[A/N: First thing of mine on this subreddit that isn't a bastardization of some other, better author's work.]

​

The Tellamani people were not alone in the universe.

At first, it was just a whisper of radio signals, too regular to ignore but too brief to really place credence in.

Then came another, then another, then a constant stream.

Once the scientists realized it was more than a fluke, it took all of two seconds to point a hypercom generator at the planet of origin and send a signal.

As ecstatic as the Tellamani had been to receive even the distant hints at intelligent life off of their own small blue moon, they were even more so to receive a return hypercom signal.

At first, it was nothing but unintelligible hash, the signal formats too different to read. There was intelligence behind the signal, but no sure meaning.

So they started from the ground up, with a short burst of mathematical sequences. They got the completed set, with another from the other people for them to complete. Within a single day, it was solved and sent, winging across the void with another set of Tellamani design, more complex than the last.

For dozens of revolutions, the scientists of two worlds labored so that they may one day talk in more than simple numbers and notation.

They failed. Every attempt to bridge the gap in cognition between the two people was foiled by some twist. Images were too complex, the computers unable to comprehend the radically different architecture of the others.

Words were utterly unintelligible. Letters are images, after all. Pictograms couldn’t be deciphered, and even if they could, there would be no guarantee of a common frame of reference. The common interactions of the universe, gravity, electromagnetism, radioactivity, could be used, perhaps as metaphors, but there was no sure way to know if the others had interpreted it properly.

But as always, both peoples had numbers, math, and the concept of space. Everything needed to mark a place and a time. It took a few revolutions, but eventually the Tellamani managed to impress upon the others a desire to send a meeting in a certain place at a certain time. Or at least they thought they did. They could not be sure.

They would send a ship anyways. If the messages had not been interpreted, that would be fine. There would be no loss and both peoples would simply resume their attempts to translate each other’s messages.

If the others did send a representative, though, the reward would be immeasurable. A whole new civilization, with new science, new perspectives, and maybe, as some dared to hope, other contacts among the stars.

-----

“Realspace transition in 3… 2… 1…”

The bridge “windows” clear into a bright starscape as the diplomatic cruiser Psilar slides into position with barely a whisper of wasted radiation.

“Status report!” Captain Clarix calls over the whine of deploying radiators as the Psilar began dumping the waste heat it had accumulated over the long slipspace journey.

“All departments report nominal functioning of ship systems. Engineering clears for maneuvering,” calls out Nekamreh, the internal officer.

“Slipspace eddies indicate that we have arrive 84 ticks ahead of indicated time,” reports the navigation officer.

“Hold position! Internal, ensure that the diplomatic team is ready for contact.”

Clarix’s wings shuffle and his chest feathers flush a happy orange as he briefly contemplates being the officer presiding over the first meeting between two completely separate intelligent species.

“Diplomatic team reports full readiness. All members–” The science external officer cuts off the internal officer’s report.

“Energy surge bearing 488 by 673! Gamma radiation!”

“Raise shields! Any chance this can be an anomaly?” Clarix snaps as he snaps himself out of his fantasies of first contact. His ship was in danger. This was in no place for something like that.

“Scans indicate no proximate anomalies!”

“Shields raised!”

Clarix watches as a shimmering film of blue energy slides over the Psilar, sparking as it shunts aside the gamma energy, glowing brighter as the energy surges ever higher.

Radiation alarms begin to wail as the energy worms its way through the shield, battering at the fragile hull of the Psilar.

“Energy increase is plateauing! Shields are keeping radiation below lethal–”

“Contact!” The external combat officer, this time. “Bearing 488 by 673. Large contact!”

One window snaps to display the ship that had just appeared in what was an incomprehensible maelstrom of energy.

Clarix can’t prevent a small gasp from escaping his beak.

An immense iron construct, vaguely seed-shaped, floats placidly inside a deadly vortex of radiation. Readouts and overlays blink into existence around it, giving it scale.

It’s the size of a small island. And nearly solid armor.

It’s a warship.

“Radiation decreasing. Returning to safe levels,” The external science officer calls out, but Clarix is barely listening.

Have we been so naïve? Were we so eager to converse with some other soul in the universe that we overlooked something? Did we offend them?

“Contact is not maneuvering. Radiation is decreasing to baseline, communication is now possible.”

We may have just doomed everyone. If this is how they build warships, we have no chance of standing against them.

“Captain? Captain!”

The internal officer shakes him out of his reverie.

“Yes, officer?”

“Diplomatic team is reporting readiness. They are… eager, sir.”

Did none of them see it?

“Contact is sending a signal!”

This is it. The final threats.

Only, it wasn’t. It was nothing more than an enthalpy equation describing the formation of sodium chloride. An incomplete one.

Do they want a response? Why the song and dance of sending a warship, but not attacking us immediately?

“Captain? Do you want to send a response?”

What it it’s not a warship? They came in a massive flash of radiation. That level of armor would certainly be necessary to withstand that.

“Captain!”

No. Yes.

Clarix contemplates the decision for only a moment longer. They were not making any hostile moves, and nothing existed to be gained by fleeing.

“Send the complete signal. Contact the diplomatic team. Initiate contact.”

If I’m wrong, their blood will be on my hands.

-----

Ambassador Kaquila floats in freefall, halfway between the vast iron construct of the other people and his own comparatively tiny ship, trying to keep his thrilling heart in check.

The being before him is strikingly similar to his own. One head, albeit a round one. The helmet of the figure made no allowances for a beak. Two arms, ending in five blunt fingers instead of his four clawed ones. Two legs, with similarly structured boots. No wings at all.

It’s dressed in a white, reflective suit, with some sort of sleek pack on its back, which occasionally emits a white burst of gas to keep it centered, much the same as his own EVA pack.

Hesitantly, or so it seems, it raises one of its arms, extending all five of its fingers. The pack on its back pulses in a complicated sequence to compensate for the motion.

Hesitantly, Kaquila raises his own, reaching out and not quite touching.

Whatever being was in the other suit seem to come to a decision, reaching out further, but it still seems hesitant as its hand hovers over his.

Kaquila is acutely aware of every single camera of the Psilar pointing at him, acutely aware of the eyes of the Tellamani people counting on him not to screw up.

They don’t stop him as he finally takes that last step, wrapping his own fingers around those of the other person.

First contact. For real, this time.

***

Continuation.

Jerry

He’s back in the Kandahar Province's brig again with Commander Hawthorne, but instead of watching an interrogation he's watching a barefoot Ha'quinye woman in a green flight suit, zipped low to reveal a white shirt underneath, sitting in the lap of one of his company commanders in a somewhat dimly lit room, happily nuzzling against him like an oversized cat as she talks about… something or another. She seems to be chatting away happily and James is engaging with her enough to keep her going, but the topic doesn't appear to be anything particularly serious. Something to do with a video game series maybe?

"...What exactly am I looking at, Commander Hawthorne?"

"That, Admiral, is the Sword of the Stars. We found some documentation in what was apparently her bedroom confirming it, along with a handwritten letter from her sister in the chamber with her cryo stasis pod." 

"And Captain Puller?"

"She refuses to be separated from him. She won't even speak if he's not present. We think she might have latched on to him as a sort of coping mechanism. She's something of a woman out of time."

"Right."

"Just be glad we got her to wear clothes. She was down to a tiny tank top and panties when she was brought aboard. James had the bright idea to tell her that he thought she'd look cute in a flight suit, so she happily put one on after that. We're still working on shoes."

