Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 421
(4/2/06 6:13 pm) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Forty Eight
Though relatively modest in size, none of them more than a kilometer in length, the half dozen warships were nonetheless an impressive spectacle, gliding swiftly through space in a tight, diamond formation. At the center of this group moved the greatest of the vessels, a massive, pointed shell, reminiscent in its form of a bottom-dwelling sea predator, withdrawn into its carapace in anticipation of approaching prey. Across its surface were scattered dozens of emplacements of various size and function; ion cannons, laser turrets, tractor beam projectors.
The five ships that hung in space nearby were similarly shaped and adorned, near replicas of their host, albeit in miniature. And further out still swarmed a mass of tiny craft, flitting under and around the bows and curved hulls of their charges, forming up, break off, and rejoining one another with near-impossible coordination. Each was a tiny pyramid, each tip bearing a formidable turret fully capable of tearing apart any starship of similar size that was caught unawares by them.
This was the arm of the Ssi-Ruuvi Imperium, one of many fleets that enforced the homeworld’s edicts and ambitions. Out beyond the farthest reaches of the Galactic Empire, deep in the legendary and virtually impassable vastness known as Wild Space at the fringe of the cosmic disk, the Imperium held absolute sway over dozens of systems. Born of the fierce reptilian Ssi-Ruu and their submissive P’w’eck slaves, this conglomeration had for eons held absolute dominion over their star cluster, subjugating all those who resided there. To drive the war machines that made this conquest possible, the lizards had long developed a terrible and arcane technology; Entechment, a process through which the life energies of slaves and captives could be drained from the corporeal forms and be bottled up, a power source of great potential with which flowed through the cores of every one of their warships.
But the process left its victims lifeless husks, and eventually the Elders of the homeworld knew that a new source of slaves was required to maintain their fleets. Almost as a gift from the Gods, a being from beyond the worlds they knew, the ruler of a vast empire that encompassed stars beyond number, came forth with a proposition; in exchange for a sample of their entechment technology, he would allow the fleets of the Imperium to come to some of the fringe worlds of this mighty empire and harvest them, a crop of billions of vital, sapient lives. The Elders eagerly agreed, but before the bargain could be finalized, this mighty leader was destroyed, and negotiations ceased.
However, the Imperium had already staked its fortunes upon this new hunting ground, and would not be dissuaded. Surely, if the leader of such a great nation were to fall, it would collapse around him; who would notice the absence of the inhabitants of a few unimportant worlds in the ensuing chaos? And so the new conquest had begun, the essence batteries that drove the Ssi-Ruu horde filling once more, energized with alien lives, human lives.
However, the invasion had not gone according to plan.
Though seemingly motionless in the supreme vastness of interplanetary space, the Ssi-Ruuvi warships were accelerating as fast as their drives were able, dozens of small aft tubes burning with a fiery light. Similarly mobile, the mass of fighters that swarmed over their hosts now moved not in simple flight patterns or practice maneuvers; they waited to defend against a threat, one that might very well overwhelm them.
The source of this peril soon became evident. From both above and below the travel plane of the speeding vessels erupted a hail of emerald lances, each pulsing with a raging power that could smote mountain peaks. The larger of the vessels met the sudden barrage with an invisible barrier that sprang to life across their hulls, catching and dissipating the focused jets of ruination before they could unleash their full power, but the fields of the smaller ships could not cope with the onslaught. One, and then another were bisected once, and then again by the harrying beams, whose passage triggered a fireball within each of the afflicted ship’s hearts. In concert, the pair erupted with atomic fire, annihilated themselves, and then cast their remaining, charred components to the stellar winds, causing the escorting fightercraft to scramble into evasive maneuvers.
Then came a new wave of destruction, this time in the form of a hundred black and gray vessels not much larger than the multitude of pyramids they plunged into headlong. Flat-winged TIE fighters and their fast, angled Interceptor kin shredded the outmaneuvered defenders like parchment, choking the sky with glistening laces of energy. Certainly, the pyramid fighters were more heavily armed, and sported shielding and armor that the attackers did not, but the droid brain that drove each could not adapt to the changing combat situation quickly enough, and by the time the survivors had regrouped, nearly a third of their number was nothing more than scattered detritus. Nevertheless, they spiraled back into a fierce counterattack, the anti-fighter guns of the larger ships adding to their potency, but it was already too late; the TIE squadrons had pulled back, and in their place forged the true hunters of the pack.
The four Imperial Star Destroyers shrugged off the incoming fire as if it was merely a display of colorful sparks, and unleashed another terrible volley, like the one that had immolated the two escorting vessels moments before.
The battle was short and unremarkable. Ssi-Ruuvi warships were designed to capture their prey for entechment, not destroy it, and when faced with a truly worthy foe, they could do nothing but flee and hope that their swarms of droid fighters could slow their pursuers. In this instance, their gambit had failed.
Standing on the bridge of the Star Destroyer Fi with his arms crossed loosely at his back, Grand Admiral Peccati Syn looked out into space absently as the embers of the alien command ship faded into the blackness, the last of its escorts pitted in hopeless sorties against wing after wing of victorious TIEs. A tactically-minded and skilled man, Syn was typically fascinated by the carnage that his ships unleashed upon the foes of the Empire, but this time victory was simply too easy; besides, there were other, more pressing matters on his mind.
When the last of his squadron’s fightercraft had withdrawn from the battlefield, the Grand Admiral sighed and turned slowly to a subordinate, who waited at stiff attention.
“Grand Admiral, the last of the alien invaders have been cleared from Cattamascar and the surrounding systems,” the officer reported. “The battle group your squadron just defeated was the last of the major resistance. Vice Admiral Corcaka believes that there may be scattered pockets of resistance on the planet, and has dispatched several divisions to rout them and secure the surviving population centers.”
Receiving no noticeable recognition from his superior, the man continued. “Initial reports from joint elements of the 12th fleet indicate losses were minimal; several squadrons of attack fighters, a few support craft, and the Lancer frigate Mandor 67, which was garrisoned around Cattamascar when it was taken. Civilian casualties are more severe; the invasion force that attempted to take Bakura was intercepted before it could begin targeting population centers, but the aliens did have access to the occupied planetary system, and several colonies on a nearby moon, for several days. Early reports indicate at least two million civilians were executed or herded into slave ships of some sort. Vice Admiral Corcaka has been attempting to ascertain the destination and objective of these vessels, but…”
At last, Syn waved a dismissive hand, and the officer fell silent. “Enough. These figures are of no concern to me. When the home base of these invaders has been located, you may alert me. Until then, I shall be in my chambers.” He paused for emphasis, and glared into the officer’s eyes intensely. “Let nothing else disturb me.”
The subordinate delievered a smart salute, trying to keep his unease at the Grand Admiral’s order from becoming evident. Such orders were to be taken quite seriously in the Imperial Starfleet, especially from a Grand Admiral. They had authority at their disposal for punishing failure that well surpassed that of a mere captain or commander. “As you command, Grand Admiral.”
Beneath his stark-white uniform, bold rank plate, and twin golden epaulets, all marks of his high station, Peccati Syn was an ugly, corpulent man with a thin cap of blonde-white hair and a perpetually foul expression, but he nevertheless command respect from all who passed by on his short journey to the quarters he called home, buried deep with the durasteel titan that had long been the instrument of his will. Through moderate skill, the right connection, and a devotion to Emperor Palpatine’s New Order that was beyond fanatical, Syn had begged and bullied his way through the ranks, finally currying his supreme master’s favor, and becoming one of the first Grand Admirals, an elite core which acted as the penultimate authority over the unstoppable Imperial war machine.
There was another element of his regalia as well, not of his station, but even more telling of his psyche; a golden talisman that hung on a chain below his waggling chin, an artifact of a long repressed and largely extinct religion. It spoke of the man’s dedication and devotion, his unerring belief in whatever cause he chose to cling to, a trait that Palpatine had found most useful in his servants. And since the Galactic Republic’s fall, the object of Syn’s fidelity, his very reason for existing, had been that one man and his mission of ‘safe and secure society’ for the galaxy at large.
And then, even as he grew ever more powerful, the Emperor had fallen, slain by the insidious rebel threat, or so the media said.
In that instant, less than a standard month ago, Syn’s life had changed. He had never even considered in his darkest meditations that Palpatine, victor of the Clone Wars, savior of the galaxy, eliminator of the weak and corrupt, could die. It had shaken his core, and left him casting about for something new to believe in. This quest had consumed him for days and days on end, and the unease in the Imperial Center barely registered in his consciousness.
Darth Vader assuming the mantle of supreme ruler, the terrorist attack that left much of the old Emperor’s inner circle dead. And then further upset; the Dark Lord of the Sith had set off on some great new crusade, taking with him many of the Empire’s brightest commanders and a large chunk of the reserve starfleet. Who was in direct command of the Empire in his absence was unclear; some said COMPNOR, others the Central Committee of Grand Moffs, or even the cold-hearted Director of Imperial Intelligence Ysanne Isard. There had even been whispers that a new Imperial Senate was to be created. However, as of yet, the Empire had not devolved into disarray; Vader was still out there, ready to crush any rebellion now that the infamous Rebel Alliance had been all but obliterated, and there was much talk in hidden circles that he had had more than a passive role in the late Emperor’s fall.
But all these thing had seemed mere obstructions to Syn’s search, and when word had reached the core worlds that a hitherto unknown alien force was attacking border worlds along the Unknown Regions, the Grand Admiral had taken a large element of his command and struck off for the region without receiving orders from anyone; a new campaign might clear his head, or at the very least, remove him from the distractions of galactic politics. Alas, the menace had proved far too easily quashed, giving him barely any time for contemplation. Hopefully the alien’s homeworld would take some time to locate.
Syn’s chambers were spacious, but surprisingly barren, a testament to his own pious devotion. A few pieces of furniture, a handful of computer interface, each carved from cold, ebony metal. And of course there were the tapestries, ancient works, depicting battles and rituals on worlds laid to waste in millennia past and mighty warlords almost completely forgotten with the passage of eons. And of course, there was the towering statue of the Palpatine, the true Dark Lord of the Sith, that dominated the center of the chamber, three meters high and carved with immaculate detail, capturing all of the being’s vast power and terrible presence. Syn was one of the few that knew of Palpatine’s true nature, his power in the Force, but rather than disregard or revile it as most in the Empire now did, he had embraced it. Though he could not touch the mystical energy field, it consumed his passions; the Dark Side was all, and Palpatine was the Dark Side. Or so he had thought.
Pausing a moment to marvel at the towering form with a mixture of sorrow, confusion, and regret, Syn maneuvered himself around its base and towards his sleeping chambers, fingering the emblem around his neck as he ponder whether or not a brief nap could ease his mind. However, before he had traveled another dozen pace, Syn stopped short. There had been another shape behind the larger statue, one that he had never had placed there.
Whirling around and almost tipping over in the process, the Grand Admiral fumbled desperately for the holdout blaster tucked neatly near his waist. “Who are you?”
Shadowed by the massive edifice of wrought stone and metal, a figure did indeed stand, tall and motionless, its head and limbs enveloped in a long, black cloak. Even as Syn attempted to jerk his weapon from its holster, it revealed a single, gloved hand and raised it in calm supplication. “Calm yourself, Grand Admiral. I come under Lord Darth Vader’s sanction.”
At these words, though he did not fully believe them, Syn faltered, his pudgy hand falling away from the weapon at his side. Instead, he gaped at the form as it advanced closer put of the shadow, still impenetrably obscured.
“Darth… Darth Vader?” he gulped at length. “Why does he send you hear? Who are you?”
“A messenger, and a servant, nothing more,” it replied, voice soft, yet impenetrable and seemingly unmarked by gender or ascent. “I am here on your ship as the enforcer of his will.”
“And what does he wish?” Syn asked carefully. “Surely these aliens are of no interest to one such as him. They are weak and cowardly.”
“No, the Ssi-Ruu do not concern our lord,” it replied. “You seem to have taken care of them quite efficiently on your own, in any event.”
The Grand Admiral peered at the figure even more closely. “Ssi-Ruu? I have heard of no name for them. How do you…”
“It is of no importance,” came the reply suddenly, with a trace more emotion. “I am interested in far more personal and pressing concerns. Namely, your loyalties.”
Syn straightened up instantly. “My loyalties lie with the Empire.”
Though he could not see its face, the man knew that the figure peered at him carefully from its cover for a long moment as he stood tall with conviction, his sense of indignation, and below it an odd worry, rising. Syn was not easily cowed, but this intruder’s very presence seemed to be wearing on his composure badly.
“That much is clear,” the figure pressed, taking another step forward. “But it is not enough. Do you serve the new Empire, Lord Vader’s Empire, or Palpatine’s?”
Syn took a step back in response, bewildered. “What… what do you mean? I serve the Empire…”
In an instant, the figure was upon the man, and though he nearly matched it in height, it now seemed to tower above him, exuding an aura of indomitable power, and plain malice. Syn wavered, but before he could move fully, the gloved hand shot from its covering and grabbed the officer’s white collar tightly, pulling him close.
“Enough. You will answer, or you will die. Are you still committed to Palpatine and his ways?”
The dark maw that still lingered under the cloaked being’s hood stared down upon Syn’s quivering face, filling his vision and his thoughts. What did this… thing want? It spoke of being the new emperor’s servant, yet there was something, a hint of duplicity in its words, noticeable even through their obvious distortion. Syn was no Force user, and never could hope to be one, but he had been around them, dark mages of great power. And he knew this creature was one of such capability.
But if that was true, why did it ask for the information it desired. Palpatine and his minions could tear information from the minds of their subjects as easily as Syn could activate a data reader. It wanted him to the inquisition answer under his own willpower. But why? What did it want to hear?
Feeling the grip upon his tunic grow even more inescapable, the Grand Admiral at last managed to summon words. “No! Palpatine is dead. I owe no loyalty to him anymore. Lord Vader is my master now, our master.”
After a moment of motionless silence in which the figure seemed to regard him again carefully, the grip faded away, and Syn fell back under his own power.
“As you say,” it breathed, softly, and without perceptible emotion, turning its back on him.
As it began to pace away, Syn rubbed his throat reflexively, breathing heavily has he attempted to recover from the encounter. Relief flooded through his veins, but the dark presence the messenger exuded still prevented him from feeling any semblance of ease. Thus, when the figure paused again just as it passed the base of the massive statue, the man was instantly uneasy once more.
“A shame,” it said plainly. “I would have thought a Grand Admiral’s skills would have been more diverse.” From its side, a beam of blue light split the air with a piercing hiss. “You lie poorly.”
Syn’s eyes bulged and he stumbled backwards, disbelieving. But I…
A nearby maintenance sensor recorded the discharge of iron-rich vaporized liquid in the Grand Admiral’s quarters. The anomaly was logged and a cleaning droid was designated for cleanup during the next upkeep cycle. Sensing no other disturbances, the sensor returned to standby mode. All was well.
A lone Lambda-class shuttlecraft raced away from the quartet of dormant star destroyers, scything quickly through the cosmic emptiness before at last breaking with the physical coil and fading into the endlessness of hyperspace. At the small vessel’s helm, a robed figure checked the readings and navigational gauges before it one last time, and satisfied, leaned back into its seat in silence. After absorbing the soft glow of the dim running lights that illuminated the cramped cockpit for a moment longer, it at last reached up, and in a deft motion, removed the hood that obscured its brow.
“It is done, then?” Lumiya asked almost mechanically, seated in the co-navigator’s chair.
The Twi’lek pilot nodded once, allowing her lekku to sling freely from the base of her skull.
“He would not submit?”
There was no response.
Fixing her eyes keenly on her companion, the armored cyborg shifted her weight softly, meaningfully. “What happened back there? What really happened?”
The blue-skinned alien did not meet her eyes, instead staring forward, motionless.
“It is of no consequence; I did not deem him trustworthy, and I executed my pledged duty.” Her eyes slid shut, and she moved back even further upon the headrest. “Call up the file. There is still much work to be done.”
Lumiya did not break her unblinking, probing gaze. “Of course.”
Like all carriers of its class, the August Judgment’s port and starboard sides were pocked by numerous large cavities, each one a portal into a three-tiered docking bay, where shuttles, scouts, and starfighters berthed on repulsor tethers side by side. Illuminated by an ethereal glow from the surrounding, softly scalloped bulkheads, these areas were typically hives of activity, crews being loaded and off-loaded, ammunition and fuel being piped and carried in from the mains and dozen broad passages that opened onto the vast, open space, vessels moving back and forth through the permeable energy shield that served as the barrier with the icy blackness of space beyond. This day was no different; the carrier had been tasked with recovery and salvage of the fleet elements obliterated by the impossibly powerfully alien attackers that had vanished many time parts earlier, and with it all of the warships tasked with pursuing it.
As the first Phantom transport retrofits, modified for just such a duty, began to return with salvage and survivors, hundreds of crewers prepared themselves for the onslaught. Stocky Unngoy readied their dense muscles for the wearying task of offloading whatever material the searchers might have deign appropriate to bring back. Others waited with personal hoverlifts, prepared to ferry the wounded to waiting medical areas. With them waited the globular, tentacled Huragok, each eager for equipment to repair, transports to refuel and restock. So too lingered armored Sangheili and towering Lekgolo, supervisors and enforcers of the operation. Both warrior races, they would have much preferred to be back on the battlefield, hunting humans or crushing heretics, but there was always menial work to be done on the side; it was the way of thing. There would be time for glory later.
The atmosphere fields hummed, and sets of brilliant guide lights erupted all across the waiting bays, each welcoming the approaching transports back to their berths. And so, one by one, the beetle-like ships passed into the gapping maw, slowing to a crawl, and alighted on invisible moorings with barely a sound. Then, a dozen circular hatch iris opened at once with a hiss of pressurized air, and the rush began. Few, save one preoccupied Sangheili dock master, noticed that one of the waiting ports remained vacant, its guiding lights still blinking in anticipation. But there were other matters to attend to; a single missing shuttle could wait. It was probably simply running behind, and the pilot would be disciplined accordingly.
Slowly, Migaw began to come too. His head still rang with a dull concussion, but the blow that had put him down had been glancing, designed to immobilize, not kill or even badly injure, and his thick skull had been able to absorb most of the impact. Nevertheless, the Unggoy did not relish the experience; it took what felt like and eternity for his eyes to begin to work again, much less move his weary limbs.
Upon fully cognizing that he was in fact still alive, and momentarily gagging on the breath tube that was still lodged into his mouth, the soldier began to cast about for what was going on. He and Cakap had just returned to their transport from the derelict that had frightened the other so, there had been something about food rations, he had seen the bodies of the rest of the crew collapsed on the floor, the strange dorm that was with them. Then a new figure had appeared from the cockpit…
Though not the most intelligent of his kind, and still coping with a tremor that ran between his ear nodules, Migaw could still put two and two together. The ship had been hijacked, and its crew immobilized (an element of the events that confused him greatly; virtually all those who were brazen or vicious enough to attack Holy Covenant vessel weren’t likely to leave survivors).
Presently, a pair of voices intruded on his confused consciousness, and Migaw finally had some motivation to try and rouse himself. Looking about from where he lay prone on his stomach, the Unngoy deduced that he had been shoved into one of the storage compartments that flanked the main assembly bay at the rear of the transport. Beside him lay a body he assumed to be Cakap’s by the tank on its back, breathing shallowly, but evidently still unconscious. Probably for the best, he contemplated sourly, Cakap didn’t do well in situations where tact or subtly were required.
Slowly, he raised his head over the obstruction, giving him a clear view of the main disembarkation area, which was obscured slightly by a shimmering veil that sprang from the storage alcove’s entrance bulkhead; a confining field. At the center of the room beyond, a drop door gapped open, a purplish light emanating from below. Beside it stood two beings, one obviously a Sangheili, who seemed to be bearing armor identical to that worn by the ship’s pilot, although a distinctive scar on one side of his face clearly distinguished him. The other was far shorter and slighter of build, and though he was partially obscured by the darkness inside the ship, Migaw was quite sure he had never seen a being quite like him.
Could it be a…
The two were engaged in some sort of discussion, apparently oblivious to their new spectator. They spoke softly, but the rounded, almost bowl-like shape of the chamber propelled their voices to his ears. Nevertheless, the discourse was unintelligible.
“You’re sure we’re safe here?” the shorter one said in a timid voice, using words Migaw had never heard before.
“I cannot be certain,” the Sangheili intoned in response. “However, if I executed the maneuver away from the primary return path undetected, this shuttle should remain unfound for at least a few days. The ancillary dorsal fins in warships of this class are marred by a sensor shadow all along their anterior sides. It would take an active scan or a terminal flyby to locate us, assuming reactor output is kept to a minimum.”
The smaller being nodded slowly, and then glanced to the side, towards another one of the cargo areas. “So, what’s your plan now?”
The other hefted its skullcap, which had been cradled in its huge hands, onto its wounded scalp and fastened it to the bodysuit that lay below. “To get both you and I into a position of security, I must take on the mantle of ship master of the Covenant armada once more. When my place has been assured and suspicion dissuaded, I will hopefully be able to arrange an incident that will distract ship’s security long enough to get both you and… him” the Sangheili jerked its head towards one end of the assembly area, where another body lay motionless “to get onto a deep-range craft and escape the system. From there, you should be able to use data I can provide you on likely military patrol route used by the humans of this galaxy. You should be able to find safety with them.” The figure looked away, slouching slightly. “For the moment, at least.”
The shorter figure was motionless. “The humans… of this galaxy? But the wormhole… the crew…”
The Sangheili suddenly straightened, made sure its reflective shoulder plates were properly attached, and then stepped closer to the drop door, past his frozen companion. “I should be able to contact you again before the times comes, but if not, be ready to act on my signal. And be wary of Flitch, he will slay you if given the opportunity, no doubt. If the traitor tried, do not hesitate to kill him.” The warrior glanced around the small chamber one last time. “The same goes for the crew of this vessel. Unarmed and imprisoned they may be, but do not underestimate them. They are all Covenant warriors, and will kill you if they can, both for locking them away, and simply for what you are.”
Now at the very brim of the glowing hole, the Sangheili turned his long, narrow head back to the side a last time, a large, yellow eye fixed on the other. Without a word, it nodded once, deliberately and with respect.
Then the figure was gone, leaping into the pit without hesitation.
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 422
(4/24/06 11:26 am) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Forty Nine
I can feel it, even now. Their anger, their malice, their hunger, all swell in anticipation. Only blood will sate their desires. The time has come at last. It starts all over again.
“Commander, geosynchronous orbit over Dahkur has been achieved.”
The deck plates of Deep Space Nine’s spartan bridge pit groaned and shook slightly underfoot as the stars outside of its main viewport slowed to an infinitesimal crawl. A few more tremors rocked the huge space station as its maneuvering thrusters reoriented it with the planet below, drifting on a lazy course around its yellow primary. Set at the center of the interior ring of the huge, circular space station, the bridge was now afforded an elliptical sliver of the blue-green world through its viewport, seemingly set ablaze by the system’s distant star as it seemed to pass behind the body, heralding night below.
Perhaps the final night it would ever see, the station’s commander reflected with a mix of bitterness and deep apprehension.
Kira Nerys, a native of the planet Bajor beyond, was not as religious as some of her people, but the significance of omens and portents were not lost upon her. The sight of the waning sun and the weary creaking of the vessel beneath her feet, though both quite normal occurrences, this day bore deeper meaning; they spoke of death.
Weaving between the trio of angled pylons that gave the station its distinctive, imposing form, a squadron of comparatively modest-sized warships swept past the viewscreen, vectoring out into the deep space beyond the planet and its silent protector, each priming its own array of weaponry. A triad of green, bird-like attack ships, a long, balled-headed central pylon flanked by down sloping wings, Klingon Birds-of-Prey, followed close behind their leader, a far more streamlined and compact vessel, which glinted white in the starlight. The Defiant, first of a long line of warships the United Federation of Planets had been forced to produce by a nearly endless series of dire conflicts, forged swiftly ahead, like a knight leading his vassals into battle on a mighty steed.
But the battle they forged into headlong was completely unlike those of old. There was no honor out there amidst the void, just chaos and desperate hopelessness. At one time, the force the squadron moved to reinforce would a crowning achievement of galactic diplomacy and unity; Federation cruisers and retrofits, Klingon attack vessels and battleships, Cardassian escort craft, even a handful of domed Ferengi marauders, all fighting as one. Now, though, the significance of this remarkable concord was completely forgotten; death took the allied and opposed with equal prejudice.
To one inexperienced in the conflict in which thousands upon thousands of lives were currently drowning, the forces that were overwhelming the unlikely associates would appear to actually be their compatriots; virtually every member of the horde that was bearing down upon Bajor had found its birth in the shipyards and foundries of one of the allies, and still bore embalms and marks of allegiance. But Kira Nerys knew better; what lay at the hearts of those ships were not human, or Klingon, or Cardassian, or Bajoran. No, they were not even deserving of the comparison. Creatures that bent the captured machines they inhabited to aims as abominable as their own were not worthy of a name befitting sentients. They were beasts, nothing more.
“What’s the status on the evacuation of the city?” Kira demanded, glancing away from the large viewport. Behind her, a dozen Starfleet and Bajoran Militia officers worked various interfaces and displays, feverishly preparing the station’s defenses and coordinating communications for the embattled fleet that was, for the moment, holding the invading force just beyond Bajor’s outer orbital perimeter. However, nearly half an hour of intense combat with a numerically superior force had begun to wear down the system’s weary defenders, and after that line was broken, Deep Space Nine would be the planet’s final shield.
“About half the evac fleet has taken off and is heading out-system,” a Bajoran officer replied. “The other group should be ready for liftoff in ten minutes. The rest of the population is being lead into the northern hills for the old Cardassian orbital shelters. Colonel Chechea reports that panic is widespread, but the operation is moving along as well as can be expected. The city should be mostly vacant within an hour.”
Kira gritted her teeth. Those transports, assuming they could even be defended long enough to escape to warp, held perhaps four thousand people. Countless millions more of her brothers and sisters below were trapped, forced to seek shelter in a handful of old shelters and hidden bases leftover from the Dominion War and the long Cardassian occupation of the planet that had preceded it. If the fleet and her station fell, such fortifications would be worthless. Bajor and its people would die, and with them would die the last hopes of the quadrant and its people.
“Is Kai Ungtae on one of those ships?” Kira asked at last.
