment of pause as the four guards braced themselves. This was a death wish, and they all knew it. There would be no way out of the port once the prince's craft had gone. Then, as one, they reached for the heavier, unsilenced weapons that had laid dormant during their trip across the Burj al-Muqaddas. Gunmetal gleaming in the moonlight, they pushed their way out the door, leaving the prince to turn back to the controls, and, with a grunt, slam the button to seal the doors.

"What can I do." Aisha turned to look at the young man, her hands balled into tight fists.

"Sit there. Strap in. If I tell you to do something, do it. A craft like this is meant for short jaunts... Not whatever awaits us up there." The bodyguard nodded, just as the first crackle of gunfire made its way to the craft.

Raaid's knuckles were as pale as snow as he pushed the engine to taxi out of the repair dome. Lights winked on - first red, then amber, and finally green as the craft prepared itself to soar into the sky, and then beyond. Outside, where the group had entered, the gunfire intensified. The prince forced himself to filter out the sounds as they changed from gunfight to massacre. The thump of a grenade launcher, the scream as one of his guards was cut down. "Thirty seconds..." He tapped the readout as if it would cause time to run faster.

"Twenty..." The last of the gunfire abruptly cut off. The guards would be storming towards them now.

"Fifteen..." He eased the throttle further forwards, the craft picking up more and more speed.

"Ten seconds, fuck this, switching to lift. Hit that switch there." He gestured over, Aisha following his order instinctively. As soon as she did, the entire craft lurched uncomfortably, an awful scraping sound coming from the hull as the engines only barely pulled them up in time.

"Five..." Masked and armed figures burst through the doors and into the repair dome behind them.

"Too late," Raaid said with a grimace, slamming the throttle forwards as he did. The craft roared, shuddering a little as a few useless shots were tossed its way, the prince heaving on the controls to swing it clear of the spaceport's main operating zones. The radio lit up, surprised traffic control and furious security yelling over each other, asking for clearance, demanding that he land, but he paid no attention. They could make it to orbit in five minutes. Craft could be scrambled before that. All he could do was fly like he had never flown before, and pray that that would be enough.

---

"New Gateway reading." A bored-looking desk jockey swivelled around in the cramped offices that made up the Gran Republic's Sol reading post. "Tiny. Fucked to hell and back too, looks like it's spinning out." He turned back to the screen. "Fuck me, three more just spat out as well. Doesn't match anything we know. Even more new folk-"

An all-frequency broadcast blared out throughout Sol. It was in Arabic, but even those who didn't speak the language could understand the urgency of the words.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. I am Crown Prince Raaid Ghani al-Karim, of the Free Dinnin Confederacy. I am requesting urgent..." The message was interrupted by a series of thuds and the sound of metal grinding against metal. Then the voice came back, sounding even more panicked. "I am requesting immediate refuge by any that can provide it. Please, if anyone can hear me, mayday, mayday, mayday!"

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

Shortly After the End of the Galactic War

_{Featuring Isabella de Lobasla}

Cheers. Flags. Four planes screeched overhead, blue, white, green and gold smoke billowing out behind them in long trails. Isabella stood on an open-topped skimmer in her full regalia, the light glinting off the medals on her breast and the sword at her hip. Behind her hovered or marched those who had won the war- a victorious army receiving their rightful commendations.

The idea of a Triumph was nothing new of course, but the last time a formal one had been declared was after the end of the War of Counter Aggression, now remembered only by some of the oldest among the Gran Republic. The new war, although undoubtably necessary for galactic security, had not necessarily been met by rapturous applause by all of the Gran Republic- even with the honour and glory associated with war, rare was the mother who wouldn't rather see her child safe at home than returned in a box with military honours. The Senate needed an event to remind people why war was glorious, and this Triumph was just that.

The procession twisted through Esperanza's streets, the Admiral standing, shoulders squared, gaze steely, as if a statue rather than a living person. She was an idol- something to be appreciated from afar, revered, yet placed apart from the common plebeian who had never seen the battlefield. Finally, they reached the Cortes Generales, olive trees shimmying in the breeze and the misted water that they greedily drank up.

The skimmer slowed, and then settled onto the ground, and Isabella finally was able to descend, stretching herself as much as she could while still displaying decorum, before straightening out as camera drones descended onto her. Before her, in the wide pathway that led up to the halls of governance, stood the three most important men of the Republic. Presidente Agustín del Aquila, Almirante-da-Armada Ximeno de Araba, and Chancellor of Azulvista Federico De Lobasla. Her father.

She strode forward confidently, all internal feelings crushed down under the overwhelming sense of duty that had flooded through her. Agustín nodded at her, stone faced yet with a slight quirk at the corner of his lips, one hand extended. She shook his hand firmly, the Presidente thanking her for her service to the nation, before indicating for her to turn to Ximeno. The Almirante-da-Armada raised up an intricately-crafted golden chaplet, and when Isabella inclined her head down, he set it neatly down on her head, the weight of it sinking down through her scalp. Lastly, she turned to her father- the only man of the trio to be showing visible motion, a beaming smile across his face.

"You look magnificent you know." Her father reached out to take her hand, holding it gently. His other hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear, then resting against her cheek. "Your mother would be so proud of you. I hope you know that Bella."

"I know papa. I know." Emotion welled up in her gut, only for her to quickly swallow it down. She reluctantly took a step back, turning once more to Agustín as he stepped forward to address the rest of the procession, reaching up to his lapel to tap the activation for a microphone.