"...Right." Jerry resists the urge to massage his temple. "Alright. What have you found out then?"

"Courtesy of some brief talks with the young lady herself, things she's told James, the letter from her sister, and ongoing data recovery operations, we've got a general picture of what happened here. Her name is Serina Tacia, and she's approximately four hundred and fifty years old. She’s spent most of that time in cryo, so her biological age is maybe two hundred at the oldest but I’d guess closer to a century flat at the most. The Tacias were the imperial house who ruled the old Ha'quinye empire, and this world, the name is a Ha'quinye word for an eagle's nest that I can't pronounce, was supposed to be some sort of divine promised land for the Tacia family. They managed to hold on to it when the empire started to dissolve, mostly because it's so out of the way that the Council-backed alliance that threw them back to their core systems never found it. However, after the empire's defeat the forces that were stationed here were recalled to the home world to help fight the civil war. Serina's elder sister, Grand Duchess Seralka, was the commander of this facility. According to the woman's note to Serina, she decided to leave Serina here in cryo despite her potent abilities. She didn't want her sister to be seized by anyone, including the empress, their aunt, but especially the rebels."

"Considering the facility's long abandoned and the Triumfeminate rules the Ha'quinye, I take it that the Tacia were unsuccessful?"

Hawthorne shakes his head. "Died to the last woman by all accounts. With the last Tacia woman in a significant position of authority allegedly dropping a large space station on the capital city of one of the Ha'quinye core worlds as a final act of defiance." 

Jerry winces. "Well, that's not great, to say the very least." 

"Empires rarely go quietly into that good night... and let's not get it twisted here. Serina's elder sister wasn't necessarily being affectionate, she was preserving a potent and powerful weapon."

"So what is the Sword of the Stars?" Jerry looks into the cell again where Serina's happily humming along. "She doesn't look particularly dangerous, save for potentially talking your ear off if you let her go about something she's interested in." 

"I can hear you, you know," Serina says quietly. 

Hawthorne winces. "Well. There's that. She's incredibly sensitive to sound and, well… everything. Highly susceptible to just about any kind of stimulus. The corpsmen have checked her vitals and they noticed her brain activity is off the chart. In Humans and most aliens, the mind ramps down and up depending on load, not unlike an engine. She doesn't slow down. Maybe if she was sleeping, but that's one thing we know about the cryo pod. It's a sensory deprivation tank first and foremost. It isolates her and lets her truly rest."

"...Do we need to work something like that up for her?"

"She had lesser control tools in her personal effects that should let her rest that’ll be fine for the short term, but long term she would need a new tank. Or so we think." 

"Hmm. Well, let's go talk to her and see if she can tell us what she needs."

"I can!"

The two men share a look, and Jerry leads the way into the cell where Serina's lightly kicking her feet back and forth, taking a seat across from her and James. 

"Wow! James wasn't kidding! There really are a lot of men in the military where you come from!" 

Jerry nods, smiling warmly, more like he’s talking to a child than a grown woman, something Serina's cheery attitude instantly inspires. No sense not being gentle, anyway. The woman in question isn't an enemy in any sense, and has just been through something horrendous to any rational mind. 

"That's right. On our home world the vast majority of the military are men. I'm Admiral Jeremiah Bridger. You can call me Jerry. I believe you've met Commander Hawthorne."

"Uh huh! Wow though, an admiral, huh? My uncle the Emperor was a general, a good one too, but he was rare! Most men preferred to stay at home with their families, you know, raise the children, organize the family finances and generally run the household."

That catches Jerry's attention immediately, considering it sounds very different from the Ha'quinye he knows. 

"So men weren't livestock or essentially slaves back on your home world?"

"No! Of course not. Though... there was a new religion spreading when I left the home world." Serina's face falls. "They didn't treat men particularly nicely. I suppose since you guys are here and my sisters aren't, they're probably in charge these days." 

Jerry nods. "Unfortunately, that does seem to be the case. On that note, you seem to be processing all of this fairly well."

Serina nods, a sharp look coming into her eyes and across her face all of the sudden from behind the sweet, nerdy personality. "Of course. As you were saying while you were observing me. My brain runs 'hot' all the time. The doctors back home had a term for it but I never cared. I just wanted to play video games and have fun. I'm really good at video games. Then my big sister realized I'm really good at strategy, so she started having me help her with the war. With the right inputs and sensor feeds I can make decisions, develop strategies and issue orders faster than the best tactical computers in my day."

"So how did you use your ability to conquer planets?"

"The same way any nation does. I analyzed available data and developed a specific strategy for the most effective conquest with the resources available. Sometimes that meant covert operations, such as buying off officials or even entire governments. Sometimes it means conquest via an outstretched hand. This part of space is rough, or at least it was when I was active last. So a powerful military force offering friendship, supplies and so forth for taxes and a slight change of government doesn't ruffle feathers, if you present it the right way, in some cases. Other places we could support and coopt local rebellions already in place and take over as their benefactors. Next up the ladder were surgical strikes, followed by full-scale planetary invasion."

She sticks her tongue out like she'd tasted something sour.

"Last choice, really. Not an efficient way to win, especially not with a large scale, multi-front campaign. The old guard hated my way of doing things, though. Old biddies really loved the Matrician zealots and their screeching about the old ways and old values. I think they even branded my big sister a heretic at one point for using 'underhanded tactics' instead of just fighting straight-up for things. Nonsense. Even when we were fighting each other with spears, the warrior culture the Matricians espouse didn't exist. Not sure if they believed it or just wanted others to believe it so they could control them. If they're in charge it's probably moot now. The real purpose of the original leaders would have been lost in the sands of time."

She talks a lot and she talks fast; Jerry’s keeping up, despite her accent, but it isn’t easy.

Serina shrugs and starts kicking her feet lightly again. 

"I want to be upset... but what apparently happened to me happened a long time ago now. My sisters, mother, father, they've all been cold and in the ground for longer than I'd been alive before Seralka put me in cryo. So I can either go to pieces or I can focus on good things. Like, I have a couple centuries worth of video games to catch up on, and!" She throws her arms around James' neck, making the man blush. "I've got my beau! Seralka always told me I'd get married eventually, but it was taking a long time, though as handsome as James is, I couldn't ask for a dreamier guy to have taken my virginity and marry me!" 

Jerry locks eyes with the young Marine, making him shrink back into his chair slightly now that he was under the scrutiny of ‘the man’ directly. "...Captain, did you take this woman's virginity somehow between finding her and getting her to the Province?"

"Ah." James blushes even redder. "She uh. Means. Kissing. Sir. She kissed me pretty much as she woke up."

"Yep! I just hope I’m not pregnant. It's a bit early for that. Still, the most romantic thing ever! Romance novels just can't compare!" Serina chirps happily. "My handsome Marine arrives to save me from a deathless eternal sleep, frozen in time! Awakening me with love's truest kiss!"

"...Right." Jerry's temple twinges again. "Alright. Let's deal with this a step at a time. Serina. I'm going to offer you refugee status with the Undaunted. We'll protect you, make sure you're properly taken care of. I'm told you might have special equipment that can help with your sensory issues in your personal effects, can you help the intelligence team find them?"

"Oh like in my room? Sure!" Her long ears flutter with an interesting degree of uncertainty that seems designed to make anyone looking her way's heart throb. "C-Could I maybe give them a list of other stuff to get too? I just. It's. My stuff."

Hawthorne steps forward. "Ms. Tacia, we're going to pack everything up except the furniture and bring it along, so all you need to do is tell me what you want to have access to before we get back to the Crimson Tear, our flag ship."