The Bajoran shook his head, a weak grin crossing his lips. “You know he would never leave the homeworld at a time like this. At last report, he was still leading the Vedek Assembly in their prayer to the Prophets”.
Kira nodded reluctantly. The Vedek was the spiritual leader of the Bajoran people; she supposed it was all he could do to stay with his people in such a time, even doing so almost ensured his destruction. Of course, what point would his position have if all of his followers perished? It was better to stay on and grant at least some small hope to those who fought above and waited in terrible anticipation in fortified caverns below.
But it was just that, a small hope. The Prophets, enigmatic beings of great power who formed the basis of Bajoran theology and had protected the world from total domination by the Dominion a scant year before, seemed to have abandoned their children, withdrawing into the artificial wormhole that the previous invaders had been forced back through. These gods had protected them in the past from annihilation, but each of those events was foretold by the ancient texts and artifacts that formed the cores of temples across the globe; if the Prophets had not foreseen this new and most terrible threat, one that had already engulfed world after world, perhaps they could do nothing to stop it.
“Commander!” a cry suddenly broke the nervous hum of the control chamber, just as alert klaxons began to chime above. “Beta Wing reports a small enemy force has broken through the fallback line! They’re heading directly for us!”
Kira snapped from the observation window, allowing the tension of impending combat to force the almost overwhelming dread of defeat from her mind. “Full alert stations! Get me a fix on the attackers, and increase shield strength to maximum.”
The others immediately stepped up the execution of their respective duties, perhaps equally eager to ride themselves of the encroaching shadow, a blast door lowering over the main viewport and seemingly isolating them from worries beyond the one at hand.
She glanced at her second in command, a Bajoran woman of around her age. “Are there any evacuation craft in our immediate vicinity.”
The officer nodded. “Yes sir. The Nobel just departed dock one with the last of the station’s civilian population.”
“Can she get back within the station’s shield radius before the attackers are in firing range?”
The officer checked a sensor station quickly. “Yes, I think so.”
“The give the order,” Kira said as calmly as she could. Without any remaining escort craft available, letting the shuttle try to escape on its own would be damning its crew to death if the approaching attack force decided to alter its objectives. Hopefully they’d be able to release them before another major attack assailed the station.
“I’ve got a clear lock,” the tactical officer announced. “A Galaxy-class and what looks like an Andorian heavy freighter, both significantly damaged.”
Kira frowned at the tactical display. Why would they bother with such a minimal force? The aliens were brutish and often suicidal in battle, but they weren’t stupid, and though the tide of battle was turning in their favor, their numbers were not quite so overwhelming that they could waste a vessel like the Galaxy in a useless probing strike. And then there was the freighter, which was barely armed at all…
“Photon torpedoes, full spread!” she ordered suddenly, urgently. “Take that freighter out!”
The human officer at tactical frowned up at her. “Sir, the ship is still out of optimal range. I can’t guarantee all of the…”
“Now!”
Emerging from the gray, armored exterior of the docking pylon closest to the approaching vessels, a pair of boxy weapons emplacements kicked in rapid succession, firing six golden bolts of brilliant luminescence into deep space. Crossing dozens of kilometers in seconds, the first chain of three torpedoes arced harmlessly past the long, spiraling freighter, but the next trio impacted its nose cone directly, sheering through weakened deflector shielding and tattered armor plate. Two tore all the way through the ship, exiting its aft side before detonating an instant later, while the third exploded inside the stricken ship, tearing away a huge portion of its dorsal hull.
The concussion sent the remnants of the ship spinning to the side, narrowly missing its escort before finally succumbing to its own overloading reactor and streaking the darkness with rivulets of molten duranium.
“Are you picking up any activity in the wreckage?” Kira demanded as soon as the display indicated the target had been destroyed.
The human officer shook his head, still confused. “Nothing sir, Just debris.”
“The Galaxy is returning fire!” another called out. “Brace!”
A second later, a stream of torpedoes and prolonged phaser bursts erupted from the curved bow of the still-charging capital ship, crossing the ever diminishing gap between itself and the station in moments. The first volley was intercepted harmlessly by the translucent sphere of the station’s deflector, but a second round of fire caused the barrier to flicker, if only slightly.
Deep Space Nine’s command section shuddered slightly from the recoil of the attack on the installation’s shield generators, but none of the half dozen status displays around the room reported any significant damage.
“They must have burned out half their phaser emitters with that second full power volley,” Kira’s second commented.
“They don’t intend on ever having to repair them,” Kira muttered. She had never faced the invading creatures in direct combat before, but she had heard battle accounts from a dozen Federation and Klingon commanders. The aliens seemed to care absolutely nothing for their own lives, and if they saw the advantage for a tactical gain by doing so, a ship and its crew would sacrifice themselves in a moment. “Forward phasers, target its impulse engines. Get another torpedo spread on it too. The things on that ship want to get here pretty badly, and I don’t intend on letting them.”
The second attacker withstood the station’s counterattack better than its companion, but the final burst of one grid tore through its forward deflector shield, and cut a shallow gash that spanned its entire saucer section. Undaunted, the warship pressed on, unloading another torrent of crimson torpedoes, which smashed the target’s energy barrier in rapid succession, sending stronger tremors through the facility beyond. And again the station’s pylons lit up with weapons fire, and now that their prey was so close, almost to the point of dashing itself on the shield bubble, few of the blasts missed. With a sparking, chaotic pulse of raw energy, the Galaxy-class detonated, showering the barrier with tiny fragments in a final defiant gesture.
Breathing a small sigh of relief along with her crew and sure that no more alien-controlled ships had broken the distant, bloody line, the commander had just enough time to turn her attention back to the Nobel, which had been spared the ravages of the last incursion, and was now waiting nervously just outside the station’s protective globe. However, she was forced to delegate its redirection to her second as she was summoned to a priority comm station, and informed of a signal from the embattled fleet.
“Admiral.”
Alynna Nechayev, typically drawn face made even gaunter by the strife and loss she had to endure over the last few months, watching superiors, friends, and comrades die one after another until she had found herself at the head of the scattered and desperate remnants of Starfleet, stared back at Commander Kira, attempting to retain some composure even as the bridge of her flagship, the Sovereign-class Versailles, bulked and groaned around her.
“Commander, I’ve just lost most of Omega wing and my right flank to enemy reinforcements.” She paused as another impact shook the viewscreen image and sent showers of sparks racing along the tactical panels at the rear of her bridge. Her executive officer yelled an unintelligible order beyond view. “General K’Nera has ordered his remaining forces to begin to break off and make for rendezvous point RGN, and I intend to withdraw as well.”
Kira stared at the screen, bile rising in her throat. “Admiral, you can’t withdraw. Without the allied fleet here, Deep Space Nine and Bajor will be overrun. There are still millions of civilians down there!”
Nechayev stared back, unblinking and absolutely serious. “I understand the repercussions of this withdrawal all to well, Commander, but we simply cannot hold. The enemy numbers are too great, and if we do not withdraw soon, my ships will be surrounded and utterly destroyed. We were not prepared to face them here, not yet.”
Kira moved to speak out again, but the Admiral stopped her with a wave of her hand. “There is nothing I can do, Kira. There is still fight left in the fleet, and if we can bring it to them on our terms, we may still have strength of arms to break their hold on the quadrant. If we stay and fall in a heroic last stand here and now, and we will fall, this alien plague will sweep across every world from here to the Founder homeworld, and the war will truly be lost. There is no other option.”
Kira grabbed the sides of the display, and the fire in her eyes spoke of a mounting rage and sorrow that was screaming to be released, to destroy the cowardly Admiral where she sat. But the Bajoran said nothing. What could she say? The human was completely, undeniably correct. Bajor could not be traded for the lives of every sentient being within ten thousand light-years.
“We’ll try to hold them long enough for you to evacuate as much of the crew as you can from…”
“No.” Kira’s voice returned to her at last. “I will not abandon my homeworld, and neither will my crew. I will relay your order to the Federation crew on station, but I cannot…”
The view of the Versailles’s suddenly burst into static.
“Admiral? Admiral!” The commander lunged at a passing comm officer. “Why have we lost contact?”
Before he could respond, however, the image reappeared, heavily distorted, but viewable. “Commander, the helm just picked up something strange on long range scanners at the edge of the system, but our sensor array is damaged,” the image flickered out, and then in again. “… you confirm? Repeat, coordinates zero-nine-eight-eight, can you confirm anomaly?”
Kira glanced at her own comm officer, who was already programming the coordinates into his tracker. “Affirmative. Interference from the battle is heavy, but I am picking up some sort of supra-spatial anomaly. Possibly tachyonic. Wait, yes, there’s definitely something there. A physical mass, possibly two.”
The commander peered at the sensor display intently. Given their circumstances, such an occurrence shouldn’t rate very high on her list of priorities, but there was something about this anomaly that just felt… odd.
“Sir, I’m also picking up something strange, just outside our deflector grid…”
“Are you positive, ensign?” Captain Gehirn asked, seemingly dumbstruck as she stared out at the starfield that lay beyond the Magellan’s smooth hull, deceptively serene and motionless. “Absolutely positive?”
Seated at the helm before her, the ensign at the helm nodded slowly, evidently equally disbelieving of the information he conveyed. “Yes, sir. There’s no doubt; we’re just outside of the Bajor planetary system.”
When Picard had suggested that the captain of the alien vessel Republica might expedite their journey back to the now embattled stronghold system, Gehirn had been dubious, but had nevertheless transmitted an astrological route map to the planet to the Republica, and allowed the larger ship to seize her own an some sort of tractor field, despite the protests of her tactical officer. He had doubted that the ship could get them to the battlefield any faster than the Magellan’s own top-of-the-line warp drive, and for a few brief moments at the start of their piggyback jump into “Hyperspace”, as Picard had called it, she had begun to doubt her own acquiescence to the proposal. And yet, here they were, barely a half an hour later, right at doom’s doorstep.
Recovering from her own shock, Gehirn fell back into her previous, battle-ready mood. “Get me a status report on the allied fleet and the planet, and see if you can contact Admiral Nechayev. I also want Picard back on that screen, now.”
“Sir, I’m having trouble reestablishing contact with the Republica. The energy barrier around the vessel seems to have strengthened astronomically.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed, suspicion rising once more. “Onscreen.”
The tubular cruiser blinked onto the screen, its dented and scarred hull only vaguely tinted by a scant reflective quality, the only sign that some sort of energy barrier existed. And yet the tactical analysis of the vessel indicated the field was mind-bogglingly powerful, quite unlike anything any member of the bridge crew had ever seen before.
“Sir, it’s moving.”
Sure enough, jets of burning, bluish light had begun to issue from the massive tubes that protruded from its aft hull, and the whole vessel was soon moving away from the Magellan at an impressive clip.
“Where is it going?” Gehirn demanded.
“I can’t be sure, sir,” the helm replied “but the sensor grid is detecting a very large number of vessels in close proximity to Bajor, along with a lot of phaser fire. I believe that the Republica may be moving to engage the hostile fleet.”
“COM-scan registers approximately three hundred contacts, Captain,” a lieutenant reported, feeding the information to an upright, 2-dimenisonal display on which groups of starships were beginning to appear in relation to the huge opaque mass that represented the planet Gehirn had called Bajor. “Most appear to roughly similar in design to the Magellan, although there are also at least three other distinct structural patterns throughout the group. However, they all appear to be using the same low-yield weaponry and antimatter core systems.”
Ryceed regarded the chart thoughtfully, her hands folded loosely behind her uniformed back. “So, Picard, which are our targets?”
The Starfleet captain, along with Councilor Organa, and the rest of the “ambassadorial” delegation regarded her with surprise and even confusion. Upon arrival in the system, when the Republica’s sensors had confirmed a Federation fleet was under attack nearby, Commander Riker had made a comment about wishing to aide them. Without further prompting, despite all the caution and reservations about their mission she had shown over the last few days, Ryceed had jumped on the idea, and ordered her ship to forge forward into the thick of the battle. Perhaps, Picard reflected, the opportunity to take control of a battle situation after so many retreats, defeats, and desperate flights had been too tempting an opportunity for the Alliance captain to ignore. Indeed, he knew how she felt; there were few things left to him in the galaxy that Picard wouldn’t have traded for his old command chair at that moment.
Nevertheless, he was at somewhat at a loss as to the answer to Ryceed’s question. If the officer they had rescued from the Cornwall was correct in her account of the Zerg power grab, differentiating between stolen and allied vessels might be difficult. “I’m afraid I’m not entirely certain, Captain. I think perhaps we should attempt to reestablish contact with Captain Gehirn. Starfleet has probably developed some system of identifying the seized ships at range.”
A sudden sensation in the back of Picard’s mind that made the thin hairs on his neck stand on end, all too familiar, directed his attention to the turbolift bank at the rear of the bridge. Issuing smoothly and silently from the main tube, draped as ever in his long, dark cloak, Tassadar stooped into view, and his very presence seemed to attract the notice of everyone nearby. Seemingly oblivious to the two dozen pairs of eyes now fixed on him, he brushed past the marines guarding the entry shafts, whom Major Truul held back with a silent hand motion, and swiftly mounted the low terraced steps to the command area.
His posture was as cool and unreadable as always, but those who had been around the Protoss before noticed that the nebulous pattern that typically glazed his glassy eyes was now supremely focused, each pupil now a roughly serrated slit. Tassadar at last halted before Captain Ryceed, whom had never even seen the alien before, even if she had heard mention of him spending most of their journey in one of the supply bays, and thus was cowed slightly by his imposing size and ominous presence.
“You wish to engage the Zerg?” he asked her, filling the chamber with his impressively powerful ‘voice’. Quickly overcoming the oddity of his evidently psychic speech, Ryceed glanced at Picard, who nodded calmly, broadcasting what he hoped was an affirmation of the alien’s status and authority on the subject.
Craning her neck up so to look him squarely in the eyes, which was in itself an unsettling experience, Ryceed cleared her throat. “If you mean the entities occupying the ships attacking this world’s defensive fleet, then yes. Can you identify them?”
The high templar looked past her to the bridge’s main viewport, which now bore the magnified images of a dozen distant dogfights, ships of all forms engaged in a confused and vicious melee. He watched the individual drama of each play out for a few long moments; a ship bursting into flames and then shattered from an unseen attacker, another lobbing glowing missiles at a pair of greenish ships that attempted in vain to avoid the blasts, packs of ships that wove amongst one another with reckless abandon, angling off whenever they targeted another vessel that had been separated from its respective squadron or task force. Once or twice a minute, one of the vessels in the macabre play would flare into an incandescent star, and then fade into nothingness, spreading what remained of the lives within to the stars.
At last, Tassadar deflated slightly from his full height and looked back down at Ryceed; a Protoss nod of sorts. “I shall guide your weapons as best I can. Does the artificial mind Cortana still reside within your vessel’s computer core? I require its assistance.”
“Right here, big guy.” Cortana flickered into view on a vacant display screen. “What do you need?”
They die. We grow. The Queen’s will be done.
Deep within the artificial shell of the mechanical beast, forged by puny creatures that called themselves Klingons, now slaves in their own machine, a mind lay open, riveted. Hideous and glorious, a mound of livid convulsing flesh, its physical tendrils stretched throughout the possessed vessel feeding constantly on the biomass of lesser servants, provide for its sole usage. Other beings shambled erratically through the iron titans corroded bowels, endlessly maintaining the shell and the consciousness it housed, never resting, never sleeping. Still more stood at panels and controls that gave the ship guidance and direction, some virtually fused to their charges by grasping strands of scaled flesh, awaiting orders with animalistic eagerness. But not one of them thought, or felt any emotion save the most base of desires. There was only driving force there, one mind for all.
But for all its power, its ultimate will and authority over spawn innumerable, it was but a servant itself. Though supremely clever and driven in its own right, there was a far greater force always just at the edge of its being, inescapable and privy to its every machination and motivation. The Queen. She was all, the mother of the great swarm and all its children; it existed to serve her and make her every dream an immutable element of reality. And this shipboard mind was one of her most cherished minions, a direct executor of her will, one whom was born with both intellect and a will to command; it was a Celebrate, immortal and unstoppable.
As both gift and method of its vital service, the Celebrate was granted the control of a brood of its own mindless, inherently loyal slaves, and on this day it had bent them to the favored pursuit of the swarm; slaughter. Through the eyes of its children, the mind watched with satisfaction as an insurmountable tide smashed against the pitiful adversaries the Queen had tasked it to destroy in endless hammer blows of energy, metal, and flesh. Using mechanical beasts seized from their now besieged creators, the Celebrate, directly reaching into a thousand minds, slowly wore away at line after lines, formation after formation of enemies, relishing the dying flash of each vessel. Even if it had not been bred to be incapable of defying the Queen’s will, it would have hunted these pitiful nonetheless; be it by some twisted aspect of its genetics, or a simple glorious depravity of its personality, the mind enjoyed war, and reveled in the dying breaths of every single sentient that died within the range of its comprehension. And range was long.
Of course, the mind’s reaction to the deaths of its own servants was somewhat different. Each time one of the ships under its dominion succumbed to desperate enemy weapons fire, it felt the very slightest pang of psychic release somewhere in the endless roles and knots of its neural cord, but was only most minor of annoyances, and quite easy to ignore. The minions on each ship were unthinking, easily replaceable tools, nothing more; they were bred and mutated to serve and die unquestioningly. It mattered not how many had to be sacrificed to crush those who opposed the swarm. In any event, there were plenty more to replace those who fell; as with most engagements in which servants of the Queen fought, the odds were thoroughly one-sided.
A new wave of absences flickered into the Celebrate’s notice, registering in faster succession than was normal. However, the mind was untroubled by the loss, and was more focused on another area of the battle, where his horde was close to encircling an impressive number of holdouts. With barely a thought, it sent a new wave of minions to replace those who had been erased from the battlefield, and returned to plotting the target squadron’s imminent extermination. However, mere moments after the reinforcements reached their new assigned positions, they too disappeared. This still was not unusual enough by itself to attract the Celebrate’s full attentions, but something new accompanied the losses this time.
There was another great mind at work in this star system now.
Forgetting its previous pursuit, the Celebrate turned its full gaze to the sector of the battle where he felt the emerging presence. It was on a far fringe, and few enemy vessels remained functioning within the area, but though the eyes of one its minions on a nearby ship, he saw new vessel plowing through the wreckage previous duels and assaults had left drifting in its path. It was of a completely alien design, an elongated oval of grayish metal, larger than most of the combatants already assembled, and evidently already bearing many scars of battle.
As the mind watched, a pair of vessels under its command broke from their pursuits of another ship and angled for the large ship, each unleashing a torrent of deadly beams and pinpoints of light. The onslaught, sufficient to give pause to even the greatest of warships immersed in the fray, impacted their target unperturbed by any extended energy field, and unleashed an explosion of impressive magnitude, one bright enough to give the observing creature to squint its eyes slightly. However, when the discharged distortion faded away into the night moments later, the segment of hull the attack had stricken seemed completely unharmed, the only sign of any effect at all being a faint flicker of bluish white over the target area.
A moment later, without pausing in its course deeper into the fray, nodules and turrets along the thing’s hull trained on the harrowing vessels and unleashed their own pulses of brilliant light. The mind had a brief moment to marvel at their form and movement, quite unlike any weapons the swarm or its enemies employed, before the long bolts found their way to the other ships, striking with pinpoint accuracy.
Both exploded instantly.
Had the Celebrate been spawned with eyes, they would have bulged. The two attackers had been among the most power hulks at its disposal, and yet each had been obliterated completely by a single shot from the new comer. Not even the titanic vessel the mind had chosen for itself possessed such great power.
Its original targets forgotten, the mind suddenly bent its total focus on the marauding ship, which continued to bat aside any opposition with contemptuous ease, and seized the primitive pilots of nearly a hundred of his ships, forcibly focusing them on the new threat. As one, vessels of all sizes and class broke from previous engagements and rocketed full tilt through space, leaving their former opponents bewildered and alone in unexpectedly vacant space. The first wave of this new assault met the starship as it entered the lunar orbital ring of the planet below.
It was a slaughter. Even as scores of ships emptied their full armament upon the metal beast, it moved on unperturbed, absorbing each blow as though it were a wayward micrometeoroid, and returning the onslaught a thousand fold, methodically destroying squadron after squadron with precise blows. It appeared that many of the weapons arrayed on its hull were inoperable, or simply not engaged, and thus the return fire was not sufficient in volume to combat all of its attackers at once, but considering the effectiveness of each strike, and the comparable uselessness of the Celebrate’s assault, it hardly mattered.
A new sensation had begun to take hold of the mind’s thoughts; fear. The terrible feeling was brought on not only by the seeming impotence of the swarm against this new threat, but also the growing power and focus of the Celebrate could sense emanating from the ship’s core. This opposing mind seemed to be able to target and devastate each successive target without pause or misfire; indeed, even in hotspots where near-identical combatants were locked in mortal combat mere ship lengths apart, the foreign mind seemed able to locate brood-held vessels without any effort at all, guiding barrages of annihilating strikes with nary a miss or impact on a defender’s hull.
And now the Celebrate came to realize there was an even more basic cause of his fear. The attacker’s unbreakable stride was taking it straight into the heart of the mind’s swarm; it was seeking out the heart of its enemies.
Now the Celebrate’s priorities changed completely. Completely abandoning all thoughts of his previous tactics and ambitions during the earlier part of the engagement, it drew all of the ships it could into a vast wall before its command ship, a barrier of a hundred thousand lives arrayed against the approaching assassin.
The ship met the forward face of this wall in moments, so besieged by torpedoes and phaser bursts that it was nothing more than a vague outline in the blinding storm. The barrier collapsed inwards immediately, the warships that had not been directly in its path and thus survived unscathed now desperately trying to halt it from the rear as still more ships beyond formed into a loose knot, suddenly the front line.
By now, the Celebrate’s own ship was in motion, veering away from the rapidly-disintegrating bulwark at full speed, its pilots now filled with their central mind’s terror as it continued to mount with each failed defense. Escape had become the Celebrate’s sole ambition now, and it bent its crew toward the task of readying his vessel for warp flight with an eagerness and furious need unprecedented through its entire preceding existence.
And low, the stalling tactic at least seemed to be bearing fruit; motivated by their master’s terror, the remnants of the mind’s vanguard had begun dashing their vessels full speed against the attacker’s blunt nose. The bluish light that seemed to render the craft impervious to damage at last began to flicker more noticeably under the renewed assault, and be it by actual damage, or the simple opposing inertia imparted by the kamikaze attacks, the attacker slowed in its advance. Perhaps, the mind considered, this offending thing was not quite as invincible as had first been suspected.
Then an explosion split space, not one engulfing a defending ship, but rather far closer. One of the slaves manning a control station on the vessel’s command bridge moaned. The swarm flagship was under attack. The Celebrate was in deadly danger.
Whatever semblance of confidence that had renewed itself amidst the controller’s cluttered thoughts evaporated instantly, and it began to search desperately for the new harasser.
Seven small, almost inconsequential flecks of metal raced into the mind’s direct field of notice, surging forward from the chaos that still raged far aft of the command ship. The Celebrate was about to disregard them as fragments of debris and continue its search, but a flurry of bolts and sparks of burning light erupting from them dragged his attention back. A second later, a large number of the multicolored cloud disappeared into a protruding section of his mechanical shell, losing only a few of its number to the ship’s shield bubble before it gave way, and the pylon was enveloped in a massive cloud of expanding flame and charred detritus.
As the tiny squadron surged forward for another attack, a flurry of green and golden bolts from the fleeing titan forced them to break formation. This apparent fear for their own safety once again inspired some hope in the Celebrate; if these vessels could be harmed by those weapons, then they might be held off long enough for the command ship to escape the gravitic shadow of the rapidly receding planet that still blocked the mind escape. Only a few more moments…
A new series of detonations against the metal shell’s deflector shields, this time impacting its forward section. Confused, the Celebrate cast its attention to the source of the attack; none of the tiny harrying craft could have angled a weapon to strike that part of its ship. An instant later, the mind’s puzzlement dissolved.
The Celebrate and his broods may have forgotten the previous battle, but the weary defenders of the world they had sought to engulf had not.
As the forward section of the fleeing Negh’Var-class battleship evaporated under the combined assault of a dozen Starfleet and Klingon warships, a cheer swept the Republica’s bridge. Though the battle had been a veritable slaughter, the sheer volume of opposition the ship had faced pursing the Zerg flagship had been highly unsettling, and towards the end of the pursuit, the waves of suicide attacks had actually begun to deplete the cruiser’s deflector field, and inflicted minor damage to some of the ship’s shield generators. Nevertheless, the sheer disparity in firepower between the Mon Calamari ship and their opponents was not lost on any of the crew, especially not Captain Ryceed and the Federation officers, although true repercussions of the realization had yet to sink in.
Still, such a bold attack would not have been possible without the aid of Cortana and Tassadar. With Ryceed’s grudging permission, the former had taken full control of the ship’s active sensors and FoF tagging systems, and the Protoss instructed Ryceed to have her ship plunge straight into the thick of the melee around Bajor. When she had instructed her crew to do as much, the templar had collapsed into some sort of meditative posture on the deck before the main viewport, and had started listing coordinates relative to the ship’s bow as they moved into the battle, each of which Cortana applied to a warship battling around them. Ryceed’s gunners could then begin to pick off Zerg-infested ships without risk of accidentally destroying those still controlled by thinking crews.
It was all everyone else on the bridge could do to stand in awe of Tassadar’s cold, methodical precision, and when he had directed the captain to lock in course to pursue a ship at the very heart of the enemy’s fleet, the flagship, she had complied immediately. Considering the exponential increase in resistance this had triggered, it seemed that the Protoss’ hunch, or whatever it was, had been correct.
“Captain, a large number of the defending warships have broken of pursuit,” an officer announced, quickly settling back into the conflict at hand.
“Their squad formations appear to be breaking apart as well, sir. Some even appear to have stopped functioning altogether,” another confirmed, plainly puzzled.
Ryceed frowned. “They’re abandoning ship?”
“No.” Tassadar had not yet moved from his meditative position. “When the Zerg Celebrate on that ship was killed, its control over the broods here disappeared. Without direction, the drones piloting those vessels are nothing more than animals.”