"Citizens! Soldiers! Heroes!" A cheer rose up from the crowd - both from the soldiers and the spectators. "Here, we recognise those that have fought, struggled and died for our glorious Republic. We have shown to the galaxy that we are no paper tiger- putting up a front of strength and cowering behind it. No! We have shown ourselves to have every bit the fortitude and prowess that took us through our long history! Today the galaxy knows, well and truly, that Azulvista will not bend or bow to dictators and oppressors, but instead stiffen ourselves and overcome, and when we have finished our work, return in glory!"

Isabella always found it astonishing how despite his years, Agustín never once faltered when publicly speaking. She was sure he had practiced this speech - anything less would have been downright irresponsible, but to hear how his voice only grew in strength and surety, the crowd hanging on to each sentence and each word... She felt like she should be taking notes.

"I am sure however you do not wish to hear me ramble on for too long," a polite chuckle rolled through the crowd. "But before you all disperse, to enjoy the holiday, the games and the festivities, I would like to commend the woman who led us from our Gateway to the doors of Dercy itself. A true hero of the Gran Republic of Azulvista, a shining example for patricians and plebeians alike... Isabella Maria Rodriguez de Lobasla!" He reached down to her clenched fist and drew it up into the air, as if he was a tournament judge rather than the president of the Gran Republic, but as the roar of the crowd rolled over her, she found it hard to appreciate the sheer bizarreness of the scene.

---

Twelve Hours Later

Isabella was shattered. The Triumph had only officially finished six hours ago, and from there she'd had all of forty-five minutes to get herself cleaned up, changed out of her military uniform and into a formal dress, then be ferried from her apartment in Esperanza to the Palacio where Agustín lived for a state banquet. Elsewhere she knew there had been almost non-stop celebration- she'd tuned out the fireworks hours ago, and the aerodyne that had carried her here had passed over crowds of people toing and froing to sporting events, cultural celebrations and saints knew what else.

"So, Almirante," she was jolted out of her stupor by a question directed towards her, this one fielded by... She blinked a few times, trying to recall their name, then gave up. Someone from the Senate probably. "What will you be doing now that you've become the hero of the hour? Staying the course in the Navy, or perhaps coming to spend more time planetside? Politics calling you yet?"

Isabella took a slug from her wine glass to buy a little more time, then forced a smile up and onto her face. "Well, that all depends. The Home Fleet's been a little battered recently, and the Escudo could do with some time in the shipyards. Besides, it seems clear to me that I'm expected to hang around at least a little while. Can't have me jetting off right after all these celebrations, no?"

A polite chuckle from her conversation partner. "Of course, of course. There is also the matter of a family I suppose! You're of the age to begin thinking of such, are you not?"

"Ah, well, but I'm already pretty firmly married to the Escudo as it is! Seventeen years in the Navy and I've spent half of them aboard her, can you really blame me?" A few others gave the expected response, but there was an undercurrent of concern in the room. Of course. The admiral thought to herself. You hit thirty and suddenly everyone's obsessed with when you're going to start having kids.

"Well, that is at it may be, but-" Thankfully, the statement was cut off as yet another course was wheeled into the room. Stifling a yawn, she hefted up her knife and fork, and continued on with the pageantry.

---

Three Days Later

She'd had to go halfway across the damn planet to get away from the crowds and the constant questions. A friend of her from back when she was in training - a Duque's daughter much like her by the name of Emeralda who had actually had her military career postponed so she could pursue promising prospects as an Olympian. Of course, she was thirty-one now and the chances of her winning another gold were looking slimmer and slimmer, but she'd got what she needed from it, and made a pretty penny off endorsements and media showings alike. And then, she'd offered Isabella a no-questions asked getaway in her father's duchy. Sure, they were in their thirties, but it wasn't like Patricians like them really got to party away their twenties, so it'd have to do.

That's why she was here, in a crowded club, thoughts lost in the maelstrom of moving, grinding humanity. Her heart thumped in time to the pounding of the bass, her hair spinning out around her, loosed from its usual practical ponytail, and for once she was dressed in something other than formal clothes or a military uniform, LED's matching the strobe lights.

The song began to fade out, and for a moment the energy in the room deflated. Opening her eyes slowly, a grin split Isabella's face as she began to work her way over to the bar... But something felt wrong. She blinked a few times, the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to stand up as the crowed began to whoop and whistle, and -

She was elsewhere. That wasn’t bass, it was the pounding of artillery, and the drunken hollering was now suddenly something much more sinister. Strobe lights flickered and spun about her, the smoke machines in the club gone from innocent atmosphere generation to the hissing of chemical weapons unleashing their payload. Her heart began to thud, harder and harder, louder and louder, and when the bartender asked for her order, the words stuck in her throat. She held a finger up, then began to push her way through the crowd, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until she practically fell through the exit and out into the bracing cold of the night.

The bouncer looked at her with a quirked eyebrow. "If you're gonna huck, the toi-" She waved a hand dismissively towards him, trying to gulp in air as quickly as possible.

"No? Too much in there or what?" He chuckled a little, eyes scanning the street.

"S...Sure. You could say that." She began to rummage through her handbag, hands shaking with every movement. Cigarettes. Lighter. She stuck the filter between her lips, then tried to spark up a flame, only to find that she couldn't quite seem to manage it. "Could... Could you light me?" She reached over, cigarette quivering in her hand as the bouncer brought his own lighter's flame down to the tip. "Gracias," she managed to mumble out, before sucking in far too much in one go.

Fuck.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

@Apollo26

Correct, that was already accepted.

@Timemaster

Democracies with clauses for absolute rule, when has this ever gone wrong! RADiance accepted. As for the Ascension, while the sheet is perfectly fine, I am concerned that there doesn’t seem to be any downsides to them? A perfect digital world, anything they want, death embraced voluntarily… They seem rather Mary Sue-ish? Something to discuss on the Discord.

@Tortoise

You don’t need me to say you’re accepted, but you are.