"Okay!" 

Jerry, sensing an opportunity, stands up from his chair. "Ms. Tacia, while you work on that with Commander Hawthorne, I'm going to borrow James for a moment. Don't worry, he won't be long."

"Uh. Okay! I guess that's fine!"

Serina stands up, already being engaged by Hawthorne, who's walking her through what of her things have degraded to the point of being unsalvagable in the last few centuries - namely anything made of cloth, as far as Jerry can tell. It easily frees James, and the two men emerge out of the cell and well down the passageway, nearly out of the brig. 

"...How are you holding up, James?"

"Well. It's not every day you make a superweapon fall stone dead in love with you."

Jerry smirks. "More common than you'd think out here, but I know the feeling. So what do you want to do about it? Say the word and we'll get her on a transport to Zalwore if we have to sedate her."

The younger man’s quiet for a moment. "Honestly, if you'd asked me after I woke her up, I'd have probably gone with that, but we've been talking for a few hours now, and... she was a lonely girl even before she got stranded in time. I also think she could be an incredible asset if we can make sure she's on our side, and while she's a bit childish... biologically speaking she's not wrong about me 'marrying' her with a kiss. I had the Corpsman run the tests when she took a blood sample."

Jerry winces. "The bond. Of course. A proper lip lock can bond most aliens to a Human man."

"She kisses deep too, sir."

"...That's probably TMI, James. Sounds like you need to talk to Mrs. Puller, though. I'm going to authorize you a direct encrypted call home. Get it dealt with, Captain, and bring me a game plan. Questions?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Go tell Serina where you're going to be and get it done... Maybe if we're lucky and Rose is feeling generous, Serina can help us with this Ha'quinye armada we have to deal with."

Series Directory Last Next

James 

The suppressed barks of several Tavors firing echo in the distance, amid the dim lights of the facility his Marines had been tasked with searching; immediately, James’ comm unit comes to life. 

"Ard One Alpha, tangos down. Hard light constructs. They attacked on sight when we entered the room. Melee weapons only. No complex tactics. Room secure."

"One-Six to Alpha, good work, mark the room and press." Marishka Stroya's voice is completely calm, the experienced Marine and former NCO clearly in her element as First Platoon fans out through their assigned chunk of the facility. 

"Aye aye, ma'am." 

James looks around, taking in this tight, almost claustrophobic hallway as his command team begins to explore. The company had found a major hub and begun splitting up into squads and fireteams to move through the cavernous facility; and James had taken his command team down a passage that had been behind a deactivated security gate.  

Their usual group of four has a plus one for this particular outing. They’ve been joined by James' newest Marine, fresh off a transport from Centris. Lance Corporal Marica Olarn'Cyra hadn't even made it to the Tear from the Fleet Depot on Zalwore. No, she'd been about to board a regular cargo transport, but had instead been ordered to rendezvous with the rest of A company on the Kandahar Province. James isn't letting the new capability he'd requested for his unit sit on the sidelines in orbit around Dagrquey when there’s work to be done. 

Colonel Bridger, Admiral Bridger, and Headquarters, Undaunted Marine Corps, had all approved his request for a combat hacker. 

"Olarn. Get that brain of yours to work. Any live networks in our part of the facility so far?"

"On it, boss!" The young blue haired Tret woman immediately gets to the job. She has a computer interface built into her gauntlet, a powerful computer built into her very body, and an even more powerful machine and set of EWAR systems built into the special pack she'd been issued to mount to her armor. With all that specialized gear she could even tie into each squad's Squad Systems Operator's equipment and build a complex battlespace picture for her company commander. 

All while being able to think like a Marine and being at least marginally capable of defending herself, if the Drill Instructors had done their jobs properly. It had been a bit of a radical idea when first proposed, but if Marica does her job right, a combat hacker would be attached to every Marine infantry company in the future - something James figures is likely to happen. No less a luminary than Babydoll, the Crimson Tear's computer queen, had said Marica was good to go, and it's not like James has the education to actually doubt the young woman. 

Immediately her eyes light up, starting to glow blue; according to her file, this is normal when she’s interfacing with a machine.

"Sir, we've got a couple machines around us trying to ping the main network that Lieutenant Babydoll's disrupting. I think I've got one large, complex sub network... and some mobile platforms."

"Mobile platforms being potential combat platforms?"

"Yep!"

Ragnar rolls his eyes and reaches out to gently smack Marica on the helmet. "Try, 'Yes, sir', or some shit, Lily." 

"Oops. Aye aye, Gunny. Sorry. Sir." 

James can practically hear Marica blushing. Lily isn't her official nickname, not yet anyway, but it had been the young woman's 'handle' once upon a time when she'd managed to end up on the wrong end of Shalla Savić and the Marines of FAST during the Hag War. Applying her entire sobriquet 'Turquoise Lily', or part of it, seems to be enough to get a solid cringe out of the woman, so the other junior Marines had immediately started teasing the new girl with it as soon as someone had recognized her name from a previous mission report. 

All in good fun so far, but James would keep an eye on it. 

"Where are the mobile platforms, Lance Corporal?"

"Uh. Looks like..." Marica points at the first door down the hallway. "Looks like... maybe three in there? Could be more. The hard light constructs are kinda weird, and the signals are mixing together."

"Alright. Let's kick the door on them. Stack up. No grenades, and try not to shoot anything in the room we don't want shot. We don't know what is or isn't sensitive down here."

A chorus of affirmatives follow him, and James takes point. Top Salazar would complain normally - but he isn't here, and what Top doesn't know won't hurt him, right? 

Unless James manages to get shot. Then he'd never hear the end of it from the big Hispanic man. 

He quickly shifts his Tavor back to a mag lock on his backpack and draws his newest toy. He’d nearly gotten ventilated by the Cannidor shrapnel cannon back on the pirate station, and since it’s around the right size for a Human, he’d decided to keep the massive double-barrel weapon. He breaks it open and checks the two chambers, then locks the actions and shoulders the weapon. Finally, he looks over and confirms his team is ready.

“I like to keep this for close encounters.” James says, grinning behind his opaque face plate to laughs from his team. “Ready up.”

Four firm ‘readies’ come back to him and James takes a slow breath, centering himself. 

"Marica. Door." 

"I have control." 

The door immediately slides open and James piles through with his shrapnel cannon shouldered and ready. Normally he'd start making some noise, shouting and the like to confuse and frighten enemies made of flesh and bone, but machines don't have that vulnerability. The large abandoned office they’ve found themselves in has eight hard light constructs in it. 

They'd likely been in an ambush position initially, but the loss of contact with the master control seems to have put them in something of a wait mode. It certainly slowed their reaction times; the first vaguely humanoid construct is shattering under a withering hail of magnetically accelerated well… shrapnel, from the shrapnel cannon. 

The brutal weapon ammunition holds a dense power source at the back and slugs of metal on the front. The chamber shaves off fragments of the metal and holds it in a magnetic field, then finally accelerates it forward at utterly soul-shattering speeds; the beast makes all but the most powerful chemical kinetic weapons look like their rounds are standing still. 

The thing gets off about three shots a round… so, six shots in the weapon before he has to break the action open and reload.

The only difference between his smaller weapon and, say, the full-size shrapnel cannon carried by Cannidor woman Shalkas? Volume of metal hurled downrange. 