“Sir, General Solo is requesting permission to continue the attack,” a communications officer called from a bank of transceiver panels. When the Celebrate’s final assault had reached its fiercest, Ryceed had been forced to order the sublight drives to slow in order to reduce the possibility of increased damage from the kamikaze attacks. Already prepped for flight, the Millennium Falcon and the cruiser’s complement of A-Wings had been launched to prevent the flagship from escaping, although they’re efforts had been made somewhat irrelevant due to the timely arrival of a remnant of the Bajoran defense fleet.
“Permission granted,” Ryceed replied, walking over to a holographic display of the surrounding area, on which a handful of the tagged ships still appeared to be fighting, although they’re maneuvers had become highly erratic and barrages random, occasional striking their own ships. “Launch squadrons one and two to assist them. Instruct General Solo to target those ships that seem to be flying erratically. They might still be able to do some damage.”
“Captain.” Councilor Organa’s attention was fixed on the main viewport, which still was trained on the location of the Zerg battleship, now drifting debris, beyond which the dozen victorious starships hung in space, apparently still deciding how to react to the newcomers. “Perhaps we should attempt communications with the local fleet now. I’m certain they are most appreciative of our assistance here, but I doubt ignoring them will preserve our welcome long.”
Picard nodded in agreement. “Yes, we should reestablish contact with the Magellan as soon as possible. Captain Gehirn ought to serve as an effective intermediary between us and the Federation fleet.”
As the humans behind him busied themselves with the resolution of the battle, Tassadar slowly rose, allowing his limbs to stretch and hang loose for a moment. The detection of the Zerg minds on those ships had not been difficult, the terrible psionic impression they left on his mind even from great range was unmistakable, but the effort had drained him. Evidently, even after so long, he had not fully recovered from the encounter his with that dark-clad human on the bridge of the Alliance flagship. This lingering weariness, whose source was seemingly completely unable to identify, persisted to occupy and disturb the Protoss’ mind. It was as if the well of psionic energy all of his people could call upon for strength, high templar especially, was somehow blocked, and only a trickle of the invigorating power he was used to could reach him.
Determined to find the root of the strange weakness before it stymied his energy further, Tassadar began to turn from the viewport and was about to make for the calm, quiet emptiness of the ship’s storage bays when a distant object, just barely visible through the thick transparisteel window, caught his slowly-fluctuating eye. A mere silhouette against the darkening green of the world beyond, he was able to make out a spindly form, evidently in orbit, circular and bisected by a trio of long pylons. In the sea of starships and scattered detritus around Bajor, such a sight would not normally have held his notice, but he felt something more from it now, strange. There was the vaguest hint of sentient thought emanating from the construction, virtually imperceptible at this range, but with it too was something that did not belong. A raw, thoughtless, animalistic presence.
Even with their master dead, it seemed that the Zerg had one last hunting ground open to them yet.
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 424
(5/17/06 12:32 pm) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Fifty
Uneasy, confused dreams shattered by a sudden sound, Reginald Barclay awoke from his fitful slumber with a violent start.
It took him a moment to clear away the cobwebs of sleep and fully adapt to his surroundings and remember the unfortunate circumstances that had heralded them, but even before his eyes readjusted to the light in the chamber beyond his eyelids, the man was struck by an all too familiar feeling. Intense, unshakable nervousness.
He had messed something important up. Badly.
Motivated by sudden dread, Barclay quickly focused on his immediate situation; he was propped up against the smooth, gently-contoured wall in the assembly area which the Arbiter had managed to capture, his limbs arrayed lazily around him as if he had dozed off and flopped down where he stood. Considering what he had been through those last few hours, it was not an unlikely possibility.
He, along with the whole interior of the vessel, was bathed in a low, hazy light, just strong enough so that he could make out the circular form of the cargo chamber beyond, which was further illuminated by the silvery sheer of several energy fields, which blocked off, Barclay remembered, makeshift alcove holding cells for the ship’s crew. He couldn’t make out any movement beyond the screen that was in his line of sight; perhaps they were all still unconscious.
Or perhaps they’re just waiting.
Shivering at the thought, Barclay turned his attention back to the small assembly hall… and immediately jerked backward, fumbling at the deck plate around him in a panic. Just across the narrow corridor, and one shallow recess to the left, Flitch, Imperial Infiltrator and originator of Barclay’s current plight, sat hunched, and very much awake. His slightly sunken, cold eyes trained on his supposed warden, Flitch gently cradled his right hand in his other, the tips of a few of its fingers a livid, unnatural red. Directly below them, clapping his legs to the deck plate via a hastily inserted bolt, a pair of large, very solid cuffs wrapped around his ankles, joined by a bright arc of bluish light. Evidently, his attempt to remove the binds had been met with a rather unwelcome and unpleasant deterrent.
At last laying hold of the claw-like plasma rifle that was propped up next to him, Barclay shakily took the weapon in both hands and raised it at his prisoner unsteadily, fingers positioned rather near its firing stud. Flitch’s eyes flickered to the weapon momentarily, but he turned his attention just as quickly back to the face of its wielder, suppressing any hint of concern that might weaken his, sharp, bitter expression.
After a long, tenuous silence, the Imperial at last let out a sigh of disgust. “So are you going to shoot me, or just hold that thing there until your twitching fingers do it for you?”
Barclay gritted his teeth, and tried to think over the thunderous beating of his heart. It’s alright, Reginald. You didn’t doze off for too long. He’s still restrained. Besides, you’ve got the gun; you’re the one in control.
Still staring at his captive in anxiety, Barclay lowered the rifle as smoothly as he could, both because of his own attempts to sooth himself were beginning to calm his frazzled nerves, and because his arms were beginning to whine with stress at their extended, weight-bearing posture. When the weapon, still clasped firmly in the Federation officer’s white-knuckled hands, reached floor level, Barclay finally summoned enough courage to clear his throat of phlegm and form words with his dry tongue.
“How long have you been awake?” The question did not sound as commanding as he hoped it would, but it was a start.
Flitch let out a humorless snicker. “Quite a keeper that brute set for me. Can’t even handle a simple guard job without nodding off.”
Barclay recognized the evasive nature of Flitch’s reply, but he didn’t really feel like pressing further; obviously, the spy had not been awake for long, as the burns on his fingers and the low sound that had awoken the other (an utterance of pain, Barclay presumed) suggested that he had just begun to try the plasma binders the Arbiter had placed on him before departing for weaknesses. He was still bolted to the floor and well out of reach of his former hostage, no harm had been done. Besides, Barclay didn’t particularly feel like lingering over the topic of his sudden exhaustion any longer than necessary; he had been little more than worry to his comrades since their whole dangerous and confused voyage had begun, and the whole affair was completely beyond his experience. If he was barely in his element on a peaceful day in the Enterprise’s Main Engineering, how could he be expected to cope with being captured, shot at, forced to shoot, shoved in and out of battles, and kidnapped, over and over again with very little rest between each new occurrence. And now his bewilderment had nearly gotten himself killed. Again.
Noting that Flitch was still sneering at him definitely, Barclay cast about once more for something authoritative to say. “Um… don’t try to get out of those cuffs again. After what you did to me and those officers in the docking bay, I would hesitate to shoot you.”
Flitch snorted in contempt. “I doubt if you have what it takes to kill a man, at all. You and your Federation friends always struck me as mewling, Caamasi-babe weaklings.”
“You’d be surprised,” Barclay replied softly, rather bewildered by his own words. But yes, he remembered all too clearly, the fingers that clutched his weapon were not clean of Imperial blood.
The infiltrator raised an eyebrow at the comment, but did not reply, shaking his head and lying back against his bulkhead instead. Still anxious, but feeling more in control than he had a minute before, Barclay mimicked the movement, keeping his weapon close at his side.
“Actually, I’m rather surprised that I’m alive right now at all,” Flitch remarked at length, his head now leaning on the palms of his hands as he lay back, staring at the low glow of the illumination panels above. “After our last encounter, I would have figured that alien would have killed as soon as he had the opportunity. His species seemed like a rather savage one.”
Flitch craned his neck slightly and glanced around. “Where is that xeno anyways? And where are we? I would have figured you and your brutish friend would have been all too eager to return to your Rebel conspirators with your prize.”
Flitch didn’t strike Barclay as the particularly talkative type, especially not in his situation, but as long as he was talking, he couldn’t actively be trying to get free. Hopefully.
“The navigation systems of the shuttle you stole were destroyed during the struggle, and we were stranded in the middle of the battle between those alien ships and the Star Destroyer. I can only guess that the Republica fled through the wormhole when it had an opportunity. After that…”
Flitch sat up abruptly, a sudden, dark emotion playing across his face. “What do you mean, ‘fled through the wormhole’?” he demanded. “The Rebel ship couldn’t have gotten past the intercept coordinates to the anomaly. I saw the blockading destroyer myself.”
Barclay frowned. “Of course were reached it. How else would we be stranded in this galaxy, and come into contact with that Covenant… those alien warships?”
It hit the infiltrator all in an instant; the strange, distorted mental lapse while he had been making the final preparations for his escape, the tension of the crew… How could he have been so focused on the deception to have let that that was so obvious escape him? And now, he was…
“This… this is one of the alien ships?” he managed.
Barclay nodded slowly. “The Arbiter managed to commandeer one of their scouts and bring us onboard to hide. Apparently, the natives of this galaxy don’t particular like humans. He’s off somewhere now trying to arrange out escape from the fleet, I think.”
His mouth drawn into a half-sneer, Flitch turned away, grappling with what he had heard. Stranded? Here? With this cowardly Rebel sympathizer and the alien brute, trapped in a galaxy far removed from civilization, real human civilization. Surely, if the Empire still held force in this place, they would have discovered him by now. Perhaps it would have been better to have died from that blow that had laid him low before.
With Flitch still coming to grips with the situation he had forced himself into, the tedious conversation came to abrupt end, and Barclay was left once more to combat a mixture of tiredness, fear and boredom. Feeling the tendrils of unbidden sleep return to the edge of his mind, the Federation officer rose slowly, weapon still in hand, and paced out into the larger holding chamber, thinking that he might at least stretch his legs while he waited for word from the Arbiter.
It was then that Barclay realized his nap had not been nearly as harmless as he had first hoped. Rather than sealed shut, as it had set itself automatically after the alien warrior’s departure, the access iris in the middle of the chamber was open once more, revealing the soft glow of the anti-gravity beam that the ship still projected upon to its far larger host craft, a light that had been barely noticeable from where Barclay had been sitting before.
Now too in full view were the two cargo alcoves that flanked the whole, converted to serve as cells. One, still obscured by a curtain of shimmering light, still held within two prone figures, large and small, the Sangheili and Kig-Yar, the Arbiter had called them. But the other…
The other was completely vacant. No immaterial sheen blocked its entry point, and the two squat Unggoy that it was supposed to house were equally absent. In their place, a scattering of electronic circuits and wires, piled on top of a small metal plate, lay near a similarly-shaped hole in the smooth bulkhead, within which a few broken cords sizzled with intermittent light.
Flustered, Barclay glanced back at Flitch, who sat where he had been bolted before, still brooding in silence. The spy could not have done this; the aliens had done it themselves while the humans slept.
A small voice in the back of Barclay’s mind spoke up; Well, at least they didn’t kill you while you slept.
The sentiment would have been more comforting if he didn’t suspect it was a mere stay of execution.
Without breaking his stride, the Arbiter attempted to adjust the large, golden poltroon of armor that rested on his left shoulder, no easy feat considering its size and weight. A swift tug and shove pushed it into more appropriate alignment with the rest of his equally radiant outfit, but its weight still felt alien upon the Sangheili’s back. Indeed, the entire costume, a jet-black bodysuit overlaid by plate after plate of reflective gold armor, topped with a tri-finned helm, felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Even when he had still served with honor in the ranks of the Covenant Armada as a shipmaster, he had preferred only to wear the garb of his station when it was required of him; the dark armor of a special operation soldier was far more comfortable and functional. Unfortunately, on this occasion, such a display would most certainly be required, especially since the spare dress had been explicitly offered to him on the ship commander’s orders.
Flanked by a pair of Sangheili troopers, impressive specimens decked out in black and dark gray raiment, the garb of a shipmaster’s personal guard, the Arbiter marched down the wide, axial corridor that connected the core of the carrier August Judgment to the outer levels of the warship, moving with the overwhelming presence and refined grace expected of one of his station. As the small procession passed, lesser Sangheili and any other soldier within view paused to offer their respects to the visiting master, nodding or bowing, depending on their rank and race. There was a time when he had been exhilarated by this sort of reverence; now it disturbed him. He had lived life, albeit for only a short time, amongst the lowest, most expendable levels of society, and he had experienced all too harshly the tribulations the rank and file had to endure. Nevertheless, it would be unwise to try and stop such behavior now; appearances were essential, all of this was mere pretense.
Arriving at the set of double, rectangular doors that heralded the entry into the very heart of the vessel, the two escorts each moved to one side of one of the doors, unspeaking and at perfect attention, energy swords proudly displayed upon their hip notches and plasma rifles in their hands. One of them nodded to the Arbiter, and he approached the wide, reddish door, which slid open silently in anticipation of his entry.
The chamber beyond was significantly smaller than the one the warrior was used to in his old flagship, natural for a ship that was only half the size, and as such the required attendants were far more densely packed. Red and black armored soldiers stood at even intervals along the softly-glowing walls, while others patrolled the narrow crew pit below the room’s characteristic, raised command dais. Above this area, where several Huragok and even a few insectoid Yanme’e worked under heavy observation, the ship’s commander and his highest officers, dressed in gold and silver respectively, waited, oblivious for the moment to the holographic displays that hung in the air all around them.
Directed by an unusually tall major, the Arbiter crossed the chamber with the same refinement and authority he had displayed in the exterior hall, mounting the steep ramp that lead up to the command platform in a few easy strides. The sight awaiting him at the top was an expected, though not pleasant one.
Galo ‘Nefaaleme, adorned in a manner almost identical to his guest, offered him a deep nodding bow, one which the Arbiter returned, careful not to dip quite as far as the first had. Technically, as the executor of a major expeditionary task force (even if it had been largely annihilated), he outranked the head shipmaster of this carrier group and its escort, but the distinction was minimal, at least officially, and ‘Nefaaleme more than made up for his lower rank with an infamously disarming presence, and more importantly, with his connections amongst the higher tiers of the Sangheili hierarchy, more than likely all the way up to the Sangheili ranks of the High Council. The Arbiter had worked with him before, when both were still mid-level ship’s adjuncts, and hated every moment of the experience. He suspected the feeling was mutual.
“My greetings, Shipmaster Teno ‘Falanamee,” he said smoothly, carefully raising his arched neck and leveling his eyes with the other warrior. “I am gratified to find you still within this realm, as are, I’m sure, the Hierarchs. I hear that you are among their favored instruments; no doubt they would have been frustrated by your death.”
“My life is for Prophets and their way, Shipmaster Galo ‘Nefaaleme,” the Arbiter replied, carefully returning the greeting. “You have sent word, then?”
‘Nefaaleme made a sweeping gesture towards a nearby holo-panel. “A priority probe was dispatched to High Charity as soon as the medical observes confirmed your identity and condition.”
“And the local armada executor?”
The carrier’s master pursed his upper mandibles slightly into a frown. “As the Blessed Fire and your own flagship were destroyed during the battle, with their masters, as far as was known at the time, of course, slain in combat, along with the highest ranking Prophet in observation of the subjugation of this system, there was some dispute as to whom would assume control of the forces in this area. As of this moment, all fleets have been instructed to hold position around the human world; the Hierarchs have dispatched another of their observers to re-delegate command, as well as to oversee some matter pertaining to the subjugated planet.”
The Arbiter listened impassively. Normally, as the ranking local officer he would have been able to reassume command of all the warships in the area immediately, but as he had lost his vessel and had been noted as killed in action, his status would have to be reaffirmed by a Prophet or member of the Council before he again could exercise command powers or assume control of a vessel like ‘Nefaaleme’s, barring the emergence of an imminent threat to the armada. No doubt the other shipmaster would remind him of this if he tried, and for the moment at least, the Arbiter was willing to play guest.
Noting the inquisitive stare now fixed upon him, the Arbiter spoke up once more. “Yes, our forces must have been thrown into disarray by the appearance of the hostile intruders, but I trust that the remaining humans in this system have been eliminated, and the second attack repelled.” Not giving the second time to respond, the Arbiter pushed easily past him and his attending officers, as to get a better view of the main holographic display, which was currently mimicking the star system and the Covenant fleet elements therein. “I wish casualty statistics from my command, the Fleet of Particular Justice, as well as figures on the readiness of the invasion force as a whole. We must be prepared for another incursion, especially if more holy Prophets are to arrive here soon.”
‘Nefaaleme remained where he stood, following his superior carefully with his gaze, perhaps a bit too carefully. No doubt he was eager to learn the specifics of what had transpired near the wormhole; what the hostile ships were, why the observing Prophet’s ship had been so close to the battle, and what had become of the warships that had been sent into the strange spatial rift after the invaders after they had been beaten back. Of course, the Arbiter had to avoid such inquiries as long as possible; although he had supposedly been commanding the vessel at the forefront of the incident, the version now standing on the August Judgment’s overbridge had been elsewhere engaged during that period. What little he knew of what had happened had been extrapolated from snippets of broadband communications amongst the recovery fleet during his time onboard the captured salvage ship.
“At once, shipmaster.” The reply to the request was overtly calm and dutiful, but the Arbiter could tell that ‘Nefaaleme’s curiosity was beginning to overcome his interest in the current status of the surrounding battle fleet.
Once an attendant had been dispatched to call up the required information, the carrier’s master turned his attention back to the other gold-draped commander, moving up alongside him as he continued to inspect the positioning of each individual task force in the planetary system. Allowing the Arbiter only a moment’s further contemplation, he raised his throaty voice once more. “I must admit a certain curiosity to the circumstances surrounding your arrival onboard my vessel, shipmaster. If you would permit me a few questions?”
It was not the inquiry the Arbiter had feared, fortunately, but there was still something in the other’s tone that he found somewhat unsettling, a timber that spoke of motive beyond mere curiosity. Nevertheless, he motioned for the warrior to continue, attention still fixed upon the floating images above.
“How did you escape the Ascendant Justice before its destruction?” The question was straight-forward and expected, but the shipmaster’s tone still wore on the Arbiter’s mind. “Surely, you did not abandon your flagship while it still was capable of combat?”
So that was it; Galo ‘Nefaaleme suspected him of cowardice. For any soldier, especially the commander of a battleship, to flee from his post unordered, even in the face of insurmountable odds, was an ultimate act of dishonor, and beyond that, heresy. And heresy was punishable by death, something the Arbiter knew all too well. Still, he had faced such a fate before, and feared it little; however, there were more lives at stake now than his own, and he would not fail either Barclay or his people. Not again.
His fabrication had to be both impressive and unimpeachable.
Turning his head fractionally towards ‘Nefaaleme, although not enough to fully reveal the distinct stiffening of his expression, the Arbiter delievered his answer as easily as he could manage. “After the intruder’s largest warship began to breach my flagship’s defensive fields and hull, I quickly lost contact with most weapons and propulsion control. A few moments later, an uncontrolled hull breach on the same level as the Ascendant Justice’s overbridge placed my command crew and me in immanent danger of decompression. As such, I issued the order for those warriors with more ceremonial armor equipped to don atmosphere-sealed gear, as I did myself. It was quite clear that our strike force was outmatched, and reinforcement would not be able to lend aid in time to save my flagship and its crew, but nevertheless I issued orders for all stations to remain active and at battle readiness; were it the will of the god’s that we die in combat there, I would not deny them. To order a retreat would have sullied the memory of the noble Prophet who died at the enemy’s hand. And indeed, most of my warriors did embark upon the Great Journey, fighting and dying for the word of the gods.”
“But you did not. How?”
“I cannot say. When the bridge chamber was finally breached, I must have been knocked unconscious, and when I awoke, I found myself lodged in one of the bridge’s ancillary evacuation pods, my atmosphere suit suffering from a breach.” He inclined his sloped forehead slightly, bringing more clearly into the view the large, raw gash across his upper jaw and scalp that still marred and accentuated his predatory features. “I can only cite divine influence in this salvation; it would have been my wish to perish in battle with my ship, but it seems the Forerunners have designs for me yet. I bear this scar as a mark of duty, and a reminder of their grace.”
‘Nefaaleme bowed slightly in solidarity with the religious affirmation. He seemed impressed with his superior’s piety; hopefully, that perceived common faith would cloud whatever doubts he yet held.
“After repairing the helm of my survival armor, I interfaced with the pod’s maneuvering systems and managed to guide it out of the heavier area of debris from my vessel, and upon locating a derelict transport vessel that had also been blown free, I transferred over and flew it to one of the August Judgment’s landing decks amid one of the returning salvage squadrons. I then reported to a duty major, submitted to a DNA scan and medical analysis, and reported here.” The Arbiter carefully glossed over the details of this last portion of his tale, especially those related to the medical assessment; he had merely allowed the attending orderly to confirm his identify with a DNA sample and sterilize the wound on his head, but had slipped away before any further tests could be undertaken. Though he was biologically and officially Teno ‘Falanamee, divergent experiences and his rebirth in heresy and betrayal had left very physical remnants; the brand of the Heretic that was burned onto his chest could not be seen by anyone, or the lie and all the lives that likely lay upon it might very well fall upon doom in an instant.
The second shipmaster had listened to the remainder of the Arbiter’s report with his features impassive, although his tensed posture showed clear interest. “A remarkable tale and one I’m sure the Council will be quite eager to hear from you in person.”
He inclined his jaw in agreement. As the commanding officer during the later part of the invasion, it would fall upon him to detail the subjugation of the human world Reach, as well as the bizarre and unheralded battle that had occurred on the system’s outskirts. And indeed, a journey to the capitol city of the Covenant featured prominently within his still-fermenting plans for the future of his race, if it were to have one at all.
Suspicions evidently satiated for the moment, ‘Nefaaleme turned his focus to the fleet diagrams around them, and the two had begun to assess the status of the armada in earnest when the aide that had been dispatched to retrieve the tactical information the Arbiter had requested returned, offering a respectful bow to both of his superiors.
“You have the data?” the carrier’s master demanded half-hazardly.
“Yes, Shipmaster,” the Sangheili replied, rising. “You can now access it at your digression from the main terminal.”
‘Nefaaleme motioned for the attendant to return to his other duties, but he did not budge. “What else is there?”
“Excellency, the ventral guard commander has issued a report stating that his forces have located and captured a pair of…” he paused for a fraction of a second, unsure. “…humans.”
‘Nefaaleme fixed again up his attendant, this time with rapt attention, as did the Arbiter. “Humans? On my ship?”
“Yes, Excellency. He reported that they apparently commandeered one of our salvage craft, disabled its crew, and then attached it to a sensor-null spot on the August Judgment’s hull. Several of the crewers managed to escape and reported the intrusion.”
“Are they still alive?”
The Arbiter’s question earned him a glance from the other shipmaster, but apparently it had crossed his mind as well. “Well?”
“They are, Excellencies. There was evidently little resistance when they were discovered, and the guard commander had them taken to the primary holding deck. He said that he would have had them summarily executed, as is customary, but that the unusual circumstances of this intrusion warranted your attention before any further action was taken.”
The shipmaster considered. “His prudence is noted. Nevertheless, have the commander continue with his proper duties; terminate and dispose of the mongrels. I will not have them sully this warship with their presence any longer than in necessary.”
“Wait.”
The Arbiter step forward, away from the holographic grid display, his focus now clearly on the attendant’s message. ‘Nefaaleme looked at him again, this time nearly glaring.
“Shipmaster, surely you don’t intend on allowing these beings to live? It is the will of the Prophets that all of their kind be eradicated on sight.”
“I have reason to believe that humans may have been involved with the vessels that assaulted and destroyed my flagship. If these humans hold any knowledge on the builders and intent of the interlopers, then I intend to tear it from them before they meet their rightful termination, in the interest of the Covenant.” As he spoke, the Arbiter assumed his full, impressive height and locked feline eyes with ‘Nefaaleme, causing him to fall back almost imperceptivity. “If I must answer for my decision, I will do so later, before the Council and the Hierarchs. The real authorities.”
It was clear the other shipmaster still held strong misgivings on allowing his prisoners to live, but he knew enough to realize that the procedure was technically allowed within fleet law, and wise enough to know not to defy the direct order of his superior, and moreover, a warrior of this ‘Falanamee’s renown. Slowly, he confirmed acknowledged the countermand to his officer.
“Very well. Come, let us begin immediately. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of their kind still drawing breath.”
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 425
(6/17/06 7:56 am) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Fifty One
“I’ve got a seal,” the Alliance pilot called back over his shoulder. “It’s a rough fit, but it should hold atmosphere.”
Acknowledging the information with a nod, Major Truul, decked out in full body armor and a reinforced blast helmet, turned to the other occupants of the shuttle’s passenger cabin. “All right, you all know what to do. We breach the airlock grid, secure the holding area beyond, and wait for reinforcements. Simple, no heroics. Got it?”
Response came in the form of seven silent nods from the squad of similarly dressed Alliance troopers who were packed into the space, their hands resting tentatively on the stocks of a variety of blaster rifles and flechette casters. Though each was serving as a security marine aboard the Republica, and as such saw little direct combat, most were veterans of innumerable insurgent actions and sabotage campaigns, just as ready for combat as the most seasoned Imperial Stormtrooper. Nevertheless, there was obvious tension in their eyes; most barely understood just how far from home the Republica’s newest assignment had taken them, and the prospect of charging into this new galaxy to confront any enemy they had never even heard of before their rushed and truncated mission briefing was none too appealing. Truul knew how they felt, but he also knew they had to job to do, and he would rather face the Dark Lord of the Sith himself than fail at it. Failure still hung heavily on the man’s mind.
“Are your soldiers ready, Major?” Lt. Commander Worf asked from the small ship’s main hatch, voice tinged with anticipation. He, and Aleen Jossa, sole remained of the Enterprise’s security force, stood at the ready, both equipped with borrowed gear and armament identical to Alliance detachment’s own. E-11 blaster rifle hooked to her waist, the latter was scanning the docking bulkhead beyond the shuttle’s hatch with her tricorder and attempting to find the frequency with which she could simulate a docked Federation ship and trigger the sealed compartment to open.
Truul looked towards the final two members of the boarding team, conspicuous in the crowd of white and tan uniforms. The Master Chief gave a nod to the implied question and shouldered his own requisitioned weapon. “Ready.”