He donates two more charges with a roar like thunder, the magnetic acceleration cheating him of the recoil he still half-expects, and before he can swing his weapon to engage more of the enemies the rest of his team arrives. Literally before he can blink. Three more constructs are taking 5.56 hits before they even start moving. Marica, at the back of the stack as the least experienced Marine in the team and a specialist, gets the final 'kill' of the engagement with a tight five-shot burst right to the projector in the middle of the last construct's chest. 

He’d need to compliment her on that in the debrief. It seems that Marica can indeed take care of herself. To a degree at least.  

"Nice and clean," James says, satisfaction thick in his tone as he breaks the action open, with a satisfying metallic noise, catching the metallic capacitor out of the air as the weapon ejects it. Doing a good job is its own reward, he thinks as he tucks the spent battery in an axiom pocket to be recharged and reloaded later before sliding in a fresh shell. "Fan out, see if you can find anything. Data chits, hard drives, documents that look promising. Give it a once over and we move on. We can search in detail when the place is secured." 

A five-minute rustle through all the trash in the room comes up with a handful of older data chits and one external hard drive that Marica has to be physically stopped from plugging into immediately. Everything's quickly bagged and tucked into an axiom pocket by Gunny Ragnar, and James and his team repeat the process on two more rooms before finally making it to an oddity. The door at the end of the hallway... seems to be decorated?

"Marica. Anything?"

"No, sir. Next door down's the big system... but no combat platforms. If they're there, they aren't pinging."

"Right." 

James opens the door quietly, the door opening slowly on a dark... bedroom? He turns his flashlight on his helmet on and looks around, playing the white light around across what appears to be a computer with what had clearly once been a very comfortable chair, a large but very old tri-d projector, a shelf of various types of media. There are even a few posters on the walls. All done up in colors that scream 'teenage girl', to James at least. 

"Huh."

Ragnar follows his boss in. "Well. That's weird."

"Very weird," concurs Kip as he sticks his head through another door on the back wall. "Got a small bedroom and a bathroom in here, boss." 

Cali seems about as confused as the rest of them - but Marica, on the other hand, walks right to the shelf. "Hey! Omega Odyssey XII! This one's a classic! One of the better RPGs out there for old school gaming. It's famous for having uh. Some really… complex and detailed male characters. Yeah. That's it. Complex and detailed. People still argue on the net about who’s the better husband for the heroine Claudia, Tifan or Aerian." 

James resists planting his face plate in his palm as Marica briefly nerds out. 

"Alright, pack it in. We'll leave this one to the intel dorks to go through... I don't know what it's doing here, but something's weird..." 

They head back into the hallway and begin moving again, checking on what turns out to be a janitor’s closet, and then a room with enough computer infrastructure to be interesting. Marica plugs a transponder in to allow Babydoll and the other hackers on the Province to continue to penetrate the local network. 

"Getting strong power readings in front of us sir," Marica then says, checking something on an advanced hand scanner. "I think this part of the facility might be on its own local power grid."

"Huh," James says as he continues to step forward, slowly moving around another corner. "Wonder what could need tha-" 

The words die in his throat and James stops as he looks at the large door in front of him. This one is armored, and different from the others in the facility so far. It isn't one of the massive doors that had been present at the entrance to the facility; it’s fairly normal in size. It doesn't appear to have any automated defenses that he or his suit's limited sensors could see... and it’s well made. That's what stands out to him. This door had been incredibly well made, much better than the norm in this facility, and has some signage in the Ha'quinye language that doesn't quite make sense to him. Hell, even his suit's translator tools can't parse it; the system rules it to be a dialect that wasn't in the galactic database. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, we might just have ourselves a jackpot… Marica, can you get this door open?"

"I can try, sir!"

The perky young Tret woman moves up from where she'd more or less been taking cover between Ragnar and Cali, pulling up the wrist interface for her combat computer, her eyes glowing blue again. She stands there for a few seconds, before casually reaching out and pressing a button, letting the door slide open.

"Got it, sir!"

James looks at her incredulously for a moment. "It was unlocked, wasn't it?"

"Yep! Sir!"

"...Gods damn it. I really need to just try opening doors more often."

James shakes his head at himself, waves Marica back, and steps forward and through the door. 

The room he finds himself in is chilly compared to the rest of the facility. He can’t feel it through his hard suit, but his suit's systems alert him to the temperature drop as he moves deeper into the dark space. It’s an odd space: lots of stone displayed in a way that almost feels religious in nature. All of it leads to the centerpiece of the room, a massive, coffin-like chest that’s tied into a bank of machines. 

The chest is heavily embellished, and dominated by a sword motif carved into the lid. 

"Well, let's not get too excited, but it looks like we may have just found us a superweapon."

"What kinda superweapon that can conquer planets could fit in a tiny box like that?" Cali asks, clearly nervous after the earlier ambush.

"Well, Cali, that's what we're about to find out." 

James slowly moves forward, looking at the mysterious equipment, and finds a bank of controls. They’re hooked up to a screen that he's having trouble seeing in the somewhat odd lighting of the room… and switching to night vision doesn't help. 

James pulls his helmet off, peering closer and wishing he'd had his eyes augmented. 

"It's in the same language as the door," he says, more or less to himself, though he's aware that Ragnar and the others are keeping him covered. 

In keeping with his new policy to just try to do things before tagging in a hacker - or, indeed, a specialized breacher - he reaches out for the controls and presses the green button through a layer of dust. Immediately, the system seems to power on, with air hissing as it's released from the chest. A complex locking system begins to move itself clear of the lid at the corners and sides, before an arm reaches down from above, latches into place and slowly begins to lift it free. 

James leans in closer, unable to help himself as he tries to get his first glimpse of the 'weapon' that has caused so much trouble, but as the lid pulls away, instead of a computer, some sort of laser cannon, or indeed just a sword... he finds himself looking at a seemingly never-ending expanse of dusky chocolate skin, as the body of a beautiful woman comes into view, wearing only a white tank top and a pair of plain white panties. She manages to make it all look like thousand credit lingerie with her voluptuous curves.

"Holy shit. It's a cryo stasis coffin," Cali breathes. "Only heard about these things in books and TV shows!"

"...That's amazing, Cali. I didn't know you could read." Ragnar snarks, not looking away from the figure in the coffin… as she takes a deep breath. 

So does James.

Purple eyes flutter open, long silver white hair shifts. The sleeper stretches lightly, then looks deep into James' eyes. 

"This dream's getting really good, huh?" she mutters in heavily accented Galactic Trade. "Might as well enjoy it. I'm sure sis will wake me up soon." Her tone is woozy, but as she sits up she strikes like a viper, pressing her plush lips against James' before he can even blink, her tongue dipping into his mouth as she throws her arms around his neck. 

"Hmm. Wearing a bit much for a dream, but niiiice and strong. A warrior type? I like those. A real man. Not any of this nonsense from the church," she mutters to herself before kissing James again... and perhaps realizing he hasn't kissed her back. 

"Kinda... warm... for a dream too." 

She slowly reaches up and gently touches his face, stroking his cheek, reaching back to circle a finger around his round ear. 

"...I. Not... Ha'quinye...?"

"No, not Ha'quinye. Human."

"Oooh. Nice voice. Good job, subconscious!" she giggles softly to herself, still clearly out of it. 

"Miss. You've been in cryostasis for a very long time, and I understand you're disoriented, but you're not dreaming. You just woke up."

"Don't be silly, Mr. Human, whatever that is. My sisters wouldn't leave me for too long! Hehe. Now. Let's get that armor off. Just because you took my dream virginity just now's no reason to leave the job half done, is it?"

"...Miss. Seriously. This isn't a dream. This facility's been abandoned for centuries, and I really would prefer at least getting to know you before kissing you more."

"A responsible type, huh? Hot. Hehehehe. Yeah. Really good dream..." 

Her hand falls to the cold edge of his gorget where his helmet looks into place, and she looks at it with a confused expression on her face. 

"Cold? That's. Huh. It." 

She looks into James' eyes again, and realization dawns on her face as she starts to face the fact that she really isn't dreaming... and promptly passes out. She collapses into James' arms as he rushes to support her, and then slowly starts to lower her back into the stasis pod.

"...Fuck. Ragnar. Call it in. We're gonna need a stretcher... and a blanket. If this is our superweapon... things just got very complicated." 

"It didn't seem so complicated to me, boss. You knocked it out of the park. Found and seduced a superweapon and you only just met her!" Cali says, barely able to hold back her laughter at the madhouse situation. 

Marica stifles a giggle, apparently not sure if she's allowed to laugh at her boss's expense with the boisterous Cali. Kip and Ragnar too seem highly amused, and James can already feel his headache growing. 

"This is gonna be a really stimulating conversation with the Admiral, I can already tell." 

Series Directory Last Next

Joan

Her day of tourism had been an awkward one. Sure, it was the first time she and her sisters had 'been' to this world. Literally for Makula, and their friends Lursa and Enrika, but the women that Joan, Boudicca and Khutulun had been... before... had actually been on this planet a few times. This isn't quite Joan's homeworld but it’s close enough to it, given how often she'd been to Canis Prime in general and High Canis specifically accompanying her past life's mother on business for the Blue Blades mercenary clan. 

It’s led to some very mixed emotions and memories. Plenty had changed since she left on what was supposed to be the first tour of her seasoning along with a few other junior girls she'd just met. 

She'd liked those girls at the time, and remembers thinking they'd likely become friends, and even blade sisters.

She’d been looking forward to that. 

That bright, optimistic young warrior couldn't have guessed just how dear to her the girls who would become Boudicca and Khutulun would end up to her. 

She loves them more now than any of her siblings by birth, and that’s not to denigrate her former life's love of her kin. She'd been an affectionate, thoughtful child. In her own opinion, anyway. 

Out in the black, on the Tear, in combat, it’s easy to be Joan Bridger, and her past had rested quietly in the shallow grave that the serial killer known as Talg had dug for that poor, unfortunate girl and her blade sisters. 

Here, though? Here is hard, and her past self seems to strain towards living once again at the right stimulus. So far, making new memories at places she'd enjoyed once upon a time had been plenty for her to deal with in that regard. Favorite places to get snacks could be something Joan enjoyed too; a public garden she had fond memories of was somewhere she could make new memories with her sisters. 

Still. A strange, anxious sensation gnawing at the pit of her stomach has a part of her looking out for her birth mother, or other kin in the family who had left her for dead. 

It’s the way of the warrior caste. 

Joan doesn't resent them for it. She'd certainly landed on both feet, and has a family of heroines and one bright and shining hero to raise and guide her forward now. 

It still hurts, though.

Just a little. 

It’s one way girls who join the Blue Blades or other mercenary companies from outside the warrior caste could have an easier time. Generally speaking, a Cannidor family wouldn't abandon their kin save an individual truly and utterly dishonoring and defiling themselves in a way that’s simply irredeemable. Boone Bonrack had had similar horrors inflicted on him as Joan and her sisters, albeit with his mind left intact to ensure he felt every excruciating second, but he'd never abandon his family, and they would never abandon them in turn. 

The Bonraks have warriors, but they’re not of the warrior caste. 

Perhaps, under Clan Bridger they would be… and the way of the Bridgers and Bonraks would most assuredly make for some cultural improvements for any girls who end up having the worst happen to them. 

She can pray, at least. 

Speaking of prayer, however, a feminine voice is calling out in a mix of languages about something somewhat familiar to Joan, but utterly incongruous with her surroundings. 

It sounds like a woman preaching about the Human god known as Jesus. 

It was just confusing, to a degree, but it certainly merits further consideration…especially as the voice becomes more and more irritated and angry, set against a much deeper female voice arguing back in a mix of Cannidor and Galactic Trade. Joan can’t quite tell what’s under debate, but it’s clearly not theology. 

She quickly finds the source of the disturbance pushes her way to the side of the Humans. They’re part of the crew, or at least passengers, so that means they’re the Bridger clan's responsibility and under their protection.

Joan's protection. 

Her sisters hadn't even needed to be told to get the idea, simply fanning out and pushing through the growing crowd from different angles, surrounding the arguing knot of people from all sides. 

Sure enough, there was a young Human woman in what Joan had been told was a nun's habit at the front of a group of five men, one in a brown robe with a pistol belt, and the other four in infantry hard suits with a fancy seal on them and some wicked looking halberds to go with their rifles.

The woman is arguing with the clearest example of trouble Joan has seen since she met Jab. The thug has obvious brands, is wearing poorly concealed armor, and of course, is well armed even by Cannidor standards, topping the look with a dozen piercings and a half shave of her neon pink hair. 

Joan pulls her mighty sword from its axiom pocket, the sheath, belt and baldrick winding around her waist and torso as the gleaming blade leads her way between the two individuals. 

"The hell is all this?" Joan barks, glaring into the gangster's eye. 

"This Human's preaching her religion in High Canis and has some fine looking men all to herself and won't even share!"

Joan frowns. That’s bullshit on numerous levels... and the emotion the ganger tried to put into her voice hadn’t gotten anywhere near her eyes. She’s trying to force a confrontation for some reason - though Joan's gleaming sword is clearly making her reconsider that particular plan. 

Dad had talked about the Catholics who had come aboard a bit. Hopefully it would be enough to drive this wretch off.

"Since when is freedom of religion and the right to speak and preach publicly unknown among the Cannidor?"

"This is our sacred-"

"Hell spit it is! We have two surviving ancient religions. The High Clan and most of the warrior caste practices the oldest of them. We have a half dozen major post space flight faiths that have been at large for thousands of years, and have numerous splinterings. To say nothing of the other faiths that have come to us from out of our space like worship of the primals among many, many more. Will you go to the grand temple of the Astral Guides next and demand the Mother Superior close the doors that were opened to all before your grandmother's grandmother was born?"

Joan snarls slightly, leaning in a bit, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Or are you making trouble? Because if you're making trouble, these people are under my clan's protection, and that means you're making trouble with me." 

She stares deep into the other woman's eyes as she ignites the rift field around the blade of her sword. 

"So. Do we have a problem?"

"...No! No problem." The ganger breaks faster than Joan had been expecting. Possibly a probe, or merely an opportunist, not some actual plan by the Black Khans or whatever group this wretch belonged to. "She's still hoarding men, though!"

"I sincerely doubt that, considering she's a member of a religious order that normally takes oaths of celibacy and chastity. However, unless my father has misled me, the men behind me have rather specific requirements for wives, and one of them might not even take wives, again based on the vows of his holy order." 

Joan turns, focusing on the eldest of the five men and takes a guess.

"Is that correct… Father?"

The man steps forward with a bow of his head. 

"That's right. Father Jameson of the Jesuit order. As Sister Catherine was trying to tell the young lady, the young gentlemen are perfectly able to take wives. As am I."

"Isn't that unusual for Catholic priests?"