Beside him, dressed as ever in a long, dark cloak which concealed bulky plates of armor beneath, the high templar Tassadar rose slowly, attempting to conceal his own overwhelming weariness. “I cannot feel any minds beyond that door. We had best enter before the marauders find their way to this part of the station.”
Satisfied, Truul readjusted his thick helm and turned back to the waiting Klingon. “Ready when you are.”
The operation had been flung together on the spur of the moment; almost immediately after the Zerg mind overseeing their attack had fallen, Tassadar had declared that somehow, an unknown number of marauders had managed to board the heart of the Bajor system’s modest interplanetary network, Deep Space Nine, and were now roaming through it, mindless beast with no object other than to feed. After establishing contact with the Federation Admiral in charge of the allied fleets, and offering a hasty explanation as to whys and how’s of the Republica’s unexpected appearance, captains Picard, Ryceed, and Gehirn had convinced Nechayev to turn her attention away from the floundering Zerg war machines and towards the distant station. Unexplained comm silence and a handful of large, ragged holes in the station’s perimeter hull were all that were needed to convince her to something was amiss.
Recognizing that every act of good will on the Alliance’s part would help in any future negotiations that might occur between the ambassadors and the Federation, whatever was left of it at least, and that said talks were unlikely to even be considered as long as the main base in the system was still in enemy hands, Councilor Organa had almost immediately proposed that her security attaché and a select group of Alliance soldiers assist in whatever recovery operation the admiral had in mind. Tassadar and the Master Chief had volunteered to come along, and Picard had assigned his remaining security personnel to Major Truul’s group as liaisons with whatever Federation force they would rendezvous with. Twenty minutes later, they were all crammed into one of the Republica’s shuttlecraft, tasked with clearing a beachhead for crew from the surrounding warships.
With a dull rumble, the airlock at last accepted Jossa’s tricorder code and rolled away into thick walls beyond view. Truul and his troopers poured out into the short, vacant hallway beyond a moment later in two precise rows, weapons at the ready and scanning every square centimeter of the new chamber for hostile contacts. When it was established that the room was indeed empty, the squad moved forward once again, taking positions just behind the next set of blast doors, which lead into the main disembarkation area. With a signal from Truul, Worf and Jossa moved quickly up from the entry hatch and set to work on the barrier, Tassadar and the Master Chief close behind. Another few swipes of the scanner, and the blockage again faded away, this time revealing a larger chamber, with hallways leading away to either side. The area, again completely vacant, was lit only by a single dull, flickering emergency light set in the metallic ceiling.
Quickly swiping shadowed recesses with glow lamps, Truul’s team fanned out across the chamber, finally forming two groups, each one guarding an entry points into the area. Though deeply shadowed, both adjoining hallwas were also vacant as far as the eye could see. “Room is secure, Major,” one of the troopers reported at last.
Nodding, Truul pulled a cylindrical comlink from a flap of his chest armor. “Pilot, the boarding area is clear. Detach to allow vessels from the fleet to disembark their own troops. Stick close though; if things fall apart in here, I want a way out, and quick.”
The reply did not come immediately. “Major,” the pilot said over the line at last, “I’m not picking up any other vessels converging on this location. There are a few larger ships close by, but they’re just sitting there.”
Puzzled, Truul glanced at Worf. “Didn’t the Captain say some your friends would be joining us on this little operation?”
“Of course,” the Klingon replied. “However, since the station’s shielding systems were disabled when the Zerg boarded, there will be no need for any others to arrive here on shuttlecraft.”
The major stared at him, clearly nonplused.
Grunting in mild annoyance, Worf slapped the combadge affixed to his broad chest. “Lt. Commander Worf to Versailles. Docking port two is clear. You may begin transport.”
“Affirmative, insertion team.”
“Transport…?”
Truul’s question was answered seconds later as a low hum of ambiguous origin filled the room and several indistinct columns of bluish light appeared from the empty air that hung over an empty section of deck plate. Startled, the Alliance marines snapped their weapons into firing positions and trained them on the bizarre anomalies. Their commander also reached for his sidearm, but noticing that neither the Federation officers nor the other members of his team seemed particularly agitated, he faltered. A moment later, the shimmering had vanished, and in place each column stood a man or woman in a loose black bodysuit, each with a blocky phaser rifle or hand device in hand.
It took a moment for Truul to overcome his shock at their seemingly magical appearance, although only a moment. In his time wandering the galaxy before he had joined up with the resistance, the Corellian had seen a great many strange and impossible things, and it took a great deal to impress him. At least outwardly.
“I’ve never been able to understand how that is supposed to work,” the Master Chief commented quietly over his internal com line, watching the arrivals from a corner, his oversized repeater rifle resting easily in gauntleted hands.
Hidden somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Cortana sighed half-hazardly. “Don’t bother trying. While we were still on the Enterprise, I downloaded the technical specifications for their personnel transporters and I’ve been looking them over off and on ever since. As far as I can tell, they are designed to convert the mass of whomever steps on a transporter pad into a mass of infinitesimal particles, record their former body structure, then fling it across space using some sort of carrier wave, which puts the pieces back together at the end of the line. Of course, I can’t understand why it works, but it obviously does.”
“Comforting.”
While Truul was evidently ready to wait for an explanation as to the methods behind the sudden arrival of his reinforcements until the mission’s completion, he did see it fit to voice another, more pressing question on the subject of their new comrades.
“Worf, I thought they were sending us soldiers, not…”
“They look techs just pulled off maintenance rounds,” one of the Alliance troopers put in tactlessly. Truul shot him a biting look, but he couldn’t really disagree. Compared to the heavy gear and armor of his own squad, the flimsy bodysuits and sparse belt clips of the Federation personnel seemed woefully insufficient.
Worf made a growling sound that might have been a sigh. “There are certain… cultural differences that I should have informed you and your men of before the beginning of this operation.”
Truul raised an eyebrow. “Looks like it.”
Her patience at last exhausted, one of the newly-arrived Federation personnel, a tall woman bearing a red band on the shoulders of her black jumpsuit, stepped forward to gain the attention of Truul’s squad. “I am Commander Anna Slovach of the Federation Starship Versailles. Who is in command here?”
Sizing her up with a critical eye, Truul stepped forward as well. “That’d be me.” Ignoring the fact that she was significantly taller than he was, and had him caught in a hard, humorless stare, the Alliance soldier immediately turned his attention away again, instead focusing on Slovach’s unit, which consisted of eleven other men and women of various humanoid species. Some bore grim, war-weary glares similar to their commander’s, although the others, invigorated by recent victory or simply by the chance to face their foes on open ground, were looking over the rebel soldiers and their towering companions with nervous curiosity. “So, this is all you’ve brought to clear the station?”
“Two more teams are still preparing to beam over,” Slovach replied. “When the key areas of Deep Space Nine have been retaken, the admiral will send over more away teams to clear the remained of the station.”
“It does not seem wise to attempt an operation like this with so few personnel,” Worf ventured, stepping forward to join the two leaders.
Upon seeing him, Slovach seemed to loosen up slightly. “Lt. Commander Worf, I presume? I was told you’d be here to liaise with our new… allies.” She frowned. “I’m afraid Admiral Nechayev can’t spare anymore security units right now. Retaking the derelict enemy warships in the system before they destroy each other takes priority over reclaiming this station. We’re just here to establish a foothold and search for survivors of the incursion, if there are any.”
Truul grumbled something about getting more troops from the Republica, but shook his head, and at last turned his full attention to the commander. “So, what is your plan? I’ve been instructed to follow your orders, as long as they don’t place my men at unneeded risk.” He placed special emphasis, matching Slovach’s hard look with his own suspicious glare. Obviously, neither was particularly comfortable placing the lives of their soldiers in the hands of the other.
As the two continued their stare-down, the Federation commander’s combadge chirped. “The second wave is ready for transport, Commander.”
Grudgingly breaking away from Truul’s glare, the woman slapped the pendant on her chest and issued a brief acknowledgement. A moment later, an empty section of the entry chamber showed bright with the radiance of ten immaterial transport columns, these ones crimson rather than the last wave’s blue. When the smolder had cleared, an equal number of broad-shouldered aliens with rough, ridged foreheads and frayed manes of black hair stood on the deck, each poised for sudden combat. Klingons.
“At least they have armor,” Cortana commented quietly.
Sure that no clawed beasts were amassed to spring upon him as he appeared, the foremost Klingon holstered his angled disruptor pistol and marched forward proudly. “Slovach! I am heartened to see you again, especially on a day such as this. You must send my regards to Nechayev; her fleets fought with skill befitting of Klingon warriors!” Without waiting for a response, he turned toward Truul and his company. “And these are heroes of the day, I presume. My comrades and I were all prepared to die gloriously in battle around this world today, and herald the end of our Empire with the blood of a thousand of those vermin and their stolen ships, but I don’t begrudge you for the victory. We live to fight another day!”
Catching sight of Worf, the alien’s toothy grin broadened. “Ah! I should have known that there was a Klingon amongst such great warriors! I am Torgor, Son of Grawgesh, Captain of the Vol’Racha, and last of my great line.”
“I am Worf, Son of Mogh,” the security chief replied with vigor. “I am glad to see that the warriors of the Empire fight on, even in this dark time.” Though he had had lived most of his life away from his own people, news that the Zerg expansion had lain waste to the Klingon Empire had struck at him deeply.
Torgor’s smile faltered. “Son of Mogh? You are of Kurn’s family?”
“Kurn is my brother.”
“He told me that his brother was dead, vanished in the line of duty on a Starfleet vessel.”
Worf nodded slowly. “It is a long story, but I am alive, and I have returned. Tell me, what has become of him.”
“He was commanding the first wing of the Homeworld Defensive Squadron when Qo’nos fell. I hear that his ship was one of the last to be destroyed by the invaders, and when all of its weapons were burned away, Kurn dove straight into the heart of an enemy battleship rather than flee or be taken alive. He died gloriously, along with so many other great warriors.”
Worf’s normally focused and collected visage wavered. Kurn had been one of the last of his family line, and a vital connection to their long dead father. Now…
“Kurn was a skilled warrior and am unforgettable ally, Worf. I, and all who fought alongside him, will bear his memory to death and the Gates of Sto-Vo-Kor. He has brought great honor, to you, and his nephew.”
Remorse suddenly replaced with a new hope, Worf stared hard into the unflinching Klingon Captain’s eyes. “My son? He is still alive?”
Suddenly, from a corner of the room, Tassadar straightened and rose to his full height, causing the Klingon soldiers to reach for their weapons in alarm and their Starfleet counterparts to look on in awe at the Templar’s true, impressive scale. “The Zerg have sensed our presence. We must move quickly, or be trapped here and overwhelmed.”
“The Zerg?” Torgor demanded, wincing slightly at the alien’s penetrating, telepathic voice.
Truul swept up the rifle he had kept cradled on his hip during the brief summit, and the rest of the Alliance team followed suit. “You know, the nasty critters we’re here to kill. All right, there’s time for introductions later. Let’s have your plan, Slovach, and quick. I didn’t come here to stand around and chat.”
Barely conscious and so badly beaten that neither could even open their eyes with any degree of control, Barclay and Flitch were shoved roughly up against a smooth, cold wall and shackled in place by heavy bolts that enveloped the better part of their forearms. Blurry, but nonetheless distinctly hostile figures crowded around them, testing the restraints and violently shaking already bruised limbs to ensure that they could not be removed without outside assistance. When the tormentors were satisfied, they withdrew from the abbreviated perimeter of vision that swelled eye lids afforded, their passage capped by the flickering into existence of a pale, shimmering field that further obscured all forward sight. Dimly, Barclay realized the wall was a force field of the same sort that he had used to confine the Covenant crew of their commandeered transport.
Of course, more pressing matters quickly pushed the realization from his mind; namely, the raging torrent of pain that engulfed nearly his entire body. When the Covenant unit had at last located and stormed the human’s hiding place, Barclay had been too overwhelmed by the sight of a fully armored and mobile Sangheili warrior bearing down upon him to resist capture, and Flitch, still bound, had not been in any state to fight back. Now, however, a part of Barclay’s mind was screaming at him through the pain, the familiar voice of shame and could-have-been’s. If he had had the will to fight back, at all, perhaps the alien soldiers would have just killed him outright, quickly and painlessly; as it was, their captors had not taken great care to ensure the comfort of their charges, and even the slightest shove from a titan of Sangheili stature, or a slap from one of the wiry, bird-like Kig-Yar, caused tender human flesh to abrade and distend quite painfully.
No. Though the pain was great, greater indeed than any he could remember ever experiencing, he would not give in. Not yet. This place, this alien ship, so far from the galaxy he had been born in and the people he knew, would not become his grave. He just had to have faith; things always seemed to work out somehow, no matter how badly he managed to aggravate the situation in the process.
Barclay’s unwilling companion didn’t seem to be taking their circumstances quite as well. Locking onto the sound of his haggard breathing and heaving his mind from the throbbing mire that had nearly consumed it, Barclay attempted to turn towards the other human, and promptly suspended the effort, a welt on his neck sending a jolt up and down his spine. Gritting his teeth, at least one of which was missing, the prisoner ventured another avenue of communication.
“Are you…?” The short syllables were quickly followed by a series of sharp gasps; even speaking required surprising effort.
In response, Flitch spat onto the polished floor, a significant amount of blood suspended in his phlegm.
Unsure what the wordless retort implied, Barclay slowed his breathing and attempted to form words once more, but before he could speak, Flitch’s body jerked violently, and the infiltrator wrenched his head up. “Blast you, damned fool! Can’t you keep silent?”
The engineer swallowed his weak attempt at communication and shrank back into the shell of solitary anguish the Covenant soldiers had so graciously provided. Comfort from adversity certainly could be found in sharing the burden with another, but Flitch again seemed to flat out refuse the potential benefits of anything that smacked of alliance with his former captive, any shred of pragmatism engulfed by self-centered anguish, or regret. Perhaps the ultimate failure of his mission had hurt the Imperial far more personally than any beating ever could.
Neither had an opportunity to reflect too deeply on their personal laminations, however. After a brief, silent period which could not have persisted for more than ten minutes, though it seemed an eternity longer to Barclay, both men perceived noise and movement from beyond the shimmering barrier, now more distinct and vibrant. A moment later, the field vanished, leaving two figures in its place, backlit and impossible to discern clearly.
“How pitiful they are,” one of them growled. “It is easy to see why the Gods hold theses humans in such contempt. Weak, primitive, purposeless creatures.”
He turned to the other. “I assume you can speak their tongue?”
It shrugged, causing angular head and long neck to bob slightly; a Sangheili nod.
“I loathe the sound of it; animalistic, as they are. Even the squeals of the Unggoy at least bear the traces of enlightenment.” The speaker seemed to shudder. “Nevertheless, it is the edict of the Prophets that their chief servants know the language of the enemy. Their infinite wisdom reveals itself once more.”
The other remained silent.
With a single long stride, the first of the figures brought itself into full view, a towering mass of gray sinew encased in a shell of polished, angled gold. It’s tiny, feline eyes, almost invisible under the yoke of its large skullcap, stared down on the human prisoners with unrestrained malice, and it’s each breath, emanating from an exposed maw flanked by toothy jaws, blasted them with hot air and the lingering stench of concentrated sweat.
“Human!” it bellowed, grabbing Flitch’s tattered tunic with a four-fingered hand and jerking him forward on his restraints. “Where did your kind get those vile warships from? What sacred relic did they desecrate and plunder?”
Flitch glared at the interrogator and grimaced as he was wrenched up against his bonds, but said nothing.
After waiting only a moment for a response, the Sangheili growled again and slammed Flitch back against the bulkhead, then turned his attention to Barclay. “Answer me! Those vessels were well beyond the scope of your primitive designs. Tell me where you stole them from!”
Slowly-clearing vision engulfed by the alien warrior’s snarling visage, Barclay tried to gulp away the bile of fear and injury rising in his throat, but the obstruction remained. Weakly, he mouthed something, but no sound emerged; even if the man was in a state to reply coherently, he would not have known what to say. Self preservation, duty, blind fear, and simple of ignorance of the situation he had been cast muddled his thoughts hopelessly.
Recognizing that this human was equally unwilling or unable to cooperate, the Sangheili contracted its jaws together in anger and, with a lightening motion, brought the backside of one hand across the man’s jaw. Though the assault was relatively restrained, a backhand to the face from a being capable of pulverizing bone with a single squeeze was nevertheless quite overwhelming. Barclay’s world exploded into a coruscating rainbow of impossible colors and virtually unbearable anguish. However, as a testament to the warrior’s experience as a tormentor, he remained unmercifully conscious.
Increasingly irritated with his victims, the Sangheili stepped back. “Pitiful, but hardly unexpected,” he said, flexing broad shoulders pensively. “I have dealt with humans of this sort before; though their flesh is weak and their bodies frail, they do seem to possess a surprising ability to keep secrets to themselves… for a time, at least. Their minds fair far worse under more focused assault.”
He turned once more to the silent companion. “Is there any other need you have for these creatures now? I can ensure that they survive a more proper interrogation; though the electrodes the processors use are typically fatal to their kind, I’m sure they can be modified temporarily. I apologize for the necessary delay, but I assure you, when we question them again, extracting the information you seek will be all too easy. I’ve seen it all before; no human manages to summon the dignity of a warrior in the face of death. They will speak, if only to end their own suffering with the death that so justly awaits them.”
“No.”
The sudden reply caught the interrogator off guard, as made obvious by the contraction of his eyes into piercing slits. The word captured the attention of the humans as well, although neither could identify exactly why. Though the accented, alien voice was very much like that of the first to their ears, there was nonetheless something distinct about it, something familiar.
“What?”
The other Sangheili, dressed in the same armor as his comrade, stepped closer to the prisoners, as if to inspect them better. “No. These creatures are too valuable and fragile to risk in such an interrogation. We cannot allow the information they hold to be lost through overeager examination. When I travel to High Charity to address the Hierarchs, I shall take them with me. The facilities there are better designed for delicate extraction.”
The first stared at him, no doubt furious. To challenge the competency of any component of a warrior’s command was to insult that warrior himself. “Ship master, my warriors have a great deal of experience with humans, and just how little it takes to kill them. I assure you, they’re skills are more than adequate. Certainly, you do not wish to befoul the blessed air of our holy capitol with their stench unnecessarily?”
The second glared back, unflinching. “This is my judgment. You will not defy it.”
Provoked by the abrupt dismissal, the interrogator balled his massive hands into fists and stepped closer to the commander, clearly seething with self-righteous anger. “I will not be cowed this way, not on my own warship! I may have graciously taken you aboard, honored your exemplary record, and given you a place at my side, but you have no real authority over me now, and no right to countermand my orders so! These humans live now because I chose to entertain your request to maintain them, and for no other reason!”
Casting off the air of quiet interest he had borne before, the other rose to his full, impressive stature, amplified all the more by his ostentatious garb. “Do not think just because my command has been lost in battle that I lack teeth, or the will to use them, ‘Nefaaleme. My station may need reaffirmation and divine sanction, but my judgment still holds sway with the High Council, and I know that they will agree with me on this matter. Challenge me on this there, if you think it in the best interest of the Covenant, but do not stand against me here and now.”
Normally, such an ultimatum, especially intoned as darkly as the speaker had managed, would have given even a ship master pause, but ‘Nefaaleme did not seem diffused at all; indeed, the retort seemed to have increased his rage further. There was more to his temper than mere indignation at a perceived subversion of his authority, as serious as the infraction was.
“But this is not the thinking of a warrior! By all that is holy, these vermin should already be dead! How do you know that they even possess anything of value, or that that value outweighs the shame I must bear for each moment they remain alive upon my vessel? I had heard that you had become a warrior of great decisiveness and valor since our training together, but I fear now that there is still some weakness within your heart. I do not see how the Prophets could have missed it! They could not have; perhaps you lost your nerve when you saw your flagship in flames, and your thinking is still clouded by that lapse. Indeed, perhaps that is how you yet live. How you survived such a failure had puzzled me, but now I think I may know. Tell me, ‘Falanamee, did you abandon the fight before the battle was truly done? Does your cowardice still haunt your thoughts?”
The sword hilt at Falanamee’s side ignited and slicing through the air before ‘Nefaaleme’s last word had even escaped his exposed maw, but the other ship master was expecting the assault, and deftly unhooked his own weapon to counter the blow. He had know that impugning a Sangheili warrior’s courage could be met only with an act of physical retribution, a duel to maintain the honor of the attacker, and yet he had persisted anyways. Truly, his unease with ‘Falanamee ran deep.
Impacting one another, the two triangles of blue energy discharged a nova of heat and convulsing plasma, a beacon that cut through the haze that still clouded the eyesight of the prisoners. They could now see the chamber beyond their cell; a long, high rectangle flanked by numerous other imprisoning alcoves, each vacant. At one end of the room, opposite a raise computer control terminal, two tall warriors flanked the only exit, each transfixed by the confrontation before them. Neither one moved to interfere, however; honor duels were an indelible and crucial part of Sangheili society, and in any event, both combatants were among the elite of their race. To stand between them was to invite the removal of any number of body parts.
The two blades did not remain locked for long. Quickly determining that he could not withstand his larger opponent with strength alone, ‘Nefaaleme disengaged and ducked to ‘Falanamee’s left, swapping his hilt from hand to hand and angling it up to strike under the warrior’s extended arms. Sensing the threat, the other warrior spun to the left, leaving ‘Nefaaleme to stubble to a halt and pivot himself back towards the threat on open ground. However, the ship master had no time to attempt another feign; ‘Falanamee was on top of him, blade swooping to decapitate its prey.
A swift duck left the plasma sword swinging through empty space, but ‘Nefaaleme could not escape the powerful kick that the blow had distracted from. Golden armor clanging against golden armor, he fell back, smacking into smooth bulkhead with a loud grunt. His opponent off-balance, ‘Falanamee pushed forward once more, this time angling his raised weapon down for a slash across the chest. Seeing the flash of the blade, ‘Nefaaleme wrenched his own weapon upward with a wrenching motion, trusting that the deadly field would stop the impending strike. It did, but only barely; though they were nearly as tough as temper metal, the bones in the ship master’s blade hand began to creak under the strain of the blow.
Knowing he could not remain on the defensive for long, ‘Nefaaleme lurched forward, focusing all his strength into his huge, muscular legs. Though ‘Falanamee was more brawny than his opponent, the difference was not great, and he knew that his stance had become untenable. Kneeling slightly first to help deflect the force of the other warrior’s lunge, he jump backward, but this time, ‘Nefaaleme was faster. With his free hand, he latched onto the other Sangheili’s thigh plate and pulled himself forward, using his enemy’s own mass as an anchor for another attack with his sword, this time aimed at ‘Falanamee’s exposed legs.
Breaking free of the other’s grasp, ‘Falanamee jerked away to the side, nearly falling to the deck plate in an attempt to avoid the blow. He was nearly successful; the quick evasion had preserved his legs, but a small section of armor and bodysuit was gone, replaced by a frayed and smoking gash that revealed dark skin beneath. Growling in frustration, the warrior ignored the near-miss, lunging forward again, this time with his weapon pointed straight at ‘Nefaaleme’s center mass.
Swapping his sword back into his right hand with lightening speed, the other ship master met the attack expertly, deflecting the attack with a swift parry. Hissing, ‘Falanamee’s blade gashed the deck viciously, but its owner brought it up again immediately, orienting it to block ‘Nefaaleme’s counterattack. As he diffused the force of the blow, the Sangheili caught sight of another threat on the periphery of his vision. Twisting away from his opponent’s blade, he jerked his burning scythe to the left and up in a single, fluid motion.
‘Nefaaleme desperately swung his left arm out of its original course, intended to deliver a hammer blow to the side of ‘Falanamee’s skull, and managed to escape losing the limb, but the maneuver had once again thrown his off-balance. Recognizing the opening, ‘Falanamee launched himself forward, smacking headlong into his opponent and driving him back against the cell block wall. With his free arm, he pinned ‘Nefaaleme’s weapon hand to the hard surface and then pushed. The other let out a cry of pain and rage, and pushed back with his whole body, but ‘Falanamee’s superior strength and footing overwhelmed the offensive force. Realizing that the effort was in vain, the ship master switched tactics, trying instead to slide to the side and escape the other’s press that way. Feeling his prey begin to slip away, ‘Falanamee compressed his jaws tightly and slammed his angular head into the side of ‘Nefaaleme’s outstretched neck. Gasping, the latter both was forced to halt his evasive struggle and released the hilt still clutched in his battered fist, sending it clattering uselessly to the deck below. A smash with an armored forearm sent the rest of him to the ground.
‘Falanamee drew back, breathing heavily but otherwise un injured, and glared down at his opponent as he struggled to shove his back up against the smooth bulkhead. Bringing the twin, flaming tips of his blade within centimeters of ‘Nefaaleme’s neck, ‘Falanamee kicked the ship master’s deactivated weapon away from his limp grasp.
Broad chest heaving, the defeated warrior weakly raised his head and glowered at the victor defiantly. “Run me through, then,” he managed. “It is our way.”
The muscles in ‘Falanamee’s sword arm tensed and it drew back marginally, but nevertheless the soldier hesitated, staring back at the rebellious officer. As they exchanged deathly, battle-tinted looks, the prison chamber’s heavy door dilated into the surrounding walls and a lightly armored intendant stepped inwards. The Sangheili immediately froze, caught off guard by the scene before him, but said nothing, noting that the flanking guards were not interfering.
“Report,” ‘Falanamee commanded, without breaking his gaze with the defeated combatant.
Shaking off his bewilderment, the intendant straightened his shoulders decorously. “Excellency, the overbridge reports that the unidentified interlopers that destroyed the Ascendant Justice have returned, in great numbers. The group commanders are awaiting Ship Master ‘Nefaaleme’s orders.”
‘Falanamee did not acknowledge the information, but he did, after a moment’s thought, step back from the prone warrior lying before him and lower his weapon. “You are correct, ‘Nefaaleme, it is my right to slay you for your insolence and your failure. However, unlike you, I will not allow my own desires to interfere with what is best for the Covenant and its warriors. We shall return to the command chamber, and you shall lead your soldiers, whether you are worthy of the honor or not. Only when the intruders are vanquished will we resolve this, not before.”