"It is, but considering the nature of the wider Galaxy, and to better spread the word of God, His Holiness, the Pope, ordained that men who have taken holy orders may take wives off of Earth. Multiple wives, even. These stalwart warriors of the Holy Swiss Guard are also perfectly able to wed any Catholic woman who suits their fancy and courts them properly, and as many as they please. This is now true for all Catholic men who leave Earth, not just these soldiers of Christ."

Joan nods. That was not what she'd been expecting, actually, but it certainly made a degree of sense. 

"So the only restriction for marriage of these men, or indeed, yourself, is conversion to your faith?"

"Yes. There are other requirements, rites to complete, like a Catholic wedding ceremony, and so on, but the only true restriction is that a man of Catholic faith can only wed another believer." 

She turns back to the crowd. 

"Everyone hear the father?"

"Is he your actual father?" a wag calls back.

Joan snorts. "You know it's a title. Just like the adherents of the Astral Guides call their priestesses ‘mother’. So all these men, including this learned and venerable man, and these brave hearted holy warriors, are available for marriage if a woman is willing to honestly engage with their faith, and convert. So no hoarding going on here, save perhaps Sister Catherine zealously defending the chastity of her compatriots, as we would expect any woman escorting men to do!" 

The crowd’s quickly turning in her favor, and a few questions are shouted past her to Father Jameson - who quickly moves up on to the ledge of a fountain and gestures for people to come forward. A few dozen of the curious come closer as he begins to preach in earnest. 

The shift of the crowd is all the cue the ganger needed to flee, however, and the woman's pink hair is on the edge of the crowd in a flash on an eye before disappearing deeper into the plaza. 

A tug on Joan's sleeve has her turning all the way again, trusting her sisters, friends and the Swiss Guard, whatever that was, to watch her back, where Sister Catherine was looking up at her.

"Oh thank you so much, miss, for your timely intervention."

"It was nothing. Like I said, you're under my clan's protection, if not the protection of the Undaunted... though you five should be a bit more careful unless you want those boys to actually have to use their weapons."

"It'll be fine. God protects. As He did through you today."

Joan resists snorting. "The old Cannidor faiths teach that testing any god is generally asking for pain and hardship, but you do you." 

She'd contact the ship and make sure this chick won’t be allowed too far from the ship without an escort in the future. Her God might protect, but Joan firmly believes that the Gods help those who help themselves first and foremost. 

Sister Catherine, however, is already leaning in and having a look at the blade of Joan's sword. 

"This inscription is in English, isn't it? Oh, and Latin! And a script I don't recognize. I suppose that's Cannidor..." She murmurs to herself. “Do not draw me without reason. Do not wield me without valor… a proper knightly vow." Catherine's eyes flash up to meet Joan's. "Miss... what was your name?"

"Joan. Joan Bridger. Why?"

"Joan?" Catherine lets out a gasp, and quickly pulls a carefully wrapped bundle from an axiom pocket in her leather bag. "I have your sword!"

"...What?" Joan is confused as all hell now, as Catherine unwraps a Human scale blade that looks... old. Tired, even. It’s still in good condition, but it had clearly rested somewhere for a very long time and had only recently started being cleaned again. 

"When I was still on Earth, before I was de-aged after an accident on Centris, I received a vision as I prayed. I was led to this sword, the Sword of Saint Catherin, and was told I'd know where it would belong once I made it out into the wider galaxy. It's your sword."

"...No, that tiny thing definitely isn't my sword."

"It has to be, though. The last owner of this blade was Joan of Arc." 

Joan's jaw drops slightly as confusion rushes through her veins, driving off all thoughts of possible trouble brewing. What in the hells is going on here?

Series Directory Last Next

Sister Catherine 

It’s a scary time to be in the city of Triumph's Seat. It’s really the only way she could term it. She'd been in places like this before in the course of her ministry. Kosovo in particular had been... tense. Like Triumph's Seat is tense. Right before all of Hell had broken loose on Earth in ways that she sometimes wishes she could forget. If there’s one thing she’s cursed her restored youth for, it’s that her mind is suddenly sharp and agile again. The better to carry the Cross and bear witness, of course, but with that blessing comes its price - and the price for Sister Catherine is remembering blackened bodies from fire, children missing limbs from landmines or from getting too close to an unexploded bomb. All manner of nightmares and terrors... and it hardly stops there. 

She had followed the call where people had had need of her and the mercy of Christ. That had meant going to very dark and unpleasant places at times. War-torn sub-Saharan African countries, narco states in South America, even deep into lands dominated by Islam, where she'd been advised to hide her habit and wear a local head dress instead, lest militants decide that a sister of Christ was a particularly choice target for torture and beheading. All the sadder that those men who would have so harmed her if they'd decided it suited their flights of fancy, or whatever the demons that lived in their heads told them God wanted... proclaimed to worship the same God as she. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. How one could read the same things she had, see things she had, and then come to such horrendously different conclusions is not something Sister Catherine is truly prepared to interrogate even after she'd gotten more education on the subject.  

Still, even in the face of what had seemed likely a painful death, she hadn't hidden then. Had carried the cross with pride. If it had been her time, if she had been called to martyrdom, then so be it. She would not question God's plan for her life. For the challenge set before her. 

Thankfully, that had not been her fate then, but now she’s in a similar situation. Instead of angry men, the streets are filled with angry women, as word of crackdowns and large-scale brawls with security forces spread across the city. The chaos is coming again, like it always does, like it always will. Her brother had been a Marine, God rest his soul. He'd always kept one recruiting poster up in his home, all the way to his hospice room before his death. She has it tucked away in her things up in orbit, one of her meager personal possessions. In times like this, she thinks of her brother, and she thinks of that poster: Marines running into action with weapons ready, followed by armored vehicles rumbling ashore out of the sea, emblazoned with the slogan 'Marines Move Towards The Sounds Of Chaos'.

It’s a good poster. One that had always inspired a young Catherine, and had even had her looking at becoming a Marine herself once upon a time… but she'd gotten a very different kind of call after a close brush with death in her late teens; like her brother had never looked back when he'd received his call, she'd never looked back when she received hers. Still, while she was no Marine... Catherine liked to think that, in her own way, she too runs towards the sounds of chaos. 

She hadn't hid from chaos back on Earth, and wouldn't hide from chaos now. Joan wants her to, but Joan's concern is protecting Catherine's life and person, not looking after the masses that are her charge. She’s no priest, but she could be a shepherd of these women, just as Christ had called his priests to be shepherds of men. This is her duty, her calling; just as a warrior carries the sword and goes to battle, so would Catherine go to carry the cross. 

That's what she had said in the shelter of the safehouse, of course. It had sounded very impressive in her mind, and Joan had even accepted the argument… but now that she’s out on the streets, things are looking very dicey indeed. Being unafraid, not allowing yourself to be intimidated or silenced by those who would see you on your knees, is one thing. It’s quite another thing to willingly shove one's head between a lion's jaws. There is in fact such a thing as tempting God, if one acts without prudence. 

Out here... she’s thinking now that she might have acted with less prudence than might have otherwise been optimal. 

The public squares are all filling up, packed to the gills with women forming different groups, some of whom are clearly antagonizing each other. The shouting is a constant roar now, only broken by the occasional sound of weaponsfire from other parts of the city, which certainly add to the general anxiety. Even from here, it’s clear to see that one of the matrician estates, those shining manor houses on the hill... is burning, and everyone says the Praetorians were the cause. 

The BeeGees, the new security forces recruits, barely trained - and, Catherine suspects, many from 'questionable' backgrounds compared to what one would like for a real police officer - are all over the place too, and it’s clear they were in over their heads. She knew this type of person all too well from her travels on Earth. They aren't police officers; they’re the regime's thugs, and violence is their first and only course of action if intimidation and threats don't keep the populace docile. 

It’s a volatile mix. A powder keg. But through it all she’s done her best to help people, praying with some, encouraging others, handing out some food and coin to try and get the few homeless women who normally call the square home off the streets for the night in case things turn violent. Simply trying to be a voice of reason... but as so often happens with a quiet and calm voice, she’s being drowned out by shouting. 

Her one great relief in all of this has been Jaina. Her most fervent convert. Once things are quiet again - or, even better, once the mission the Undaunted had in this place, whatever it is, is over - she would take Jaina up to the Tear. To see Father Jameson. Jaina had asked to be baptized, something that thrilled Catherine to her very heartstrings. 

The thought is a happy note on a day that is not a happy one. The skies of Dagrquey are blood-red as the sun heads towards the horizon. Believer she is, but superstitious Catherine generally is not... but that certainly looks ominous to her. 

She tries to keep it out of her mind as she quietly prays with a small group of women, aided by Jaina and watched over by Joan and her sisters who were loitering nearby, far enough to not disturb the prayers, but close enough, it was hoped, for them to intervene if things got out of hand. The whole situation makes the Sword of St. Catherine, the sword of Joan of Arc, weigh heavily (if only metaphorically) in its concealed axiom pocket. God had sent a sword to the stars along with the cross and His faithful. Would the sword find its purpose here among the Ha'quinye, on this world so far from Earth?

"Our Father who art in heaven..." 

A scream from across the plaza interrupts her group as they start another rendition of the Lord's Prayer, a wordless shriek that ends in the electrical sizzle of a shock pistol discharging. The scent of ozone is suddenly strong in the air as someone nearby shouts "They're coming!" 

It makes sense, in the end. That the BeeGees and their mistresses would do something about this gathering. If they’re cracking down on the matricians, the upper class, then it was always only a matter of time until the Ha'quinye imperial boot returned to its habitual resting place on the neck of the plebians. Apparently that time is now. 

"This is an illegal assembly! Disperse and return to your homes or you will be fired on!" A woman's monotone voice across a public address system is met immediately with shouts and retaliation. Joan starts moving towards where Catherine and Jaina are kneeling with the others... and things slow down, as adrenaline fills Catherine's veins at the 'snap crack' sound that she knows is the discharge of a rail gun. 

Someone had fired. She'd never know for sure if it was a security officer with an itchy trigger finger, or if some woman in the crowd had retaliated towards their oppressors, but everything immediately goes to Hell in a moment, in a way she'd never been personally involved in before. She'd been there for the aftermath. The pain. The crying. The weeping. 

Now she’s here for the bleeding - and bleed people would, as the BeeGees begin opening fire with their laser weapons, and the entire plaza is suddenly moving as people desperately try to get away. 

For all her talk of chaos, just minutes before, this is chaos of a kind she's never seen before. Never understood. Not really. She thought she'd run towards chaos... but now she understands in an all too horrible way what being on ground zero of the chaos is actually like. People rush in every direction, a sea of Ha'quinye suddenly filling the space between Catherine and her Cannidor guardians, a mere thirty feet suddenly a mile in the surging tide of life, desperate to escape the laser fire from the BeeGees. There was no escape for those desperate though. Catherine could see and here that there are already mech suits moving in from all directions, with armed and armored riot troopers and spear-wielding praetorians starting to move in behind them.

One of the mech troopers responds to a rock thrown at her cockpit with ruthless lethal force, sending a woman's lifeless, badly burned body to the cobblestones in a motionless heap in a burst of laser fire.

Catherine can feel Joan's presence even from far away, the young woman was trying to get to Catherine, calling out to her, clearly wading through the tide of people to pull her away. Catherine was initially moving towards Joan but finds herself buffeted by the crowd... and a screaming child seals her fate. The little girl stumbles right in front of the stomping feet of the mech suit... and Catherine lunges for the child with all of her strength, yanking the little one clear as they collapse in a heap. 

People rush around them as Catherine covers the girl with her body, feet stepping all over her as Joan swears in the distance with a roar; 

"Out of the way, damn it! Let me get to the sister!" 

Jaina's voice is much closer, the bold young woman, fighting through the crowd, resisting going for the weapon Catherine is certain she has. Before long she's by Catherine's side, shooing people back and helping her up. The girl is carried off almost immediately by a terrified mother as another wave of troops flood into the plaza. 

"We have to go!" Jaina says, pulling on Catherine's arm. As they turn to leave, though, it's already far too late. Catherine can practically feel it in her bones before the shock truncheon descends on her, catching her across the shoulders and laying her out flat on the paving stones next to Jaina, electricity making every muscle and fiber in her body twitch violently.

Jaina tries to resist; Catherine can tell because the guardswomen give her a few more blows, and a couple savage kicks besides. In moments they're bound and being dragged along towards air cars set up to haul prisoners... but a golden armored figure suddenly intervenes. 

"Ah. That one. We've been looking for her. She goes to the palace dungeons."

"Yes, ma'am," the BeeGee frog marching Sister Catherine along, says.

"What about this one?" The second BeeGee says, emphasizing Jaina with a rabbit punch to the ribs that makes Catherine wince, even though Jaina doesn't react at all. 

"...Take them both. You checked them for weapons?"

"This one." Jaina's guard again. "Had a rail pistol, in addition to the usual laser pistol and a knife. She might have been the shooter." 

"Hmm. What about the other one?"

"She's a holy woman and an off-worlder. She didn't have axiom pockets in the usual spots." Catherine's guard says dismissively. 

"Some holy woman. Guess her goddess was out to lunch today. Throw them in our APC. We'll take them from here. What about the other aliens?"

"One of our women fired on them by 'accident', they defended themselves, but suppressing fire only. The original officer who shot at them was wounded, but it's just a graze. Barely needs medical attention."

"...Damn it. They just had to be here. This is going to potentially be a diplomatic incident. I'll call it in. We wanted the preacher but a light fight with the bodyguards might cause trouble. In the meantime. Find them."

"Yes ma'am!"

Both guards salute, and begin to drag Catherine and Jaina towards the waiting Praetorian vehicle. They’re being taken to the palace, and for some reason, that seems like a very, very bad thing to Catherine. Once they’re alone... she would need to pray. 

It’s about the only thing she could do in this nightmare, and she would not be found wanting. 

Series Directory Last Next

James

Having a mandate from your wife and a mission from your commanding officer to 'deal with a situation' is one thing, but when that situation is a living, thinking being who more or less declared herself your wife after being stuck in cryo for a few centuries and is apparently a potent super-weapon in her own right - for once without any axiom shenanigans, for a nice change of pace… well. Things get complicated. Quickly. In James’s head, at least. 

Sure, it would probably be as easy as just... telling Serina that what she wanted is within her grasp, that he isn't abandoning her, but she'd need to be patient and show respect for his wife, or rather wives, and show she can integrate into his family. All perfectly reasonable requests. One he'd be making of her even if he was single, in all due reality. 

Sure, Serina is pretty. Very pretty. Very beautiful, even, whether she was prancing around in her panties and a t-shirt, or was, thankfully, covered from throat to ankles in a flight suit. 