‘Nefaaleme began to snarl, but, thinking better of it, decided instead to heave himself onto sore feet, and lope slowly towards the open doorway. ‘Falanamee moved to follow him, but not before sparing one last glance towards the captives, who yet looked on in confusion. His vision mostly recovered now, Barclay’s eyes caught sight of something beneath the rim of the warrior’s skull cap, a scar, bold and fresh, etched across the side of his visage. He gasped, hit by a sudden realization, and the greater confusion it entailed.
“Remove the humans from those bonds and keep them confined in that cell. I shall return for them.” The guards acknowledged the command with a salute, and the Arbiter was gone.
Servant of Count Boobu
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(7/14/06 6:12 pm) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Fifty Two
With a guttural grunt, the creature bent its stocky rear legs and leapt, scrabbled for purchase on the smooth, polished with vicious claws, and began to pace slowly along the narrow walkway it made. Swinging its toothy head from side to side, the beast scoured the recycled air for scent of prey, every sinewy tendon in the predator’s body tightening each time a new smell crossed its path. A meter below, still confined to the hard deck plate, two of its kin followed along, the chitinous plates on their backs creaking with each step. Like the canine beings their breed had been spawned from so long ago, each bore the gaunt frame and highly tuned sense of a pack hunter, and as the leader above followed an errant strand of sensation one way or the other, those below turned their skull-like visage in syncopation, slavering at the possibility of a new kill.
Spying an object that its primitive brain could not readily identify, the lead creature perked up. It hefted its meter-long frame onto its back legs again, and probed at the thing with a stubby, clawed foreleg. The small, shiny item did not attempt to flee or attack as the predator approached. The lack of response would have normally caused the beast to disregard it and move on, but there was an odd aura about it, some faint odor that impelled it move closer.
Then, as it shoved its spiky snout right up to the object, a blurry image appeared on the curiosity’s surface; a toothy face, staring back menacingly. Startled, the beast drew back with a high-pitched yelp and smacked the offending image with the heel of its outstretched claws. The object gave way immediately, tipping over the side of the raised platform and falling to the deck below, where it shattered into dozen of reflective pieces and unleashed a small wave of dark, acrid liquid. Surprised by the ease of its victory, but again attracted by the aroma the kill had produced, the hunter leapt down after it, the pair of followers in tow.
“Tellarite ale,” the late bottle’s owner whispered mournfully as he watched the trio of creatures sticking their snouts into the sticky puddle that was beginning to seep into the grooves between the deck plates. “You can’t get it anywhere anymore. Nineteen bars of gold-pressed Latinum when I bought it, and worth ever slip, too. Its Probably worth twice that now.”
From a shadowy alcove behind the low staircase under which the reminiscing bartender was now sheltered, a pair of arms appeared and clamped onto him. Finding purchase over his mouth and around his chest, they jerked back, dragging the little man further into the ink blackness, away from the dim lights of the bar and the marauding predators within. Responding badly, as was his custom, he began to flail about in the dark and even considered biting own on the hand that now covered his set of yellowed, beetle teeth, before the movement ceased.
“Calm down, Quark!” a female voice hissed from somewhere behind him. “And keep quiet!” she added as an afterthought.
Although his heart still raced, the diminutive Ferengi stopped moving, and as he did so, the hands restraining him relaxed.
Taking a moment to collect himself, Quark twisted around in the narrow alcove he had been dragged into and attempted to make out his new companion, to little avail. However, where his eyes failed him, the sensitive, fan-like ears that adorned his bald, orange head did not. “Dax? Ezri, is that you?”
“Who else would I be?” she replied, an unusual bite in her tone. Deep Space Nine’s counselor and science officer, she was typically easy-going, but in stressful situations, the Trill swiftly adopted an abrupt and even nervous personality. “Why are you even still here? I thought all the civilians on the station had been evacuated.”
Quark adopted a disarming, pointy grin, a course of habit that was not dissuaded by the darkness that enveloped them both. “Oh, were they? I must have missed the announcement.” He could tell that Ezri was not convinced. “Uh… listen, I’ve owned this bar through a Cardassian occupation, three invasions, more bizarre phenomena and malfunctions than I can count, and a plague of tribbles. I wouldn’t be worth the Latinum I intend to sell my remains for if I abandoned it to a few bugs. I don’t intend to give Odo the satisfaction of being right about the spineless cowardice he always oh so loudly, and fallaciously I might add, attributed to me.” The Ferengi gulped, surprised at his own words. “Um, I would appreciate it if you didn’t spread that last part around. Being perceived as a spineless coward is good for business.”
“My lips are sealed,” Ezri replied quietly, her mood softened somewhat by Quark’s banter.
Settling against one of the alcove’s slanted walls, Quark crossed his arms pensively. “Although, I didn’t really count on the bugs managing to make it onto the station, at least not yet. What happened?”
“As we were evacuating the last of the transports, a few enemy ships broke through the defensive fleet’s line and made a suicide run on the station. The shuttle was recalled to safety under our shield, and the Commander managed to destroy the attacking ships, but apparently there were some sort of pods onboard that burst out when their carriers exploded. A few managed to make it through the shield while the shuttle was in transit, and latched onto the hull. Those ‘bugs’ were inside. I was with a detachment sent to secure the transport when it docked again, but we were attacked before we reached the docking ring. A few of us managed to escape into maintenance conduits, but the creatures were already breaching those too. I managed to lose the ones that were tailing me, but I’ve been unable to established contact with Ops.”
“They must have knocked out all of the internal communications somehow,” Quark speculated. “I overheard the security team that was down here saying that their communicators had stopped working just before they were overrun by those things.”
“What happened to them?” Ezri asked earnestly. “Did you see Julian with them?” Doctor Bashir, whose office was on the other side of the station’s central promenade from Quark’s bar, disliked leaving his medical facilities when battle promised an influx of patients.
“Yeah, he was there. The security officers held off the first wave of those things, and the Doctor was helping one of the wounded to the sickbay when more of them attacked, bigger ones that slithered down from the upper level. A lot of the officers were cut down pretty quickly, but I think a few made it back to the medbay with Bashir. They’re probably still holed up there, although I’m not sure of that. I only managed to hide back here before those things began overturning my establishment, looking for more victims.
Ezri frowned. “I had heard that their sense of smell is very acute. Why haven’t they noticed you? Or me for that matter?”
Quark grinned once again. “Most of the people who have lived on the station for a long time seem to get used to it, but to newcomers, the aroma of my establishment and its wares can be somewhat… distracting. How else do you think I make such a profit at the gambling tables? Few are lucky while properly intoxicated.”
“I always thought you just rigged the games.”
The Ferengi straightened his back in indignation. “Such an accusation! I’ll have you know that…”
Before Quark could complete his defense, however, he found Ezri’s hand once more over his mouth.
“Quiet!” she hissed fervently, now a visible silhouette in the darkness.
Complying without comment, Quark’s sensitive ears immediately picked up what the Federation officer must have heard. Claws. The scrabbling echo of serrated chitin and bone on metal, echoing from the deeper darkness from which Ezri must have emerged. The reverberation sounded as though it was coming across a great distance, but in the complex maintenance crawlspaces that crisscrossed the space station, such perceptions could be deceptive.
As the hidden pair listened, the sound began to fade, then abruptly grew stronger again, then ceased entirely. Placing the expansive lobs of one ear against a bulkhead, Quark scanned intently for any inkling of the sound. After more than a minute of utter silence, he withdrew and turned back to Ezri, an uneasy grin barely visible in the dark. “False alarm.”
Immediately, the sound returned, now far louder and more distinct than before, and clearly emanating from somewhere beyond the Trill officer. Not bothering to even shoot the Ferengi and enraged glare, Ezri Dax drew a hand phaser from her hip and pivoted to face the hidden access way. “Do you have a phaser?”
Nervously, Quark patted his vest, checking each of its secret pockets and purse loops in quick succession.
“I wondered where that pouch had gone…”
“Quark!”
He gulped, and continued his search, at last laying a hand on a smooth handle, buried in a padded underarm sleeve. “Ah yes, I knew I still had this on me. Uh, perhaps it’s best if you didn’t mention this to the commander. Strictly speaking, hold-out disruptors aren’t legal under Bajoran law.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Ezri replied through gritted teeth. As she spoke, the clattered of spike swelled and became even more discordant. “There’s more than one.”
Quark couldn’t disagree.
Glancing from the darkness before her, to the dim light of the bar, to her companion, and back, Ezri rose from her crouched position, and began to back towards the light. “We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t think we can hold more than one of those things in here.”
“Are you crazy?” Quark gaped, but backed away alongside her nonetheless. “There are more of them out in the open! If we leave this alcove, we’ll be cut into pieces before we reach the Dabo tables!”
She glanced at the man, fear evident in her own eyes. “It’s either that or die in here, right now. We don’t have many options.”
Above the clatter of hurried footfalls, a ravenous hissing sound filled the air like a miasma. Even though the blackness of the small access tunnel, an inkling of rapid movement began to emerge, a hurtling specter of knives and slavering jaws.
Biting a yellowing nail pensively, Quark at last pushed himself to his feet. “The access hatch should be right by the exit. I’m not sure if it’ll hold them, though.”
“It’s better than nothing. Come on.”
Squeezing out of the angular tube and into the sheltered area below the bar staircase, the two worked quickly, hefting the metallic hatch Quark had removed when first attempting to hide, and affixing it to the small portal. The thing was sturdy enough, but the Trill and the Ferengi had both heard enough of their hunters to know that it would not be enough. Escape was their only chance. And to do that, they would have to face the same threat they had just waylaid, if ever so briefly.
“Uh, Quark? Not that I’m complaining, but I thought you said that there were more of them out here?”
Making sure that the self-sealing bolts on the obstruction were as tight as they were going to get, the barkeeper turned with his disruptor drawn, ready to point out the foes Ezri has somehow missed, but to his surprise, the bar seemed to be empty. There was the ruined remains of that expensive flask of ale, and another row of shattered bottles the creatures had evidently also seen fit to inspect, but, at least from their hidden vantage point, the perpetrators were no where to be seen.
“I don’t like this,” Ezri whispered, phaser clutched tightly in one fist.
Quark had similar misgivings, but he knew better than to pass up an opportunity such as this over a vague feeling. After all, that was one of the sacrosanct Ferengi Rules of Acquisition: Never let intuition interfere when profit is staring you right in the face. Or was it the other way around? It didn’t really matter; they were probably both in there somewhere.
“As you said, we don’t have many options right now, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer the one whose teeth are not immediately apparent.” Hearing no descent from the counselor, he glance up, between the narrow slots of the stairway. “We should make for the second level. There’s a hidden panel in the rear wall of holo-suite two that connects with an unused maintenance conduit. We might be able to make it to one of the escape pods that way.”
Ezri raised an eyebrow.
“What? I like to approach my line of work well prepared, and my clientele isn’t always of the most diplomatic breed,” Quark said dismissively, rising to his feet. “Now, if you don’t have any objections…”
A muffled scratching from the other side of the access hatch ensured that she didn’t.
Weapons at the ready, the two slowly emerged from the stairway’s shadow, and worked their way around to its mouth as quietly as they could, scanning every visible centimeter of the establishment for a potential threat. Reaching the front of the stair without incident, and spying no movement on the open deck above, they ascended with all due haste, unconsciously vying to be the first off the compromised level as they ran. Quark managed to come out first, but as he flew up the last handful of bare steps and came within sight of the upper floor, the Ferengi suddenly wished had been slightly slower.
With a sharp inhalation of breath, he tumbled backwards down the stairs, falling a meter before impacting Ezri, a collision that nearly sent both tumbling to the floor below. Steadying herself and pushing Quark back firmly onto a metal step, the Federation officer started to demand why he had fallen back, but her question died before the syllable even formed in her throat. On the deck plate above, fully blocking the stairway’s exit, lay the gaping maw of one of the creatures that had been prowling through bar a few minutes previous. Raising her weapon instinctively, Ezri almost squeezed off a shot, but something about the vacant look in the vacant, beady eyes that framed the beast’s toothy sneer of a mouth gave her pause. They were too vacant. The thing was dead.
“What are you…?” Quark managed squeakily, but the Trill pushed past him, mounting the last few steps so as to get a better view of the beast. It was one of the smaller hunters, as most of the boarders had been, lacking the armor and bulk that some of its cousins bore, but nonetheless highly dangerous. They were weak, usually felled by a few phaser blasts, but the things also had claws sharper than the best Klingon Bat’leth, and where one was, a hundred more were likely close behind. Ezri had only encountered them in person once before, in the ambush only an hour previous, but that, and the stories that had filtered to the station each time a Federation world fell, were more than enough to convince her of the danger that they posed. And these were among the lowliest of minions the unknown enemy wielded.
“Well, it’s dead all right.” Seeing that his companion had not been torn into shreds when she pushed past him, Quark had at last summoned the courage to follow. “That’s a pretty impressive wound.” He referred to the blackened and gory hole that dominated most of the dead creature’s upturned flank. “Most weapons that powerful would have just disintegrated the thing. I wonder what killed it.”
“Quark!”
Startled by Ezri’s sudden shout, the Ferengi spun away from the corpse, and came face to face with a massive figure, emerging from an archway that opened onto the central Promenade’s upper level. It was a mass of drab green and black, marred by an occasional patch of charring or a splotch of yellowy gore. In its hands was clutched a huge, angular weapon that smelled of burning ozone. The creature’s head was masked by an opaque faceplate, which cast a reflection of Quark’s orange face back at him, distorting and shadowing it.
Seized by an urgent fear, the Ferengi fell on his back, nearly tumbling again down the staircase, and brought his tiny disruptor to bear on the sudden target. A gnarled finger depressed the trigger.
The weapon whirred, coughed, sputtered, and died, the glowing power cell visible in its grip dulling noticeably. Quark only had a moment to gape in horror at the malfunctioning article and breathe a short curse on the Tzenkenthi merchant he had purchased it from before the intruder loped across the room, deftly removed the weapon from his outstretched hand, and kneeled across his chest, effectively immobilizing the man. In the same motion, the armored humanoid brought its sizeable weapon to its waist and trained it on Ezri’s chest, a mere meter away.
“Drop it,” it demanded clearly, in a deep, masculine voice. Now looking down the barrel of the attacker’s weapon, Ezri had no choice but to comply. Her hand phaser clattered uselessly to the deck.
“Wait!” From the Promenade, a pair of Klingons and a human woman appeared, with them a handful of other Klingon warriors and oddly-unformed soldiers visible at the archway, their weapons drawn. One, dressed in an off-white combat suit moved to intercept the towering mass of armor. “They’re Starfleet officers… at least, she is.” Catching sight of Quark, still reeling and pinned to the deck, the Klingon frowned in distaste.
“Ferengi,” the other warrior spat. “What are you still doing here?”
“Suffocating, at the moment,” Quark replied, trying to push away the knee that still lay on his chest to no avail. “Now, would you mind ordering this beast off of me?”
“He’s with me,” Ezri put in as calmly as she could manage.
Slowly, the armored humanoid rose, shouldering his firearm and allowing the Ferengi space to pick himself up. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to pull a gun on my again, and if you do, at least try to find one that works.”
As Quark muttered something unintelligible under his breath, the woman approached Ezri. “Sorry about this. We’re part of the team Admiral Nechayev dispatched to secure the station and rescue any survivors. I’m Aleen Jossa, they’re Lt. Commander Worf and Captain Torgor. And the big one’s called the Master Chief. I don’t think he’s ever told anyone his real name, if he even has one.”
Ezri nodded, gratefully accepting her fallen sidearm. “I’m Lieutenant Ezri Dax. “I was separated from a security team when the station was boarded, and I’ve been trying to evade them in the maintenance conduits ever since. I ran into Quark, the owner of this establishment, hiding on the lower floor, and we were making for a potential escape route when you ran into us.”
Gaze attracted by movement in the hall beyond, Ezri watched as armored soldiers materialized and began to file onto Quark’s balcony level. “I recognize the Klingons, but I’ve never seen any Starfleet combat uniforms like that. And I haven’t seen armor like his since Military History in the Academy.” She gestured to the Master Chief, who, along with the lead Klingons, was listening to a report from one of Torgor’s subordinates. “New reinforcements?”
Jossa smiled faintly. “In a manner of speaking. It’s a very long story, but I’ll be very glad to fill you in when we get out of here. I’m just glad to see a familiar face; there aren’t very many Trill where we’ve been.”
Ezri was puzzled by the comment, but didn’t have time to question the woman any further, as the others had just completed their short briefing.
“The upper level of this section is secure for the moment,” Worf said, approaching Ezri once more. “Are there any other survivors you know of nearby?”
She nodded. “Yes. Quark thinks a few personnel managed to get to Sickbay, on the lower level of the Promenade. If they did, they should still be barricaded inside.”
Worf shot a suspicious glance in the Ferengi’s direction, but apparently accepted the information, and turned to the rest of his squad. “Let’s move then. We should have the Engineering section secured before Major Truul and Commander Slovach reach Ops. Medbay should be on the way to the core access block.”
“I’ll take point,” the Master Chief offered, moving towards the stairs back down to the main deck. “Tabren, Obra, Decid. You’re with me.”
The trio of helmeted soldiers, presumably humans, moved to follow him, checking their weapons as they went.
“Come, my brothers!” Torgor roared with sudden exuberance. “Let us follow them into the depths, and trade the blood of our people for the ichor of the beasts!”
As Worf moved to join the rest of his squad as they pounded down the narrow metal access way, Ezri stopped him.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, but have we met somewhere before?” she replied, almost timidly.
“Not that I can recall. Why, do you remember me?”
Ezri frowned. “No, not really. It’s just that… you seem familiar somehow.”
The two stared at one another for a long moment, alone together on the cold deck plate. Worf’s mouth tightened. There is something… her face…
Ezri felt her eyes suddenly begin to water, but she did not know why. It is as if I’ve heard his voice, simply felt his presence before. But how…
A Klingon bellow echoed up from below, a war cry. “Their warriors have come at last!” A jarring hiss and several fleshy pops followed, almost immediately drowned out by the chorus of a dozen different energy weapons firing in concert.
The moment cut short, the lonely pair reluctantly broke their gaze and piled off down the stairs, into the heart of battle.
“Still no contacts, Major,” a voice crackled over Truul Besteen’s comlink. “There haven’t been any signs of movement since your teams left.”
“Keep your guard up. We’ve run into two groups of the things already, and they seem ta drop in out of nowhere. Most of ‘em aren’t too dangerous at a distance, but Commander Slovach already almost lost a man who let one of the little ones get too close. And tell the Starfleet man with you to not bother much with his tricorder. Something’s making ours give bad readings on them.”
The soldier on the other end of the line, one of two left to guard the shuttle’s docking hatch, gave his acknowledgement, and Truul signed off. “Still no sign of ‘em on the docking ring,” the major reported turning back to the rest of his team, camping for the moment in a sizeable hall intersection. “He all right?”
The officer nodded at the blue-skinned Andorian who was seated at the center of the group, cradling his left arm as another Starfleet officer placed a temporary seal on the large gash that still bled onto his black uniform. Checking with the attending officer, Commander Slovach nodded. “Crewman Shenar is ready to move out again. We should continue on to Ops before those… Zerg attack again.”
Truul nodded. “I’m with ya. Still, I don’t like moving through corridors like these with so many men, especially considering how good these things seem to be at jumping out of no where and picking us off.”
Under Slovach’s orders, the insertion team had been split into three, one to secure the Engineering section and try and restore power, one to reestablish contact with one of the station’s evacuation shuttles that was still docked and unresponsive to hails, and the last to make their way to Ops and retake systems that might aide in expelling any remaining boarders. Each was to pick up any survivors they found along the way and tag them for transport out. When the vital systems had been secured, the nearby fleet would begin to beam in all the armed officers they could spare to neutralize the Zerg intruders. It was a sound plan, but had been hampered by two unanticipated factors.
Firstly, the boarders had somehow managed to knock out power to most of the primary systems and even some of the core ones, among them lighting, which rendered ambient illumination an uncertain factor, varying from compartment to compartment and deck to deck. The tampering had also disrupted station-based communications and shutdown most of Deep Space Nine’s lifts. One of Slovach officers, familiar with the station’s layout, had suggested that they attempt to reach Ops, difficult to reach without functioning turbolifts, via the power and repair conduits that ran throughout the construct. However, prying off a maintenance hatch had given them their first encounter with the Zerg. There were only three; smallish, canine creatures, and they were easily eliminated, but the attack made it clear that they had already made their way into the tunnel network. That, combined with the fact that none of the lighting in the things seemed to be functional (the creatures seemed to have gone to great pains to smash every independently-powered fixture they came across), and their restrictive size, had invalidated the idea, and made locating a functioning lift, or one that could be jury-rigged to function, a priority.
The second impediment had been the almost total lack of life they encountered. Rather than a battlefield, as Slovach had expected, with the station’s crew holding the intruders back from critical systems and mounting their own counterattacks, they had found nothing, not even bodies, beyond the occasional trail of blood into a darkened compartment, and the attackers themselves. Certainly, most of the station had been evacuated during the battle, but there should still be more than one hundred Starfleet and Bajoran Militia onboard. The squad’s tricorders detected life in abundance throughout the station, but something of indeterminate origin was interfering with their accuracy, rending them unable to pinpoint life signs, or tell if what they picked up was humanoid or Zerg.
“Still, it strikes me as kinda odd that they only hit us twice so far,” Truul continued, hefting his rifle towards the long hallway down which another group had attacked out of a seemingly vacant living compartment, wounding the Starfleet crewman. We’re not exactly being stealthy, and if they really wanted, I bet these things could make us work for our creds.” The mannerism was lost on everyone save the Alliance marine Truul had assigned to the group, but his meaning was obvious.
“Their minds no longer possess the capacity for thought,” the imposing Tassadar rumbled, rising from a corner of the formation and pulling his dark cloak about him tighter. “Without their master, they are mere animals, incapable of strategy or coordination. They gather in small packs and act on their basest impulses without reservation. Kill, destroy, desecrate. Slaughter consumes their minds.” He paused, casting his hypnotic eyes to the ceiling pensively. “Nevertheless, there is something odd about the behavior of the creatures here. I have seen no evidence that any have turned on their own to feed their thirst for carnage, as they invariably without a will to drive them. More than that, I do not sense the primal confusion and terror that their abandonment should have set free. These Zerg lack coordination, and yet, there is something… focused about them.”
“We must be cautious. Something has altered this brood, and I know not what it is.”
Pulling back together in a tight formation, the squad continued on through the eerie, empty passageways, continuing their search. Following a station schematic in one of Slovach’s tricorders, they had nearly circumnavigated the central disk, checking each potential turbolift without success. It was a time-consuming process, but both Commander and Major agreed that it was the only safe course of action; the access conduits were paths of last resort only.
After a few more nervous minutes of silent navigation through endless dark corridors, they came upon one of the last unchecked lift banks, this one not far from the station’s central Promenade. A pair of Starfleet technicians popped the interface for one of the chambers open and began rooting through the mess of wire within, searching for active wires and enacted terminal jacks. After only a few moments of rewiring and a sweep with a device Truul did not recognize, the lights in their section of the hallway intensified to their maximum luminosity, and a nearby wall terminal flickered on, displaying a variety of polite supplications in numerous scripts, each indicating that it was offline.
“The power distribution node in this module still seems to still have access to a small amount of reserve power,” one of the technicians reported confidently. “If we can override the emergency lockout on this turbolift and recall one of its cabs from the Operations level, you should be able to get a few trips out of it.”
“Good work,” Slovach replied. “Do you have access to any other systems?”
Stepping aside to allow his comrade to continue their repairs, the tech shook his head. “No, sir. I have power here now, but without the main computer, everything has to be done manually, which pretty much limits us to this lift. I can’t even be sure what triggered the lockdown.”
The commander frowned. “Wouldn’t the commanding officer have initiated the lockdown after the station was breached?”
“It looks like she did, Commander, but the turbolift’s operational log indicates that the lockdown was rescinded about half an hour after it was ordered, and then reactivated a few minutes later. All those orders should have come from Ops, but I’m not sure about the last two? Why would the commander release the security lockdown during the middle of an incursion, and then reinitiate it again?”
Truul’s subordinate adjusted her blast helmet nervously. “I’ve got a bad…”
The Major’s comlink chirped suddenly, cutting the soldier off.
“Truul here.”
“Major, this is Lieutenant Elbran. We’ve reached the docked shuttle.”
“Status?”
“The ship appears to be functional, sir, but the crew and passengers…”
“Lieutenant?”
“They’re dead, sir. All of them. It looks like a few Zerg got in through the boarding hatch. They were packed in so tightly… We killed of the creatures that were inside. They were… eating the remains. Seven Hells…”
Somehow, the chilling silence that had been following the detachment since it set out seemed to deepen even further. “Keep yourself together, Elbran,” Truul ordered stonily. “See if you can lock down the ship, and then get back to the insertion shuttle. Tell the pilot to prep for departure. We’re getting out of here.”
Deactivating the device, he nodded in the female Alliance soldier’s direction. “See if you can raise Worf’s team. If they’re close to the Engineering section, tell them to reactivate the core if they can, seal the compartment, and then head back to the shuttle.”
“My orders were to hold that section, and the bridge, until the Admiral could dispatch more security forces to retake the station,” Slovach interjected.
Truul stared at her. “We don’t have enough manpower to hold this wreck, Commander. You counted on us reinforcing the station’s crew; it’s looking more and more like they’re all dead, and I’m not going to keep my soldiers here, on unknown ground, facing an enemy of unknown numbers and strength, any longer than I have to. You and your Klingon friends down there can stay in this graveyard if you want, but I suggest you transport, or whatever it is you all do, back to your ships until your Admiral decides she can commit more troops to this operation.”
“Sir,” the female soldier put in, holding the headset built into her helmet up to one ear. “Worf is reporting that they have located seven survivors in the medical section, and another two on the central Promenade. However, he reports that there appears to be a… resonator malfunction of some sort within the core interfering with their communications with the ships of the fleet. He’s left the survivors under guard in the Medbay until they can be transported, and is approaching the Engineering section.”
“Has he encountered any resistance?” Truul demanded.
“Yes, sir. Several contacts, but no friendly casualties so far.”
Slovach slapped the combadge on her chest. “Versailles, come in. Versailles!”
“If there is a resonator malfunction in the core, the interference it emits would probably be more intense closer to the center of the station, and would disrupt long-range communication,” the technician commented. “We should be able to reach the fleet from the docking ring or one of the outer pylons, but we would have to move out there to be transported safely.”
“All right, we can get out of here together.” Truul stepped towards the tech still elbow deep in the wall interface. “Lock that thing down again. We’re leaving.”
“We are not!” Commander Slovach interjected again, growing increasingly irritated. “These men are under my command, and they will stay until we complete our objective. I appreciate your assistance, Major, but I will not have you subverting my command! Retreat if you wish, but we’re staying.”
Abruptly, the blast doors to the lift opened into an empty shaft, and a loud whirr echoed down from several decks above. “Lockdown bypass complete,” the seconds tech declared with satisfaction, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging behind him.
All eyes now trained on the vacant space, conversation ceased and all below waited in nervous silence as the whirr increased in volume, foretelling the lift cab’s arrival. In a flash of motion and with a mechanical sigh, it locked into place.
Every inch, from floor to wall to handrail, was smeared with blood.
No one spoke, moved, or even breathed for a long moment. As the situation aboard the station had continually worsened, every one of them had had held a suspicion deep down that the command section might have been compromised, Deep Space Nine truly lost, but being confronted with an omen such as this wrenched the inkling to the surface and replaced it with the cold grip of fact. Even Truul, who had no attachment to the station and the people that it held, couldn’t help his heart jumping in his chest. He had served a long time with the Rebellion, and had seen some of the worst atrocities that the Imperial Moffs and bloodthirsty commanders could commit. He did not wish such brutality on any sentient, except, perhaps, those who bore the Imperial emblem with pride. And then, even they did not treat their victims with such animalistic cruelty.
“We’re moving out soldier. Now.” Truul shouldered his blaster rifle and began to walk back down the dark hallway, his subordinate in tow. “I suggest you all come with me, but I won’t force ya. Coming, Templar?”
“Something yet breathes up there,” the Protoss intoned, more to himself than any of the others.
Truul paused. “The creatures, you mean?”
“No, I sense a thinking being. The emanation is weak, strangled, but it is there nonetheless. But it is fading.”
“One of the crew?” Slovach asked hopefully.
“I do not know.”
The commander considered for a moment, and then stepped forward, delicately placing her feet on the slick, gory interior of the lift. “If there is a chance anyone is still alive up there, I’m going to try and find them. It is my duty as a Starfleet officer. And a human being,” she added, pointedly. “Duvor, grab your medical pack come with me. You too, Hill. The rest of you, guard this junction and await my orders. If I don’t report back in ten minutes, make your way back to the docking ring and transport out of here.”
Reluctant, but firm in their obligation to their superior, the two crewmen she had mentioned stepped in the turbolift cab. After them, to her surprise, stooped Tassadar, who took up a majority of the remained of the small space. “You don’t need to endanger yourself…”
“I have duties of my own, Commander,” the Protoss replied solemnly. “I am obligated to fight the Zerg wherever they reveal themselves, and save any from them who can be saved. And I feel that there is something up there that I must see. Someone I must save.”
He turned to Truul. “Do what you must, Major, but I cannot leave this place yet.”
Truul gritted his teeth in frustration. He owed the alien nothing personally; they had never fought alongside one another, had never conversed onboard the Republica. Tassadar was no soldier of the Rebellion, and likely did not hate the Empire has he did. And yet, Truul had heard reports and rumors, that the templar had fought the Dark Lord of the Sith himself to defend Admiral Ackbar and the Home One at Sullust. The thought of any one being standing up to Vader and winning, especially since the Jedi Purge was ridiculous, but of course, so were a great many of the things that had occurred since he happened across a hapless Starfleet engineer and his hover tank of a companion in the bowels of that Star Destroyer, but a week ago. And then there was his performance on the bridge of the Republica…
Of course, in the end, Tassadar’s value to the Rebellion or whatever respect he might warrant for his skill were irrelevant. Captain Ryceed had placed the alien, and all of his compatriots, under Truul’s care. And he wasn’t about to abandon that duty.
With a last weary expulsion of breath, the Major paced back to the rest of the squad and edged into the turbolift with the others. “Guard this area with the rest, soldier. We won’t be long. We’d better not be.”
Despite the macabre nature of their conveyance, the brief assent in the turbolift was surprisingly mundane. Its power restored, the platform worked smoothly and without undue noise, depositing it’s passengers at the rear of the large, circular Ops chamber in under a minute. Their destination, however, bore little resemblance to anything that could be considered normal.
The lack of corpses that Truul had noticed on the trip to the turbolift was more than rectified; every deck panel, every low step, every crew pit, every control terminal, was draped with a mangled form. Human, Bajoran, Vulcan, even Klingon. And there were Zerg, mountains of them. Most were of the same canine variety that they had encountered before, but others were larger, laid heavy with, thick, slimy carapaces and jutting claws. Others looked like monstrous, crested snakes, with huge bony jaws and meter long blades at the tip of each narrow arm. And handful were even more hideous, humanoids that looked like they had been grown rather than born, covered in purplish insectoid protrusions, muscled limbs by some foul liquid.
The stench of death was almost unbearable, and omnipresent. Nothing lived in there.
Slovach and her officers were apparently at a loss for words; one of them looked like he was only barely summoning the resolve not throw up. Truul took the sight, and the smell, better, but not by much; he had seen the sights of massacres and battlefields before, but few had looked like this. Blasters were messy weapons, but they generally allowed their targets the dignity of remaining intact. Claws and teeth afforded no such privilege.
“How…?” Slovach managed at last, stepping tentatively off the lift cab. “How could so many have gotten in here?”
“See for yourself.” Truul, already stepping gingerly into the heart of the bloody room, indicated to several points in the wall. There were three small squares onto emptiness, each with mangled fragments of bulkhead still hanging pitifully from them. “I guess they overestimated the ability of metal to hold ‘em back. The bigger ones probably came in through the lift when the lockout was released.”
Glancing down at what might have been a human, a fragment of claw still impaling his chest, Truul turned back to the others. “Make your search quick, Commander. If these things did this once, they’ll probably come back here again, and I doubt we have the numbers to hold them.”
Slovach and her men fanned out, scanning each corner of the room with their tricorders, trying to avoid staring at the carnage all around them. As they worked, Tassadar, drifted slowly across the chamber, finally halting at the main viewport, still sealed by a blast covering. Looking back over the battlefield, he head and lowered his issued a whispered incantation, passing the blessings of ancient Protoss heroes onto the dead. The words would mean little to one of another race, and few of his kind would have bothered, but Tassadar had seen too much war and death over his long life to care about the distinction. They died in battle, in defense of their beliefs and their kin. Nothing else mattered.
As he finished completed the quiet prayer and began to raise his head, one shimmering eye spied something at his feet. It was a humanoid corpse, ravaged and bloody like all the rest, and yet, there was something different about it. Pulling his cloak up, Tassadar bent a reverse knee and placed his own head next to that of the body. Closing each eye and summoning arcane energy from deep within, an imperceptible psionic aura radiated from him, intersecting the corpse with probing tendrils.
“What are you doing?” Major Truul inquired, kneeling down next to him, still keeping one eye on the open access conduits.
Tassadar was silent for a moment, and then raised his head once, more turning both eyes onto the human. They had reverted to their normal black, but gray shadows still flickered erratically under the glossy surface. “There is something about this being that is not right.”
Truul looked at the body again. “I don’t see anything.”
“There may be no visible mark. It is difficult to explain to one who does not have psionic energy flowing through their body and mind, as I do. You may not be sense it, but this soul has been defiled on more than just the physical plane. It is as if some dark energy tried in impose itself on this one’s mind. The method was a clumsy one, and it seems he died before the ritual could be completed, but that it could be attempted at all bodes ill. No Zerg sort of the Overmind, the foul master of these things, should possess the psionic presence to directly impose its will on one that is not of the Brood. And even he was never wholly successful, to my knowledge.”
Truul inspected to corpse even more closely. He still couldn’t see anything.
“For a time, when I was still amongst my own people, I sought the teachings of a Protoss sect long rejected by the majority of the Empire, banished into the cold blackness for their practices and abilities. They too harness and wield the base energies present within each of my kind, but their method is a subtler one, emphasizing the power of stealth and mental focus. Some of their greatest warriors, giving themselves wholly over to their arcane power and combining with another of similar focus and strength, can even use their psionic ability to dominate the minds of other thinking creatures, Protoss, Zerg, or Terran. Your kind. I feel the remnants of such an imposition on this dead mind.”
“Could there be other Protoss here, in this galaxy?” Truul ventured, oddly captivated by the Templar’s musings.
“No. I would have sensed some sign of their presence, especially if one had passed by this station. And none of my people would willingly work with these creatures, it violates our very purpose. The Protoss Empire exists to spread order, and these things breed only chaos. Or… that is at least how it once was.” Tassadar seemed to actually flinch, some distant memory momentarily disrupting his focus.
“But that is of no relevance. One of these twisted creatures was able to carry this dark energy within itself, and impose it on another, no matter how clumsily. But I do not know how such a thing is possible. For the Zerg to evolve so quickly, and to such an extent. If I am right, I fear that she may know possess a power and a swarm greater even than that of her old master. Greater than me, Greater than all of us.”
Truul was about to inquire as to who exactly “she” was when a shout rang across the chamber. “We’ve found someone!”
The broad stairway to the station commander’s ready room was littered with just as many bodies as the rest of the room, but once Tassadar and Truul entered the office, the carnage abruptly stopped.
“The doors were sealed from the inside, and we just managed to pry them open,” Slovach commented, guiding them towards a large desk at the rear of the spartan room, behind which the other two crewmen were crouched.
One of them looked up from his work. “She’s alive, sir, but in pretty bad shape. Massive internal injuries and blood loss. If we don’t get her to a medical facility soon, she’ll die.”
The other stepped closer, indicating to a small terminal set in the table. “It looks like she managed to reroute several of the primary functions to this computer, but I’m not sure what she was trying to do. The log indicates that she sent the core into standby mode and tried to cut secondary power from most of the critical systems, like the turbolifts and lighting systems. It also looks like she overloaded the resonator that’s disrupting our communications.”
Puzzling over the quandary for a moment, Slovach turned her attention to the unconscious form sprawled face-first on the floor, dressed one of the simple uniforms of the Bajoran Militia. Her limbs and back were covered in numerous gashes and puncture wounds, including one that was oozing with some sort of purplish puss. Delicately, the man with the medical tricorder moved her onto her back.
Commander Slovach’s expression softened slightly. “It is her. Commander Nerys survived.”
Truul looked at her war-weary yet still young, ridge-nosed face for a moment in concern, but his attention was quickly diverted. Standing next to him, Tassadar had suddenly reeled backward, one hand clutching his head as if to shield it from sudden assault. His eyes were clamped shut.
“What happened? What is it?” Truul ventured, moving to support the Protoss.
“It’s… I am drained. This expedition has been taxing, and I have not yet fully recovered from the slaying of the Celebrate. If you still wish to depart, I will go with you now.”
Unsatisfied with the reply, but unwilling to press the matter, Truul turned back to Slovach. “We’ve found your survivor. Me and my soldiers are heading back. Now. Do you still want to try and hold this graveyard?”
Taking another long look at the station commander, Slovach shook her head. “No, I think you were right. We can’t hold the station, or even Ops, right now, with these numbers. Duvor, can you shut down the resonator that’s interfering with communications?”
The crewman punched in a few commands. “I just did, sir.”
“All right. Truul, contact the other units and tell them to activate their subspace tracers and prepare for immediate beam-out.”
“Sir, I don’t think we can risk transporting Commander Nerys,” the attending crewman put in. “Her life signs are too weak.”
“So we’ll take her back on our insertion shuttle,” Truul said, strapping his weapon over a shoulder and pulling some emergency medical implements from his own gear. “Do what you want, but I’m not getting in one of the transporter things, and I doubt any of my men would particularly like the idea either. You there, help me raise her. Then see if you can finds something flat to put her on.”
Slovach glared at the Major as he pushed past her and carefully grabbed the limp form’s legs, but managed to shake off her annoyance at the man’s attitudes. “All right. We walk.”
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 427
(8/26/06 10:30 am) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Fifty Three
With a tug, the dark side adept Lumiya completed her thick, black head wrap, obscuring her face entirely, save for two intense, probing eyes. The ritual of removing and replacing the headdress was a tedious one, but essential for tending the irreparably scarred flesh beneath. For a time after the incident which had given her those wounds along with a host of others that had nearly killed her, the woman could barely stand to look at her own visage in a mirror as she treated necrotized skin; it reminded her too much of the failure that had ravaged her so. However, as time passed and she had become more accustomed to the cyborg parts that had been implanted to restore her body’s abilities, she began to view the procedure as an opportunity, an image with which she could push herself further, and draw upon the dark energies that raged within.
Lumiya was a creature of a singular purpose. After her life as an Imperial spy had been cut short by the perception of rebel Luke Skywalker, she had devoted herself totally to the study of the Dark Side, both to please Darth Vader, who had rebuilt and retrained her after the catastrophic failure, and to convince herself that she still held value. With Vader’s tutelage and the arcane Sith resources of the late Emperor, her power had increased greatly in only a short time, and her tainted past faded further and further out of mind. Sent to the ancient Sith world Ziost to meditate upon the nuances of the Dark Side, Lumiya continued her training diligently and even constructed a lightwhip, a weapon scarcely seen in the galaxy since the fall of the ancient Sith Empire. Ever more confident in her swelling power and knowledge, she had even begun to think of herself as a Dark Lady of the Sith, capable of standing abreast of even the likes of Vader and Palpatine.
But then the Emperor had died. Though unfailingly loyal to him, Lumiya had nonetheless felt far more kinship with his apprentice, and thus when she learned that Vader had assumed control of the Empire, she was not at all distressed. However, ever since the Imperial leadership had suffered its great upset, her connection the Force seemed distorted, a taint unrelated to her growing dominion over the energy field. Though she could still touch it easily and her skill in combat had not dulled, meditation on the Dark Side’s infinite power no longer left her exhilarated, as it always had before. The pain, fear, anger, and hate of others, essential sustenance for one who bent the Force to their will, seemed muted, as if the carnal energy of each emotion was drained before it reached her.
She had hoped that Darth Vader would be able to find the root of this sudden dullness and expunge it, but he had disappeared before she could even leave Ziost, leading a fleet toward some unknown end into blackness so distant that she could no longer even feel his lingering presence. Instead, she had been placed in the company of the Sith Lord’s Twi’lek servant Aayla, one whom she had never even heard of before she intruded upon Lumiya’s studies. She had been impressed by the woman’s presence in the Force, and thus joined in her crusade of inquisition with little complaint, hoping that the alien might rejuvenate her connection to the Dark Side by osmosis. Instead, the disturbing absence had only grown, and was now even beginning to interfere with simple feats of Force perception.
Nevertheless, the Twi’lek’s mission was a directive of Lord Vader, and she was obligated to take part in it, no matter what misgivings she held. In the short time since the Sith Lord had vanished, Lumiya and her brooding compatriot had crisscrossed the Galaxy in the Twi’lek’s shuttle, tracking down each name on a list of individuals Vader’s new apprentice produced for their use. On it were listed men and women from every sector of Imperial society: local politicians, stormtrooper officers, COMPNOR executives, Imperial Guardsmen, star destroyer captains, Moffs, admirals, and even some of the Emperor’s former inner circle. Those that still lived, in any event.
Most of the time, Aayla would simply observe the person in question from afar, or meet with them briefly under deceptive pretenses; few even knew that she was an agent of Vader’s. Others, however, quickly fell victim to her blade: Grand Admiral Syn, advisors Xandel Carvius and Burr Nolyds, Force adept guardsman Carnor Jax, a handful of other influential captains and administrators, all slain quietly and in cold blood. Lumiya had never actually witnessed the executions, and had only unleashed her lightwhip once, to dispatch the bodyguards of an offending admiral, but she had no doubt that they occurred. The Twi’lek bore an aura of death that was undeniable.
All the alien would say on the purpose of this covert purge was that it was on the direct order of Lord Vader, and intended to remove any individuals that might weaken or seek to subvert the Sith Lord’s new authority. However, Lumiya was unsure as to how exactly Aayla identified who on the list was loyal and who was not. When asked, the Twi’lek simply refused to say anything at all. Indeed, when they were not discussing the next target, the woman kept completely to herself, deflecting all attempts at conversation and repelling every mental probe Lumiya sent her way. This secretive behavior had quickly begun to wear on Lumiya, and recently she had found herself questioning their entire endeavor. More than the alien’s hidden methods and motive, the targets they sought out worried her. She couldn’t quite place the root of her apprehension, but there was something odd about the list all the same.
Nevertheless, be it because of their efforts, or the ever-present threat of Vader’s return, the Empire continued to function effectively even without Palpatine at its head. A few prominent officials, including Grand Vizier Sate Pestage, had vanished in the wake of the “terrorist” strikes that had decapitated the Empire and then wiped out most of his closest advisors, but by and large, the ruling groups had taken the changes in stride. Vader had left little in the way of instruction on the restructuring of the Empire’s upper levels, which had depended almost entirely on Palpatine and his staff for direction previously, but a few ambitious and enterprising officials had taken the initiative nonetheless. Grand Moff Disra had convened an emergency Committee of the Grand Moffs on Coruscant, which could serve as a provisional legislative body. Lord Crueya Vandron, who had been subjected to one of Aayla’s longest interrogations, ensured the confused populace that the Imperial infrastructure was as robust as ever. The Grand Admirals and Imperial Intelligence quelled riots and silenced defectors encouraged by the Emperor’s death. The Rebel Alliance might have posed a problem to stability, but a pair of successive defeats at the hands of the newly-crowned imperator had effectively crushed the insurgent movement, or so the Imperial new service so gleefully reported.
The latest target on the pair’s list had taken them to Deep Space Checkpoint C-4401, a small Imperial security station positioned along the Byss Run, a little-traveled and highly secure hyperspace lane that plunged straight into the heart of the galactic core. Aayla had instructed Lumiya to locate the station’s commander and probe his mind for any potentially rebellious thoughts, and then had departed on the Lambda shuttlecraft before the other dark jedi could protest, on the pretense of “checking on a feeling”. The station commander ended up being completely unremarkable, a diligent and loyal man with no ambitions beyond an early retirement, and so Lumiya had nothing to do but wait for the Twi’lek’s return.
In the two days since, she had focused, with little success, on returning clarity of the Force to her mind, and determining what her companion might be up to. Aayla’s apparent destination, the planet Byss of the Beshqek system, did not appear on the file of potential targets. Lumiya recalled one of the Emperor’s advisors mentioning the name once in a whispered conversation, but beyond that, she knew little of it. According to the station’s databank, it was an unremarkable, urbanized world, host to an Imperial prison colony and a fleet staging yard. Still, Lumiya noted that the entirety of traffic that passed by the security station seemed to be heading directly for the planet, and much of the cargo ships were carrying highly sensitive and classified cargos. Heavily-armed escort vessels were common.
And what was more, even with her perception weakened, the adept could sense a strong presence in the Force somewhere relatively nearby in the galactic void. She could not be sure, but the sensation was similar to the aura of dark power she had felt while on Ziost, or while visiting the Sith graveworld Korriban. Perhaps Aayla had “been checking on a feeling,” after all.
As Lumiya finished dressing, a sudden premonition sparked into her mind. Aayla had returned. Wasting no time, the warrior retrieved her lightwhip and exited the small room she had been given, blowing past Imperial crewmen in the halls beyond who had been instructed to remain out of their guest’s way. The Twi’lek carried pass codes that ensured them both unfettered access to all Imperial facilities and computers, and immunity from most regulations. The exemptions had proved quite useful, save when Aayla decided that a ranking officer had failed her loyalty test.
The shuttle was waiting in the main docking bay, prepped for departure, and the blue Twi’lek was still seated in the pilot’s seat when Lumiya climbed onboard. Before she was even to the cockpit, the vessel was on the move again, rocketing through the bay atmospheric shield and angling off through space, away from the densely packed stars of the Core. Now used to her companion’s abrupt and unilateral manner, Lumiya took her seat and watched as the starfield outside surged towards the main viewport, and then vanished into the void of hyperspace.
“The commander was beyond suspicion. I sensed no danger from him,” the cyborg said at last. “Of course, I suspect you already knew that.” As soon as Aayla stranded her on the station, Lumiya had realized that her mission had most likely been a diversion, one that would allow the other to proceed to another destination alone.
The Twi’lek did not reply, instead calling up her target file and scanning past those who had already been cleared or neutralized.
“You found what you were looking for?” Lumiya pressed.
“Yes.”
Beneath her wrap, the human snarled soundlessly. She had managed to retain her composure since their mission had begun, but it was becoming more and more difficult for her to tolerate Aayla’s obstinate and dismissive attitude towards her. And the disciples of the Sith were not known for patience with obstinacy. “And what, exactly, did you find?”
Aayla turned sharply in her seat, suddenly radiating barely-contained fury. Her cold eyes reached out like supernovas, questing to annihilate all in their path. “Do you doubt? Do you think I am acting for any goal other than the empowerment of our master?”
Lumiya was taken aback by the ferocity of the response. “I never said…”
“Then do not presume to question me! Lord Vader tasked me with this mission! You are here because he believes that you can assist me in achieving his ends, and no other reason! It is my choice to decide how to proceed, and you have no authority to question me. Do it again, and I will kill you!”
Normally, such an order from anyone but her master would have immediately incited Lumiya to attack, even in the confines of the shuttlecraft, and she did indeed reach momentarily for her weapon’s hilt, but something stopped her. Indignation and dark rage bubbled within her, demanding blood to appease the insult the alien had inflicted, but another force, the same that had halted her back on Ziost, stayed the cyborg’s hand. Now, however, she truly understood what the emotion was. Neither obligation nor restraint nor curiosity had stayed the assault. No, this was fear. Simple, unmitigated fear.
The two were frozen for a long while, one rending the air with her burning aura as the other sat transfixed, paralyzed by the overwhelming emotion. Finally, the latter submitted, dropping her weapon hand and slumping back, resigned to subservience for the moment. There was a power within the Twi’lek that was to be reckoned with, but Lumiya would never submit to it, not truly. The incident would only serve to feed her anger and suspicion, and the Dark Side flourished upon such things.
From his appointed quarters onboard the August Judgment, the Arbiter looked on as countless millions died. The slaughter was not live, of course; instead a recording projected into the center of his spacious apartment, but its impact was undiminished. Warships of the Holy Covenant, among the mightiest weapons forged since the disappearance of the Forerunners, ignited by the dozens, obscured simulated stars with their death throes. Again and again, the dwindling armada formed and reformed, charging through the void with weapons blazing, incited by the fall of their comrades. And again and again, the vengeful hammer would shatter, shredded by spears of livid green light. Each vessel fought valiantly nonetheless, and it would have been a truly glorious conflict, save for one fact. The Covenant did not lose.
At length, the projection focused in on a single besieged group of vessels, the last of the defenders left in place. A pair of titanic assault carriers launched volleys of blistering plasma in every direction, while a swarm of smaller ships formed a shell around them, engaging any attacker who came close with reckless abandon. To any known foe, the sight of such firepower alone would have alone been reason enough to rethink any advance. But the opponents they faced now were well beyond being impressed by the defiant fusillade.
Like a poisoned blade, an Imperial Star Destroyer sliced into the outer perimeter of the defensive shell and immediately set its own brand of toxin to work. Dozens of energetic bolts streamed from the multitude of orderly notches on its broad surface, each one converting a careening starfighter or attack ship into a cloud of super-heated debris. Those that survived had only moments to reflect upon the annihilation of their companions before death came for them as well, this time in the form of a black and gunmetal wave; TIE fighters in number beyond counting.
With the lesser prey deftly vanquished, the triangular hunter turned its focus onto the pair of steadfast battleships. With their own fates now clear, the ships rent space with their drives and pushed forward, intent on embracing the attacker in their own destruction. Though it knew of the danger that now bore down upon it immediately, the destroyer did not turn away or even halt the doomed marauders with its guns; it waited. Hope swept though the crews of the Covenant ships. The enemy had faltered in the face of their selfless act, and now they could at least lend some meaning to their deaths. But it was not so.
As turbolaser bolts, unleashed by half a dozen other Imperial cruisers beyond the direct sphere of the melee, dashed the hopeless charge and sent the last remaining warrior ships plowing into one another far from their intended prey, the Arbiter’s fists slowly clenched. This engagement had played out identically to numerous others, as he knew it would, but the Sangheili had watched nonetheless. His kinsmen, brave and true warriors, good beings all, had just died in vast numbers in a hopeless fight, and honoring their sacrifice by bearing witness to it was the least he could do.
The August Judgment had only narrowly escaped the massacre itself. The battle group commanded by ‘Nefaaleme had managed to surround an outlying group of Imperial ships, and then cripple one of the smaller star destroyers and its escort ships. The firefight had yielded relatively limited casualties, but by the time ‘Nefaaleme could turn his attention to the larger battle the Covenant armada was already collapsing. Though it outnumbered the twenty large star destroyers by more than four times, and vastly more by tonnage, the sheer firepower and neigh invulnerable shielding of the extra-galactic human warships more than made up for their numerical disadvantage. Even the smaller Imperial ships could stand up to Covenant warships nearly a dozen times their size, and though the Seraph wings were a closer match for the enemy’s fightercraft, the sheer number of TIE fighters deployed had swiftly overwhelmed them.
The decision to call for a retreat had been a difficult one for the August Judgment’s ship master, even after the Imperial fleet had breached the Covenant lines so far that they were bombarding ground teams on what remained of the captured world’s surface. Admitting defeat, though a completely valid tactical decision, was a mark on the Sangheili personal honor, which was already tarnished by his recent failed challenge. Nevertheless, the warrior had kept managed to restrain himself and issued a general withdraw, and then lead his group out of the system before they attracted the attention of the victors. Very few others followed suit.
After pausing briefly to beam an alert message to the nearest communications repeater station, which would hopefully reach the reinforcements still heading for the overrun system before it was too late, the August Judgment and its escorts had set course for the heart of the Holy Covenant Empire, straining their slipstream drives to their limits. ‘Nefaaleme was determined to relay the magnitude of this new threat face to face with the High Council, and for once the Arbiter was in complete agreement with his decision. If there was anything that could be done to stop the impending betrayal by the Prophets and their lackeys, the Arbiter knew that the capital High Charity was where it had to be undertaken. However, he had yet to figure out just what exactly had to be done, and how the unexpected arrival of the Galactic Empire would factor into his plan.
For the moment, though, there were more pressing matters that had to be attended to. The trip would take at least a week, perhaps more, depending upon where the mobile capital currently lay in space, and though he had been cowed to some degree, ‘Nefaaleme was still a threat as long as he remained onboard the carrier. If the ship master were to discover even an inkling of duplicity on his superior’s part, the Arbiter’s mission, his life, and the lives of his human charges could all be placed in jeopardy.
The warrior was confident that he could keep ‘Nefaaleme occupied with matters of honor and fleet politics until they arrived at High Charity, but there were still holes in his cover story that needed filling. The non-existent transport he had supposedly piloted in would have to somehow appear, and the records of the vehicle that he had actually arrived upon might need subtle alteration. The Arbiter was confident that Ship Master and Supreme Commander Teno ‘Falanamee could convince a Huragok technician to carry out the tasks; if given a challenging enough technical task, the single-minded alien probably wouldn’t even wonder why it was doing what it had been ordered to do. However, there were a few other loose ends that might prove more difficult to tie up.
The August Judgment’s secondary Unggoy warren was a low hall barely over ten meters long, dimly lit, choked with methane fog, and quite cold. Most intelligent species would have been applaud to learn that the space was where a population of nearly one hundred workers and guards slept, ate, and spent their off-hours, scarce as they were. To the chamber’s inhabitants, however, the warren was quite cozy, reminiscent of the breeding pits where their kind was birthed in pods of dozens.
After countless generations of being on the very bottom wrung of a war-like and authoritarian society, Unggoy needs were by necessity few. They slept curled up in small alcoves with their comrades and relations. Their sanitation facilities were communal and basic, explaining the pervasive odor that mixed into the methane haze. Nutrients were ingested via tube-squeezed pastes and sticky liquids, affectionately nicknamed ‘food nipples’.
At the moment, a tangled knot of the latter amenities were being dispensed from automated hatches in the ceiling. Since the first feeding period serviced all Unggoy of the barrack regardless of their shift, status, or position, the chamber was as packed as it ever got, with stocky reptiliods standing shoulder to shoulder and closer to receive their allotted share of nutrition for the morning. Dense packets of sturdy muscle, the creatures required an impressive amount of food and enjoyed every ounce of it, even the tasteless goop that constituted a majority of their diets. After gathering up their rations, each would plop down next to or on top of pod mates and coworkers and chat squeakily about their mundane lives and simple dreams.
Today, the crowd around crewers Migaw and Cakap was unusually large. To beings who spent most of their short lives in the bowels of a warship, attending to the same monotonous duties day after day, anything new or unexpected was seized upon, and the pair’s tale was truly unique.
“So after these guys, these intruders, after they leave the cargo bay, I start looking around for some way out of the alcove,” Migaw was recounting, conveying his story with excessive gesticulation. “We hadn’t picked up much stuff on the mission, so it was pretty empty. Just me and the energy field blocking the door, oh, and this lump, still asleep on the deck.”
“I got hit too, you know,” Cakap retorted. “It’s not my fault your skulls thicker than mine.”
Migaw waved a stubby paw at him dismissively. “Anyways, after I looked around a little bit more, I found an old charge siphon jammed in a ventilation grate. One of those really old ones, you know, two prongs. It still had the static gel coating on the handle. It wasn’t working, but the points were still sharp, so I took it over to the patch behind where the field control was and I pried at the plate until it gave a bit, and then I dug through some of the ancillary monitor wiring until I found the cargo bay field feed. After that, it wasn’t hard to cut the power to the energy wall, drag this useless sack of bone to the main hatch, jack it, and get out of there.”
“You didn’t try to get the Sangheili out with you?” one of the Unggoy’s comrades asked. He already knew the answer, as Migaw had already related the tale twice, but he, like the rest of the audience, was thoroughly enjoy himself, and was eager to extend the conversation.
“You know the elite, always so bossy and loud,” Migaw replied eagerly. “He probably would have had us attack those humans unarmed if I’d got him out. Besides, he was still out when I got free, and I didn’t really feel like dragging him along too. And I did get her free in the end; who do you think was the one who lead the guard commander back to the ship?”
Cakap hit Migaw in the shoulder. “You didn’t lead him back, you beak face. I saw it. All you did was come up to him groveling and whining, and blubber all about the mean heretics who attacked you.”
The Unggoy paused to take a draft of his nutrient tube, and then leaned back onto the bony side of a sleeping pod mate before continuing. “In fact, I would believe the rest of the story, either. I bet the humans just figured that you were too worthless to be bothered with and tossed you in a corner. You can’t cut a power line like you said you did, and if you did, the flow would have fried those little eyes of yours right out of your thick skull.”
Migaw threw up his lanky arms, nearly hitting three members of his audience. “As I said, the siphon still had its gel coat. And I wouldn’t talk about worthless. What did you do in all this, aside from taking a nap?”
Cakap shot his companion an indignant look. “If I hadn’t gotten off that derelict when I did, they would have flown off without us, and you’d be sucking vacuum right now.”
Migaw let loose a loud, barking laugh. “All you did was get scared, sleepyhead. I was the one who actually had to work to save our heads.”
As the two continued to bicker, the crowd shared a few more moments of merriment, and then began to disperse, workers sensing that their brief feeding period was coming to a close. After the area around Migaw and Cakap had cleared somewhat, another Unggoy was able to push his way through, his rounded mouth clenched in irritation.
“You two, there’s a Sangheili outside the hatch who wants to see you, and she doesn’t seem very happy, even for them.”
The companions stopped fighting and glanced at each other nervously. There was only one Sangheili who would want to see them off-duty.
“You’d better hurry up. I don’t think long-legs will get happier if you keep her waiting. Besides, she’s blocking the door.”
Grudgingly, Migaw and Cakap worked their way through the crowd to the entrance of the warren, located their uniforms, and hastily put the bulky, armored garments on. After making sure their methane tanks were full and their breath masks operational, the two exchanged another look and then stepped into the airlock and the ship beyond.
Though female Sangheili were marginally smaller and less muscular than their male counter parts, compared to Unggoy their stature was no less imposing. Adding to her distinct advantage in size, the withering glare that Deau ‘Mefasee met her subordinates with as soon as they stepped out into the main hallway stopped made them immediately drop their heads in supplication. As a female, the Sangheili was relegated to the lowest levels of society, forced to serve as a lowly transport pilot, as evidence by her blue novice’s armor, but among the Unggoy, she was held absolute authority.
“You left me to the humans?” she rumbled. “You left me unconscious in that infernal cargo bay while you saved your own worthless hides?”
Shakily, Cakap tried to look up, but immediately looked down again, tensing for an impending blow. “It was not my fault, Excellency. I... I was unconscious as well. It was Migaw who decided to flee.”
Migaw shivered, feeling his commander’s icy stare pass onto his quivering skull. After swearing mortal revenge upon his companion silently, he found his voice. “I throw myself upon your mercy, Excellency. I did not wish to leave you, but I could not risk alerting the humans of my escape by stopping to free you. I thought it was best to get help immediately.”
The toe of ‘Mefasee’s boot nudged Cakap’s methane tank. “And yet you paused to burden yourself with him?”
Migaw attempted to bow further, causing him to bump his head on the metal deck plate. “I was not thinking clearly, Excellency. I feared that they might kill him if I left Cakap alone. I am deeply sorry for delaying your rescue because of it.”
“We will accept punishment for our failure without complaint, great one,” Cakap put in miserably.
The Sangheili was silent for a few moments, and though neither dared to look up, both knew that she was fuming. Most of the time, the pilot was relatively easygoing, for one of her kind, and seemed to tolerate the lesser races of the Covenant more than her male counterparts, but she also had a foul temper. Her punishments rarely involved much physical damage, but they were nonetheless loathsome. The last time Grink, an avian Kig-Yar their ship’s operations chief, had got on the Sangheili’s bad side, she had given him a atmosphere tank and made him live in the secondary Unggoy warren for a dozen duty cycles. Grink, like most of his kind, disdained their stocky, reptilian counterparts; there was, of course, also the matter of the cold. The two didn’t even want to imagine what she would do to them.
Finally, she sighed, exasperated. “Get up, you two. Grovel on your own time.” Her voice was clear tinged with anger still, but it was no longer overtly hostile.
Relieved, if confused, by the sudden change, Migaw and Cakap rose to their flat feet, although they retained their subservient postures.
Waiting until both of them met her yellow eyes, ‘Mefasee continued. “All right. Migaw, you reported that there was a Sangheili with the humans who commandeered my ship. The one who knocked both of you out.” She raised a hand to the back of her head, and then with drew it swiftly. “The one who struck me from behind.”
Migaw nodded nervously. “Yes, Excellency. I saw him before he hit me, and then talking with one of the humans after I recovered. He took your uniform.”
“Yes, I know,” the female Sangheili said bitterly. “But this attacker was not on found onboard my ship when it was recaptured.”
“No, Excellency. Just as I reported, after I saw him talking with the human, he used the main hatch to leave and board the August Judgment. I assume he was a heretic, in league with the humans. Maybe he wanted a better ship. Has he been found?”
‘Mefasee clenched a fist and stared off down one hallway. “Not yet. The Guard is searching the ship for stowaways, but I have not been allowed to assist in the search. Officially.”
“Tell me Migaw, did you see anything about this coward, aside from his uniform? Anything that might help distinguish him?”
The Unggoy considered for a moment, and then was hit by a sudden memory. “Yes, I remember. He had a very big scare on one side of his face.”
‘Mefasee leaned closer. “A great many male warriors bear scars from combat on this ship. Can you tell me anything more about what it looked like? Where was it on his face?”
Migaw thought again, trying to jog his memory until something else jogged it for him. “I… I believe it looked like that, Excellency.” He pointed a bony finger to the passageway behind his master.
She twisted around to see a tall Sangheili warrior striding towards her from the open iris of a blast door, the gold of his helm nearly disguising a deep gash above his left eye.
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 430
(10/17/06 3:34 pm) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Chapter Fifty Four
The main observation lounge of the USS Versailles, flagship of what remained of Starfleet, had seen better days. Signs of its former elegance and the characteristic creature comforts of Federation starships were still in evidence: comfortable, high-backed chairs still flanked the room’s long, central chamber; a thin, pastel carpet clung to the cold floor plates; one side of the lounge still opened onto space through an expansive, unarmored viewport, but the evidence of wear was far more conspicuous. Nearly half of the long window was obscured by a slab of duranium, bolted on to succor an all-too-recent wound. The interior wall, originally designed with a display alcove for trophies, artifacts, and remembrances, had been replaced with a more sturdy metal plate, extra insurance against the possibility of another hull breach. High along the shadowed walls, fingers of carbonized scouring spidered to and from light panels and computer lines, tokens of deep, omnipresent weariness.
Nevertheless, the chamber still functioned, even if the lighting would fluctuate from time to time as newly-repaired systems deep within the bowels of the starship were reactivated, and no one had objected when it had been chosen as the site of the proceedings underway within.
It was quite obvious that Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev was a formidable woman from the moment she had stepped into the room. Though physically gaunt and frail-looking, an image heightened by the shadow of gray that tinged her short, blonde hair, the Starfleet officer possessed a presence that demanded respect. Her stiff posture spoke too of the weight of authority that both kept her alert and wore on her resolve. Though reddened by lack of sleep and worry, her keen eyes still managed to convey a distinct sense of drive and purpose as she carefully scanned each of the others assembled before her.
Seated next to the admiral at the conference table that dominated the center of the room, Captain Picard had just finished a long and extraordinary tale. Indeed, were it not for the outcome of the recent battle, and the presence of many of the key figures of the captain’s report, the woman would probably not have believed it. Given the circumstances, however, and the gratitude she personally felt for the simple fact that her ship, her fleet, and the planet below were still intact, she was more amenable to the explanation.
“The Zerg?” she put in after reflecting on all she had learned.
Picard nodded. “Yes. High Templar Tassadar seems to know a great deal about the creatures. He supplied their name.”
Nechayev focused on the being in question, who was ensconced in the opposite corner of the room. He had remained largely motionless over the course of the meeting, but his strange, glistening eyes never strayed far from the admiral.
“Well, we have something to call them now. It’s more than out intelligence agents have been able to gather, at least.” She shook her head wearily. “Fighting creatures that attack and consume without thought or complex motive is something completely beyond my experience. At least the Dominion would speak with us before they attacked. Even the Borg gave their ultimatum. Not these things, though. They just eat and destroy.”
“Do not be deceived.” As it always did at first, Tassadar’s penetrating ‘voice’ came as a surprise to the human. “The minions of the swarm may care for nothing but carnage, but there are greater minds that drive them all. Think of them merely as beasts, and what remains of your people will not survive the horde’s next onslaught.”
Grudgingly, Nechayev nodded in agreement. “Yes, we determined as much not long after the first attacks. No unthinking animals could coordinate as they do, or commandeer our starships so efficiently. We simply have been unable to understand how they behave as they do. Perhaps you can provide more information on their organization and motives?”
“I am tasked with purging the Zerg wherever it may take root. I will assist as I can, but my knowledge alone will not be enough for you to turn the tide. That time passed long ago.”
“Nonetheless, any continued aid, and your efforts in the defense of Bajor, are greatly appreciated, by myself, and the fleet.”
With that, she turned her attention to the others assembled at the long table. Alongside Riker and Data, who had accompanied their captain off of the Republica, Councilor Leia Organa, Major Truul and one of his marines, C-3PO, and, to everyone’s surprise, Captain Ryceed were seated in silent anticipation.
“And I offer you all my sincerest thanks as well, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets itself. Were it not for the intervention of the Republica, I doubt that any sentient in this system would still be left alive.”
Ryceed stirred in her seat and looked as though she was about to speak, but Leia acted first, receiving the commendation with an appreciative nod.
“As a representative of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, I accept your thanks. It is our mandate to protect the lives and liberties of sentient beings of all kinds from the touch of tyranny, and though the threat you face is far different from the sort we are used to, we were obligated and willing to offer any assistance we could. Besides, from what I have heard from Captain Picard and his crew, the United Federation of Planets is devoted to many of the ideals that the Alliance stands for. Helping your nation survive and flourish, as far from our home as it is, only furthers our own goals.”
“Well, whatever your reasons, your assistance has not only saved this fleet and Bajor, but prolonged the survival of a half dozen sovereign powers and their people. And that is what we are fighting for, our very right to exist.” Nechayev frowned to herself and folded her hands on front of her. “That brings me to the chief purpose of this assembly. Captain Picard’s account was not clear on exactly why you, Councilor Organa, and the Republica are here. It sounds as though you have your own war to fight, and I find it hard to believe that the people of your galaxy so altruistic as to give up a resource of the likes of your vessel simply to escort a few wayward officers home.”
Leia smiled diplomatically. “Your assessment is quite correct, Admiral. In fact, some among the Alliance’s leadership did object to our traveling here, but in the end it was decided that the resources offered by a new galaxy, hidden from the Empire and populated by potential allies, were too precious to pass up.”
“I’m sure it is obvious to you know that, even if it were inclined to do so, the Federation currently lacks the infrastructure and technology to be able to directly assist the Alliance against any force that could pose a serious threat to you.”
Ryceed fidgeted in her seat again; the action was obvious enough to draw a veiled glare from Leia before she continued.
“I realize that, and I appreciate your frankness. Nevertheless, I am still of the opinion that this galaxy is a potential boon for the Alliance. It may be the safe haven we need now more than ever, assuming of course that the wormhole that connects our two realms remains stable, or can be modified to do so. And if the Alliance was to relocate some of its operations here, it would be advantageous to have allies who are knowledgeable of the area and its inhabitants available for support and consultation. From what I have seen and heard, the Federation would be an ideal candidate.”
“Quite honestly, Councilor, right now the Federation is effectively limited to this cubic light year of space. In the past three months, we have lost more than sixty percent of our worlds, and the rest are completely at the mercy of the Zerg. Bajor, the warships in orbit, and the civilian refugee fleet we have spread out nearby are the sum assets of the Federation, the Klingon Empire, and the Cardassian Union. Any other vessels have either fled into the wilds of space or refused to leave their worlds, set upon defending them to the end. There has been no contact with the Romulans since the invasion began, and we can only assume they’re facing the same fate that we are. We are friendless and alone in a hostile wasteland, on the brink of total extermination; not an ally I would choose.”
Riker and Picard glanced at each other gravely; both had hoped that the reports of the Federation’s state they had heard from Ensign Martin and Captain Gehirn were exaggerations, but hearing the dire news from the very head of Starfleet made the conclusions unavoidable. Still, Picard was secretly impressed by the way in which Nechayev had spoken. Rather than be justifiably hopeless at the prospect of annihilation by a horde of pitiless monstrosities, she seemed hardened to the idea, and talked of it as if it were a parameter in a training simulation, simple and unavoidable. As his second in command would no doubt put it, they had all been dealt a hand, and she knew they had to play it, no matter the odds against them.
Leia seemed to stare off into empty space for a moment before answering the Admiral’s blunt statement, but when she spoke again, her words were still steady. “There is no denying that the threat that you face is a mortal one, and you are correct, a dead ally is not one at all. Since the survival of the Federation and the stability of this galaxy are of significant concern to the Alliance, pending the establishment of a more extensive presence here, I am willing to offer, on behalf of the Alliance High Council and all affiliated cells, military assistance in dealing with the Zerg threat.”
This time Leia could not prevent Ryceed from speaking up. “Forgive me, Councilor, but I must voice my strong misgivings on such an offer. I don’t mean to belittle your struggle Admiral, but we’ve got our own war to worry about, and I don’t think we can afford to devote any material or personnel to extended action here. The original concept behind our mission was a sound one, but no one expected to find Picard’s galaxy in a state of open war, no matter the opponent. I simply don’t see how risking more of our ships and crews to come here and fight is a viable option.”
Many officials of Leia’s standing, among them most of the members of the High Council, would have been severely taken aback by such an outburst from a mere captain, especially during sensitive negotiations, but she seemed unperturbed. Ryceed’s discomfort with her assignment had been plain from the beginning; perhaps the diplomat had been anticipating just such an incident.
“When I offered military assistance, it was not my intent to travel back through the wormhole to gather it,” Leia Organa responded coolly, fixing the captain squarely in her gaze.
Ryceed’s mouth fell open. “You expect the Republica to fight this war alone? You know the condition of my ship full-well; she’s badly damaged, down to well under fifty percent combat efficiency, and her crew has been engaged in four separate battles in the last week alone. We’re in no shape to conduct a freighter raid, much less topple a galactic power.”
“The Republica preformed beyond all expectations against the Zerg fleet, despite its condition,” Leia pressed, clearly undaunted. “You had to fight through hundreds of hostile targets to clear a path to the enemy command vessel, and yet your ship, to my knowledge, only received minimal damage. How many of their warships were destroyed, even with the Republica’s offensive capability limited? Thirty? Forty?”
“The technological disparity between our galaxy and this one are more than substantial. I don’t know how large a force the Zerg command, or how extensive their dominion is, but if they are limited to the technology of this civilization, a single light cruiser may be all that is needed to tip the tide of the war in the favor of the Federation and her allies. Is my assessment correct, Admiral Nechayev?”
The older woman nodded slowly. “Our intelligence on the true scope of the Zerg threat is spotty at best, but considering the level of effectiveness that your vessel had against the hostile fleet, I believe that you may be right. I’m having my tactical department run some simulations on what impact the Republica might have on the outcome of future engagements right now, in fact. Obviously, we don’t know much about the actual capabilities of your ship, or how it does what it does at all, but from what we all saw it do in action, its safe to say that the results will be positive, at the very least.”
She paused for a moment and looked out the chamber’s viewport. Beyond the transparent aluminum plate, the distant sparks and baubles that were the waning vestiges of once great armadas silently picked over the remnants of a costly victory. When Nechayev spoke again, her voice was somber. “Quite frankly, Councilor Organa, that ship may be last hope we have left. Even if we’d somehow survived this last assault without your assistance, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. The Zerg lost a great many ships here today, but they control many more, far more than we have left. And our efforts to scuttle as many space docks and shipyards as we could before being forced to evacuate each successive system have only been partially successful; if they figure out how to build more of our ships, they can easily replace their losses. We can’t.”
“If things keep going as they have been, if those creatures keep spreading to world after world and hunting down anyone who manages to escape, there won’t be a single remnant of the Federation left in a year’s time. Damn it all, there won’t be an Alpha or a Beta Quadrant left. We’ve tried… I’ve tried to stop them, but their first strike was too effective, and their expansion too quick. Right now, our only options are to flee or die fighting. Personally, I think the end result of both will be the same.”
“I can’t promise you much an ally here if you help us fight, Councilor, but I can promise you that there won’t be one at all if you don’t.”
Though the Republica had served as a warship for much of its operational life, like most Mon Calamari vessels, it had been a civilian ship before the amphibian race had been compelled to take up arms against the specter of Imperial domination. Numerous refits had removed or obscured many of its original amenities to make room for weaponry and added armor, but a few remained intact even in the face of military considerations, evidence of the perpetual Calamarinian longing for a lasting peace. Most notable among the relics were several sets of broad, transparisteel viewports that lined the corridors that ran along the perimeter of the ship, concentrated mainly around the characteristic bulges that protruded from the warship’s midsection.
Jacen Solo stood quietly at one such window, his hands folded behind his back. For the first time since the battle, the hallway in which they stood was relatively quiet. What minimal repairs that had been needed were largely completed and most of the crew was on a much needed rest shift. This quietude was complemented by the soft glow of Bajor’s looming disk, and together they actually made the weary warship seem rather peaceful. Normally, the young jedi would use such moments to meditate or collect his thoughts, but on this occasion something was keeping him from focusing inward. Of course, he couldn’t say he particularly minded the distraction.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Laura Martin asked, leaning her elbows against the transparent barrier as she stared out at the blue-green orb. “I never really appreciated views like these before, but I guess being away from them for a long time can change your perspective. I haven’t had a chance to just stop and look out at a planet for months… it feels like longer. It’s been too chaotic to do anything but worry about my duties. And try not to think about… well, things.”
Sensing that the woman was growing agitated by the dark memories she still grappled with, Jacen broke the uncomfortable silence that followed her comment. For a reason he couldn’t quite place, speaking to her was harder than it should have been, but he managed nonetheless. “I’m enjoying the view, too.”
“…err, of the planet, I mean,” he added quickly, grimacing slightly. Focus Jacen. Laura didn’t seem to notice him falter. “It reminds me of home. Well, one of my homes, at least. I spent a lot of time on a world like this one, Yavin Four, when I was younger. Of course, I suppose I spent just as much time on Coruscant too, my parents live there. It doesn’t look much like this though. More metal.” The man bit his lip, realizing that he had begun to ramble.
Laura turned to face him, curious. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Coruscant is all one big city. From orbit, it’s just a mass of black and gray, with a lot of lights running throughout. It’s still quite a sight, though, especially if you get up close. The cityscape is really something, and at dawn all of the towers light up beautifully. I still prefer more natural planets, though. The sheer crush of activity on a world like Coruscant can be overwhelming sometimes.”
“The entire planet is covered by a city?” Laura questioned, amazement creeping into her soft features. “That’s incredible. It must have taken thousands of years to cover encompass an entire world.”
Jacen smiled. “Tens of thousands actually, at the very least. No one’s really certain exactly how old Coruscant is, but it’s been the galactic capital for twenty five thousand years, and it was nearly as crowded back then.”
“Amazing.” Laura cleared away a few strands of brown hair that had fallen across her face and grinned dreamily. “I’d love to see a place like that. There isn’t any world like that in this galaxy, at least not any that I’ve heard of.”
“I’d like to show it to you. Of course, I’d just like to see it again at all, myself. It seems like years since I’ve been there, or any place really familiar for that matter. Then again, I suppose it isn’t going to change any time soon.”
Suddenly, an unheralded burst of vision flashed through Jacen’s mind; a might globe of metal, wreathed with flickering embers and pockmarked with thousands of roiling craters of black; his mother, older, as she should have been, her faced stained with tears; his brother Anakin, bloody and engulfed in a terrible, burning aura; the black, nightmare mask that his grandfather had born most of his life; a towering monolith, carved against the darkened sky; the face of Aayla Secura, her eyes cold and shadowed. The images flowed together in a stream of overwhelming sensation, until the jedi could see nothing but an icy torrent swiftly rising inside of his skull, drowning out all conscious thought…
“Jacen? Are you all right?”
The man felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder, and abruptly the vision evaporated, leaving only the empty hallway and the viewport on which he was leaning, breathing heavily. Shaking his head from side to side to clear it, Jacen regained his bearings, and noticed that the young ensign he had been talking with was now standing less than a meter away, her arm on his, a concerned look upon her face. A warming sensation spread across Jacen’s face and he stepped back nervously, allowing Laura’s hand to slip away.
“I’m fine,” he said at last, both trying to make sense of what had just occurred and attempting to put it out of his mind. “I’m just a bit tired.”
Laura knew little about the Force or the Jedi beyond the fact that Jacen had mentioned that he was one and possessed certain abilities that most humans did not, but he could sense that she knew that there was more to his disorientation than simple weariness. She was anything if not perceptive, and Jacen had no doubt that she might begin to make the connection eventually if allowed to do so. Analyzing the recent visions and sensations he had been experiencing of late too deeply was not something the jedi felt he was ready for, especially not if prompted to do so by another.
“So, where are you from?”
Laura frowned, evidently noting the hasty change of subject, but she went along with it nonetheless. “A little city called Portland. It’s on Earth. The human homeworld… well, in this galaxy, at least. I don’t suppose that there’s a place by the same name where you’re from?”
Jacen shook his head. “If there is, I’ve never heard of it. Of course, that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. There are still thousands of unexplored star systems out there, and our historians really don’t know where humanity came from before it started colonizing planets like Coruscant. And if a parallel world did exist somewhere, we probably wouldn’t call it the same thing. Earth is a rather… odd name.”
Laura smirked. “You’re not the first to make that comment. Even after hundreds of years of interstellar contact and civilization, I still run into the occasional Andorian or Ferengi who makes fun of the name. And they do have a point; naming one’s home after dirt doesn’t really do it much justice, especially in our case. You know, I’ve visited a fair number of planets since I joined Starfleet, and they’re all quite amazing in their own way, but I’ve never encountered one as diverse or beautiful as Earth. Even just in my hometown. I’ve never felt as peaceful as I do when I’m sitting on the beach there at sunset, the water lit by the last rays of sunlight, the waves gentle lapping the breakers and soft sand.”
The young woman trailed off, her smile replaced by a look of profound loss. She turned back to the viewport and gently placed a palm on its cool surface, Bajor’s soft glow glinting in her eyes. “I suppose I’ll never be able to sit on that sand again. There were several big power stations near Portland, and it would have been one of the first targets of the invasion. And even if it wasn’t… well, I doubt that any place there is the same anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Jacen began hurriedly, his shoulders drooping noticeably. “I didn’t mean to…”
“No, it’s all right. This is just something we all have to live with.” She looked back at Jacen and tried to banish the shadows from her face. “I can’t really say I’ve come to terms with it, or ever will, but I’ve lost too much to be consumed by each memory and each needless death. We all have. You have too, I guess. All we can really do is appreciate what we still have left.”
Jacen stared back at the woman for a long time, no longer embarrassed by the reddening of his cheeks. At last, he nodded and smiled back. “I suppose you’re right.”
What’s going on?
Darkness enclosed on all sides. There was no light, no substance, no sound, no motion. She floated upon the null. And yet, there was something out there, far beyond reach. Indistinct, a specter of a specter, a faint crackle in the back of the mind. Slowly, the sensation grew, blocking out memories and scattered thoughts that vainly tried to impose themselves on the empty plane. Then, it became a whisper. Many whispers.
“At last…” Faint, almost imperceptible.
Who are you?
“Major?” Stronger, a male voice, confident.
Where am I?
“Answer me, Kira.” Another male voice, kind and concerned.
What has happened?
“Come on, Nerys. Wake up.” Yet another, desperate, helpless, loving.
Where are you?
“That’s it, my daughter. Awaken.” A female voice this time, wise and patient.
Why won’t you answer?
“There, you see? Even a Bajoran can do it eventually.” A deeper tone, cruel and mocking.
There were shapes now, fleeting images. Circles… no, faces. Each was different, each was speaking. They were all so strange, pale and distant, but she knew them all. Benjamin Sisko; leader, friend; willingly lost to the void for the good of all. Bareil Antos; friend, lover; torn away by the injustice of the world. Odo; lover, comrade; separated by the bonds of duty and family. Kai Opaka; comrade, mother, role model; exiled by fate, so far away. Gul Dukat; monster, madman, motivation; destroyed, like so many others.
They were all part of her.
They were all gone.
What is this?
“Hurry up, Major. We haven’t got all day.”
More shapes. Disks. There was the gentle orb of home. There, the vaulted arms of Deep Space Nine. Then, other things. Sacred icons. Rank insignia. Morning rations. A sleeping child.
Why are you showing me these things?
“You disappoint me, Nerys. You were far cleverer once.”
There, beyond all the others, there was another shape. Growing, covering everything else. A claw? A hand? A mouth?
In its shadow, another image appeared like a beacon shrouded in fog. The Celestial Temple, the Bajoran Wormhole. A shimmering, energetic orb set like a jewel in space. It was the gateway to the Prophets, the protectors of her people. Living gods who had always guided and empowered her. They were the avatars of her very being; all that she was, soldier, officer, lover, friend, stemmed from their distant, all-knowing touch.
Then, in an instant, all of it was consumed by the shapeless maw. All that she was vanished into the blackness. She was alone. And yet, the chorus of whispers grew ever louder, ever clearer, ever more unified.
What do you want from me?
“Now, now Kira. All in good time.”
The voice was familiar. It sounded the same as she remembered, smooth and confident. But it was not calming. There was no balm in the words, only cold fingers of ice and darkness. They slashed at her, tearing soundlessly into her flesh, spearing her chest with invisible barbs. But there was no pain, no blood, not even any release. She looked down, as if seeing her body for the first time. There, carved into her slender torso was a gaping, ragged gash that pierced skin and bone, leaving her most vital of organs laid bear to the deep.
And yet, she saw no heart. There was only a blank space, as empty as the limitless chasm all around her.
I am dead. I must be dead.
“Yes.”
Then why are you here? Why do you not give me peace?
“Peace? Silly girl, why should there be peace?”
The holy writings said…
“Holy?” This voice was new. Clearer than the rest. Penetrating. “There is nothing holy about this place. As you said, you are dead; there is only death here.”
Then why can I still hear you?
“Death is not quiet, not this death. A silent passing would not serve.”
Serve?
“Why, yes. Surely you did not think all this was for your amusement. No, no. You must fulfill your purpose before you fade into nothingness.”
My purpose?
“In good time. When the moment comes, you will act as needed.”
But I am dead…
A sharp laugh echoed from nowhere at all. “You will find soon enough, Nerys, that in your world and mine, the dead can do a great many things.”
Upon a medical bed within the depths of the Mon Calamari warship, a limp, bandaged form quivered to life, thrashed momentarily beneath sterile coverings, and then collapsed back into motionlessness once more. Had its lips not been sealed by a healing brace, the spasm would have been a scream.
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 431
(12/10/06 6:30 pm) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
Part Four: Conflagration
Chapter Fifty Five
High Charity. Forged in ages long past by labors that exhausted whole worlds, the space station was an engineering triumph, a giant even amongst the leviathans that the Holy Covenant navigated through the stars. Once a lifeless moon, it had been painstakingly crafted and augmented until only the barest shell of the body remained recognizable. A mighty pylon extended kilometers into space from one end, bearing a multitude of spires and lattices upon which whole armadas could roost. The half that still bore the ancient moon’s shape was encrusted with monolithic juts of sculpted metal and precisely engineered entry chasms that cut deep into the station’s hollow interior, disgorging eerie, crystalline light into the frozen deep of space.
Propelled through space by colossal slipspace channels etched into its outer surface, the titan had alighted in orbit around Joyous Exultation, the Covenant colony world closest to the space which humanity occupied. Though the domain of the holy empire encompassed a vast number of stars and worlds throughout the heavens, the attentions of Covenant armada had been focused on that distant galactic arm for decades, and thus High Charity and the prefects it bore had lingered close by as well, orchestrating the prophesized extermination of the mammalian species and inspiring the limitless Covenant hordes with its presence. The war had gone on far longer than any of the Prophets had predicted, and human’s ingenuity and persistence in the face of overwhelming odds never seemed to waver, but there had never been any real danger to any of the Covenant’s inhabited worlds, much less its fortress capital.
Then, when their final victory had seemed at hand, all that had changed.
Clustered around the space station like a school of predatory fish, hundreds of warships of every size and class waited. They had been summoned from every corner of the empire and every probing campaign into human space. There assembled were the Covenant’s greatest warriors and commanders, their mightiest carriers and most prolific battleships. Such a gathering of force had been seen only a few times in the Covenant Hegemony’s long history, and only when the High Council perceived a truly fatal threat. This assembly was no different; the specter of doubt hung over every ship and warrior’s heart.
Deau ‘Mefasee looked out upon the mighty city that formed the heart of High Charity and sighed wearily. In the shadow of a mighty Forerunner relic, a majestic, triangular spire that stretched from the center of the metropolis towards the high, domed ceiling, millions of thinking beings of more than half a dozen species went about their varied works. All labored, in one way or another, for the Prophets and noble Sangheili who ruled from the temples and halls that were suspended along the walls of the great enclosed city.
Only a few cycles earlier, ‘Mefasee would have taken great pride in standing where she did, on the edge of one of the vast open walkways that connected the various structures of High Charity’s governmental citadel, but a few strides from the assemblage hall of the High Council and the Hierarchs themselves. After all, she was but a transport pilot with no connections or accolades to her name, and more than that, a female. To stand there as anything more than a faceless member of some zealous mob screaming for the damnation of a heretic or laying praises upon the Prophets was a great honor.
Now, though, she could not feel any appreciation for her position.
Savage laughter sounded from behind her. A pair of brutish Jiralhanae lumbered past down the wide, sculpted causeway on which ‘Mefasee stood, swinging well-worn blades about carelessly as they rumbled with mirth about some joke or brutal tale. They were nearly three meters in height, and easily more massive than the most muscular Sangheili. Their bodies, masses of scaly, gray skin and matted hair were almost naked save for bandoliers of ammunition, simple helms, and odd hanging trinkets of their tribe. Above rows of tusk-like teeth, beady red eyes set in simian faces raked the Sangheili with barely restrained contempt.
Deau ‘Mefasee had always disliked the violent, insular creatures, as all of her species did, but they had the favor of the Prophets, and despite the relative youth of their race within the Covenant’s fold, they were quickly filling every role that the Sangheili had once held alone. The High Prophet of Truth even kept a cadre of the animals for his personal use. Naturally, this had bred hostility between the two sects, who perceived each other as rivals for the Prophet’s attentions, but beyond a few isolated squabbles, the situation had never escalated. The Jiralhanae knew their place; the Sangheili were second in the Holy Covenant, as they had been since its inception.
But then she had met Teno ‘Falanamee. In hurried, secret council with the Supreme Commander, with only the two Unggoy under her command in audience, she had heard what could only be described as the highest heresy imaginable. He had told her of a plot by the Jiralhanae to completely usurp the place of the Sangheili, and cast them from the holy embrace of the Covenant. This, at least, she might believe. The savage creatures were undeniably ambitious.
But there had been more. The mighty warrior, honored tool of the empire and hero of a dozen campaigns, had told her that this plot bore the blessing of the Prophets themselves.
The pilot should have reported the heresy immediately after ‘Falanamee had released her. Every fiber of her being, an entire life of worshiping the Prophets as the anchors of civilization and the shepherds of paradise, told her that what she had herd was a lie, and that the Supreme Commander’s mind had been corrupted by some blow or secret poison. And yet, she had not told a soul. Three things stayed her tongue.
First, it would be her word against his. If he denied the accusation to any authority she might approach, doubt might be cast upon him, but the effort would most likely cost ‘Mefasee her life. Nevertheless, if she followed dogma, such a sacrifice was her holy duty, and it would earn her a place in paradise with the Forerunners.
Second, though ‘Falanamee had been vague about the method by which he had learned of this plot, as she mulled over what he had related, many parts of it did seem to make sense. The Jiralhanae were ever more prominent throughout the fleet, and Prophets and their pet brutes were oddly close. Some said that the Hierarchs valued the advice of the white-haired Jiralhanae chieftain Tartarus more than the wisdom of the Sangheili who sat upon the High Council. Then, there were the string of mysterious disappearances, councilors lost on routine pilgrimages to Forerunner monuments, unexplained explosions on the Sangheili homeworld. Still, none of it proved open betrayal, much less collusion by the leaders of the Covenant itself.
It had been the third reason that had kept her silent. Though his motives and experience with the alleged plot were still unclear, it was obvious that ‘Falanamee wanted what he knew kept secret, and for reasons beyond mere self-preservation. It would have been simple for him to dispose of a handful of lowly support personnel; the Fleet Master have issued false transfer orders and had Cakap, Migaw, and she cast into a reprocessing conduit. Few would even notice the absence, much less question it.
Instead, he had spared them, and entrusted ‘Mefasee with knowledge that might imperil everything he hoped to accomplish. He had given her a chance. An opportunity to help save her people from a threat she had scarcely ever dreamed of. Whether or not the Prophet’s intent to break their ancient pact was real or the delusion of a wounded soldier, ‘Falanamee’s simple show of faith in her of all the Sangheili he could have approached had been enough to amend her to him. Warrior or not, she was honor-bound to reciprocate the act with her allegiance. For the moment, at least.
It was a better fate than being cut into pieces or strewn into space as a fountain of ionized particles, she told herself wearily. Of course, if the Supreme Commander’s heresy was detected, she’d find that road eventually anyways.
The pilot turned away from the magnificent view below and focused her attention on the elevated foyer that lead into the High Council’s convocation chamber. Hulking Sangheili warriors in the elaborate red and orange armor of the Hierarchs’ Honor Guard flanked the triumphal path, and packs of elite, heavily armored soldiers patrolled ancillary balconies and gravity lift pads. The holy court was in session.
Since attaching her to his personal staff, which had been completed depopulated during the engagement around the human world, and transferring to High Charity from the August Judgment more than two days previously, Teno ‘Falanamee had been within the hallowed halls of the High Prophets almost constantly. With him were the most renown warriors from every sector of the Covenant; the Prophets had been quick to assemble the cream of the Armada in the face of the new threat.
They were afraid, ‘Mefasee comprehended suddenly. The Prophets were actually afraid. Somehow, the realization disturbed her more than anything she had heard from the Supreme Commander.
-------------------------------------------------------
“I come with news, high ones.”
Debate within the council chambers quieted. Seated in ranks upon the terraced rises that lined each side of the hall, Sangheili on one and Prophets on the other, dozens of immaculately dressed councilors inspected the lone red-armored major as he made his way up the central concourse, careful to keep his head lowered in supplication. A crowd of esteemed warriors parted for the soldier, grateful for a pause in the tedious debate that had consumed the grand chamber before his arrival. The major did his best to resist honoring each of them as he passed; there were a few in attendance who demanded recognition even before the Fleet Masters, Blessed Zealots, and Supreme Commanders.
At last, the soldier mounted the low speaking dais near the head of the vaulted chamber and dropped to his knees, touching armored helm against the polished floor.
Before him, positioned in a raised arena that was somewhat removed from the rest of the room, were seated the three most powerful beings in the known universe. They were the Hierarchs, ordained by the gods themselves to deliver the message of the sacred prophesies onto the beings of the galaxy. They ruled their race, and half dozen others, with honeyed words, inspiring sermons, and merciless judgments. They were the Supreme Triad. The High Prophets.
The three regarded the Sangheili soldier before them a moment before speaking. Then one, seated upon an elegant and deviously armed levitating throne like his cohorts, floated forward a fraction, causing the gilding of his pointed crown and wing-like epaulets to glimmer in the ghostly illumination that pervaded the room. He raised one willowy hand and made a lazy sweeping gesture. This was the Prophet of Regret.
“You may continue.”
The major rose. “Excellencies, elements from the fleet of Immaculate Foresight have arrived in orbit. Their commander reports that his force has just received word that the staging yards of his fleet around Distant Morning have been attacked and their defensive forces routed. He intends to gather what ships remain at his disposal and retake the system.”
A murmur echoed through the assembly. Distant Morning was a jumping-off point for engagements throughout most of human space. It boasted three large and heavily armed docking facilities, and a perimeter fleet of at least a dozen capital ships.
One of the other Hierarchs moved forward. “Was the composition of the invading force relayed?” This was the Prophet of Mercy, an ancient even among his long-lived brethren. His bulbous head drooped upon its long neck and his skin was pale and flaky, but within his large eyes burned a passion and zeal undiminished by age.
“The telemetry of an observer drone that was positioned within the system indicates a group of three of the enemy’s blade-ships, Excellency. The device recorded well into the engagement with the vanguard fleet before it was ordered away. Of the fourteen cruisers and carriers that were stationed there, only five remained as of last contact. No enemy casualties were detected.”
Another murmur.
The major did his best to remain calm as the rulers around him became increasingly agitated. “The commander of Immaculate Foresight has rallied a full battle group about his battleship and has vowed to lay the intruders low for their infractions against the Holy Covenant.”
“Tell the commander to hold,” a reedy voice commanded, silencing all whispered conversations. The final member of the triad moved forward, fixing the Sangheili firmly in his piercing gaze. This was the Prophet of Truth, highest of the high. Though Mercy might have been more pious and Regret more aggressive, Truth was the unspoken leader of the three. His sheer force of will was unequalled, and his judgments were rarely challenged.
“We cannot afford to divide our forces until a stratagem has been devised for combating these invaders. I will not allow an entire battle group to destroy itself blindly for a system that is already lost. The commander will consolidate his forces here, and await further instructions.”
Once he was sure that the High prophet had finished relaying his order, the major supplicated himself once more and then moved from the chamber with all the speed that dignity allowed. Truth’s edict was time-sensitive, and the major knew all to well what would happen to him if the message arrived after the fleet master had already departed.
It did not take long for the suspended debate to renew after the messenger had left.
“Forgive my presumption, Excellency, but we must go on the offensive eventually. We cannot allow the warriors who fell during the incursion at the cleansed human fortress planet go unavenged, or stand idle as these attackers lay siege to our worlds.” The speaker was Xytan ‘Jar Wattinree, Admiral of the Holy Covenant Empire and Regent Command of the Combined Fleet of Righteous Purpose. He stood head and shoulders above the other officers who were assembled in the hall, and practically radiated physical strength and martial ability. “Their weapons are powerful, but we are more numerous, and our warriors will not submit to their assault. No foe has been able to withstand the might of the Covenant in our history, and this threat shall be crushed like all the others. The blessing of the gods flows through your words, and their strength flows through the Sangheili. We cannot lose if only we stand.”
Agreement rippled through his fellow soldiers and the Sangheili councilors, but not all of them seemed convinced.
“We have not yet established where these vessels have come from, or what their intent is,” an elder Ship Master near the back of the crowd put in. “Their technology is like that of the ancients. Perhaps they are their emissaries. We should at least attempt to establish communications with them. If even the slightest possibility exists that they have been sent by the Forerunners…”
“Why would emissaries of the gods devastate our fleets and set fire to our worlds?” another Ship Master demanded angrily.
The elder glared at the other. “The Flood are creations of the ancients, are they not? The hand of the Forerunners is not always gentle one. Perhaps this is another test.”
Several Sangheili growled at the mention of the insidious parasites. Though inspection of certain Forerunner artifacts had unleashed outbreaks of the adaptive, intelligent pestilence, many could not believe that the Forerunners could have created such a sickness. The debate had little bearing on the trial that faced them all now, but the meeting had revealed more and more that dispute was rife throughout the Covenant leadership, even within the ranks of the Sangheili themselves.
The chamber began to devolve into a shouting match. Councilors screamed at one another across the aisle. Warriors found their hands searching for weapons. From the shadows, Jiralhanae guards and chieftains looked on in silence, relishing the discord.
“Enough!” Truth’s voice boomed forth once again, and quiet descended immediately. None dared defy the High Prophet, least of all when his orders were tinged with anger.
“I will hear no more talk of this threat being thrust upon us by the gods. Such banter is heresy. These vessels come not from the heavenly plane, but from the bosom of an enemy we know all too well.”
He tapped a control on his metallic armrest, and the center of the chamber shimmered to life with a large bubble of holographic light.
“This message was transmitted to one of the vessels that attempted to reinforce our armada when it was first beset by the intruders.”
The swirling vortex of light rapidly resolved into a 2D screen, modified by the holographic projector so that it could be seen clearly from every corner of the room. Tinged slightly be bluish static, the face of a human in flimsy, dark raiment appeared, and it began to speak, filling the council chamber with unintelligible words. Sounds of apprehension and dismay emanated from the ranks of the both the Prophets and Sangheili.
“The tongue the creature speaks is not like that used by others of their species, and our translation Oracles have not yet been able to decipher the meaning of the message, but it is plain that the being is a human. The ship that received and retransmitted this signal was able to verify that it did indeed come from one of the blade-ships before it attacked the intruders and was destroyed.”
For a few moments, no one in the assembly was able to respond to the revelation. The very idea that accursed humanity could harness technology that surpassed that of the Covenant had once been an unthinkable notion; how could this have changed so swiftly? Certainly, the vermin were adaptive and stubborn, but could they have really co-opted and improved weaponry stolen from the holy empire to such an extent? They had endowed some of their warriors, the hated, green-armored Demons, with thieved strength, but constructing a fleet of warships so vastly improved was an entirely dissimilar feat. Had they discovered and plundered a Forerunner relic of unprecedented power? Could the entire war have been a bizarre rouse, with the humans only now showing their true power?
“Why have you only showed us this now, High Prophet?” a voice questioned from the thick of the Sangheili warriors. Several parted to reveal a gold-helmed Fleet Master staring at the Hierarchs intently. “Surely this message did not just reach your notice. It was been days since our defeat at the human fortress world. Such intelligence is relevant to the matter we now discuss, is it not?”
Truth stared at the warrior coolly for a breath without responding, but he did not betray any outward signs of emotion. “My brothers and I required time to consult the holy texts and see if they spoke of the humans’ involvement in this threat. It would have been imprudent to rashly bring this to public notice before its ramifications could be studied.”
“And what did the texts say, Excellency?” the Ship Master pressed. A new wave of whispers washed over the crowd; such frank questioning of a Prophet’s motives, much less the motives of one of the Hierarchs themselves, was almost unheard of.
“There is no specific mention of the creatures that drive the war machines,” Truth replied without pausing, and then turned his attention to the rest of the assembly, raising his graceful hands to draw their notice. “Our original interpretation of the holy texts, as High Prophet Mercy’s sermon at the dawning of this invasion related, held firm. All that is stated within them is that a dark cloud will vie to consume our Holy Covenant, and that we shall rally together as in ancient strife to overcome it. Then nothing will stand in the way of our sacred duty to cleanse the galaxy until the impending arrival of the Great Journey. Our victory is preordained in this trial, and all we need do is find the right path to salvation. The gods have blessed our crusade.”
The High prophet’s keen, orb-like eyes drifted back onto the questioning warrior. “And truly, honored Fleet Master, what does it matter who we fight now? The remains of their warships will be cast into the depths of space and their homeworlds burned for their crimes against us, regardless of what beings inhabit them. If the threat and the human infestation are one in the same, then our task is all the more glorious. I presume this revelation does not diminish your desire for revenge against those who surprised and annihilated your fleet. You still wish a new command to hunt down the heretical invaders, I hope? You, like all the commanders here, are far too valued an instrument to be dulled by doubt.”
All eyes turned once again to the Fleet Master. Some had only now realized that the speaker was the former commander and sole survivor of the Ascendant Justice, mighty flagship of the fleet of Particular Justice. Rumors of his valiant defense of the Prophet who had been the first target of the new enemy and miraculous survival of the engagement, some said by divine intervention, had only increased the acclaim that the esteemed Sangheili held amongst his kin. Few were still surprised at the audacity of the display now.
For all his will, however, the warrior seemed to still know his place. “You speak with wisdom, High Prophet. I meant no disrespect by my inquiry.”
Truth’s thin lips drew back into a tight smile. “Of course not. Only simple soldiers follow orders mindlessly. It is the job of leaders to think and question, so as to better serve the great crusade to the fullest of their ability.”
The High Prophet waved his hand and the hologram above evaporated. He then directed a subtle nod at Regret, who came forward again.
“My bothers and I must consider all that has been said today, as must you all. We shall resume this session in half a unit, at which time the method of the invader’s absolute destruction will be determined.”
---------------------------------------------------
The great council chambers stood almost empty. Councilors had long since made their way back to the great city below and the Sangheili commanders shuttled back to their waiting ships. Even Regret and Mercy had retired to their private quarters, leaving only Truth in the hallowed space. Brushing the fleshy protrusions of his chin pensively, he sat in silence, reflecting upon the projection of a great, floating ring, similar to one that adorned the face of his crown. Its perimeter danced with flickering Forerunner hieroglyphics, and his great eyes followed each text strand with rapt fascination, as if he could see more in them that simple geometric shapes and symbols.
Deep, guttural breath abruptly sounded from behind the Prophet’s hovering throne, and Truth dismissed the holographic ring with a flick of his wrist, then turned to face the new arrival.
Before him kneeled Tartarus, chieftain of all Jiralhanae clans. Massive for even those of his mighty species, the creature’s slivery-white coat covered muscles and battle scars that might have given a titanic Lekgolo pause. Rather than a crimson plasma rifle or bladed grenade launcher, the favored weapons of the Jiralhanae shock trooper, the chieftain clutched in one fist the legendary Fist of Rukt, a crackling, electromagnetic battle hammer nearly as tall as he. Tartarus shunned any form of armor or personal shielding, and rather than a metal helm, a prominent mohawk of white hair dominated his scalp.
Truth admired his impressive servant for a moment. The hulking brute could best half a dozen skilled Sangheili warriors in close combat at once. Behind his bloodshot eyes simmered a savage intellect comparable with some of the finest tactical minds in the Covenant armada. He commanded uncounted legions of the best soldiers in the galaxy. Best of all, though, the Jiralhanae was absolutely loyal.
“Rise, Tartarus, and come forward. I have a task for you.”
The beast reassumed his full, impressive height and stalked forward, planting the handle of his mighty weapon against the polished deck and staring into his master’s eyes with supreme focus. Most Prophets found the Jiralhanae custom unnerving, but the High Prophet had grown to appreciate it. Only a creature that could look upon him with such bald openness could truly be trusted.
“You know of the Fleet Master Teno ‘Falanamee?”
Tartarus gave a sign of recognition.
“I want you to watch him. Send your most trusted agents to observe his actions, and record all he does outside of this chamber. A great struggle is coming, and I cannot have dissent splitting our ranks. Not yet.”
“I shall do as you command.”
The ghost of a smile passed over Truth’s visage. “I detect doubt in your words.”
Tartarus did not blanch at the suggestion, and his stare remained resolute. “Why not have me kill the Sangheili now? If he is a threat to your designs, he should not be allowed to live.”
“He yet has a purpose to serve. In any event, he is too prominent and renowned to slay openly. His disposal will have to be more… subtle.” The Prophet nodded to himself slowly. “Rest assured, Tartarus, I will not any being disrupt the genesis of a new Covenant and the continuation of our holy quest. If you wish it, when the time comes, you will be the one to take this commander’s life.”
Tartarus bore his sharpened tusks in satisfaction. “He will be a great challenge.”
Truth looked into the Jiralhanae’s eyes a moment longer, and then began to turn his throne away, making a dismissive gesture. “Go now. I must meet with the master of the August Judgment. Evidently, he wishes to speak with me of our friend Fleet Master, and his words may hold some value.”
Silently, Tartarus offered a nod of supplication and stalked out of the burnished chamber, his brutal features fixed with primal focus.
Servant of Count Boobu
Posts: 432
(1/2/07 1:37 pm) Reply
Re: The Rift Saga
I have decided, in light of recent events, to halt the posting of The Rift on this site. If there are still members who read the fic, you are welcome to continue to do so here. If you wish to comment on my writings, feel free to start an account at Stardestroyer.net (or at Fanfiction.net, where my story is also hosted); I'm afraid I won't be coming around here very much anymore.
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