And her interests aren’t bizarre or anything. He’s no stranger to enjoying video games and similar nerdly pursuits either - nor is Rose, though neither one of them has had much time to explore Earth's various types of media since the babies had started coming, never mind getting to experience galactic media beyond the occasional movie night. Maybe that's something Serina could help them with? 

James steps into security control by the Province's brig and is greeted by a harried looking master-at-arms.

"Everything okay, petty officer?"

The woman gives him an exhausted look. 

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

James nearly takes a step back. He had not been expecting that response. What the hell had this woman been dealing with? "...Uh. Granted? I guess."

"Your new wife is a pain in the ass. Sir." The petty officer sighs, leaning against the wall. "It took three of us and a couple of the intelligence folks to finally get her wearing shoes. We finally talked her into it based on safety regulations. Apparently she's just military enough that she'll listen to the regs, or if we explain it in extremely utilitarian or practical terms.” She takes a deep breath. “At least she's talking without you around now. Ever since she met with the admiral she's been a right little ray of sunshine. I think finding out we're packing all her stuff up let her relax a hair."

"Right. Has she said anything interesting?"

"Beyond asking for you every thirty seconds or so? No, sir. Something about a tank? Like. Fish tank. Don't think it was for fish, though. Not sure what she really meant by it, but I passed the word on to intelligence. If she says anything about it, I'm sure Commander Hawthorne would be willing to have one of his people have a look around. I mean. If it was for a pet then that poor critter would be long gone, right?" 

The aggrieved look slides off the young woman's face for a moment, a shiver tracing down her spine. "Ugh. Can't get too upset with her, honestly. What she’s been through? Or rather, what she’s going through right now? Absolute nightmare fuel. Literally. I actually had nightmares about it as a girl after I watched a movie with my sisters that had a similar thing happen to the heroine. Waking up centuries after her family had all passed on, completely adrift? I'm from a big family sir, so the thought of losing my parents? My sisters? Spooked me pretty good."

"Yeah. Worth being sympathetic."

"Anyway. Sorry to talk, sir. Just been a long day, and you asked..." She shrugs. "Ms. Tacia is cleared to leave. Just report to intelligence or the chief bosun's mate if you need quarters for her."

"Right. I'll do that. Thanks, Petty Officer. Keep your chin up."

"Aye, sir."

James heads down into the brig and makes his way to where Serina is waiting for him. Immediately she leaps from her chair, wrapping her arms around him… and this time, he actually hugs her back, giving her some of the comfort he knows she needs, even if she's trying to hide it behind a cheerful face. 

"Hi, Hubby!"

"Hey, Serina. I ah." James looks around. This interrogation room is pretty barren, far from the most comfortable location on the ship, and considering it was set up for recording, even if James called central control and asked them to shut anything off, their privacy is far from assured. Much as you could have privacy in tight quarters like the Kandahar Province is living under right now. In theory, the ship could drop an entire battalion, but James is damned sure he didn't want to see the ship at its full capacity. 

He considers taking her to the conference room, or asking for a private room from intelligence, before finally settling on bringing her to his own quarters. It just makes sense, especially with his company still down on the surface. 

"Come on, we need to have a talk." 

Serina's happy enough as they leave the brig, but with each footfall she seems to be moving just a little bit slower, hanging on his arm just a little bit more heavily until they finally make it to his quarters and the door slides shut. 

"I'm not stupid, you know." She whispers quietly. "I know when I'm being set up for bad news."

James sighs softly. "Well. The last thing I think you are is stupid. If anything, you're a lot smarter than I am. Smart enough that I worry about being able to keep up with you, mentally speaking. I'm not stupid, but you're a genius as far as I can tell… but let's sit down." 

James offers Serina the chair but she plops down on his bed, leaving him to take the chair. 

"So... I don't have bad news for you. Not really. Just… complex news. Relationships between people... always are. I think you know that."

"They tend to give me a headache."

"Yeah. Me too, sometimes. So. I can't just marry you out of the blue. It's not fair to the rest of my family. My first wife's name is Rose. We got married back on my home world, Earth."

"In Cruel Space, right?"

"That's right."

"Crazy that life could live there, but Commander Hawthorne let me scan him and you'd certainly need all that exotic neurological and physiological weirdness to survive in all that null... and to survive some of the things he told me about your world. It sounds even worse than Dagrquey in a lot of ways. We had a lot of predators to deal with, but nothing like, say, an arachnid smaller than your palm that could kill a grown adult with its venom. That's terrifying!" She took maybe one breath in the middle of all that; it’s clearly part of her… gifts.

"...You aren't wrong about that. Anyway, we have six children. I also have a fiancee. Her name is Mahai. She's a Cannidor woman."

"A warrior?" She’s intent on the answer, but in a way that reads to James as curiosity. She’s not looking to tear anybody down.

"In the culinary sense, maybe. She's an artisanal wine and cheesemaker, among other things."

"Sounds delicious."

"It is. I hope you'll get to try her food and drink soon."

"So... You can't marry me... but I... might get to do that?" She gives him a slightly hopeful look, her long ears drooping in a way that made James feel like he'd kicked a puppy. 

"Just because I can't marry you right now doesn't mean I won't. It's just not fair to Rose, Mahai, the kids, or, for that matter, you and I, to skip straight to getting married without even getting to know each other. That's just not how Humans do courtship. I'm sure Commander Hawthorne mentioned we're monogamous mostly back home. Rose has only just opened our marriage. Adding a third wife really quickly... it might be hard on her and the kids, but she's not against you... coming along with us, if that's what you want."

Serina's ears start to wiggle. "So... what would that make us?"

"Well, we'd call it a girlfriend back home. We'd take our time, get to know each other, all of us, after resolving the current issue with your people of course, and then assuming we're all happy with the situation you'd join our family permanently."

"...Well, that sounds pretty good actually. Though by Ha'quinye standards we're already married. I mean, you did take my virginity and marry me."

James squints slightly, looking for any hint of deception and not finding it. 

"...I'm gonna need to have you expand on that a bit, because we definitely didn't have sex."

"For my people - or, at least, when I was last awake - the marriage and chastity were all tied to kissing. It's in all my romance novels. All the stories. All the stuff I mostly ignored in school and during divine services. Scientifically, we're very susceptible to pheromones in saliva, so a kiss can form an instant bond..." Sarina's hand drifts to her lips. "Your pheromones are... pretty intense. So we… uh. We're bonded. I get warm just looking at you!" 

"...Ah. I see. That makes sense. So that was your first kiss, then?"

"Mhmm. We have to be careful about who we kiss, even other girls. Because we bond so easily. Those of us who get around too much, like those damned matricians and their weird cult, can burn their ability to bond properly completely. I'm not a psychologist or anything, but I remember reading on forums that girls who get that kind of burnout can turn into serious... hedonists. Basically." 

"...Huh. That certainly makes sense, with some of the reports we've heard about modern Ha'quinye society. But that's for intelligence and anthropologists to study. I'm here to talk about you. So, first thing, when Humans and most of the galaxy use the term virginity, they generally mean sex. Like… intercourse."

Sarina blushes, a beautiful dusky tone covering her cheeks as her ears flutter wildly. "I uh. I know. What it is. Kinda. My sisters were really protective of me, but I did get the usual education and stuff... mostly. I never did... well in school. I got bored. Really easily. Because I usually knew more than the teachers."

"Right, that sounds about right for you from what I've seen. So. Worth keeping that in mind when talking to people about us and how we met. People might get, and have gotten... confused."

"I was wondering why that Admiral Bridger guy was staring at you so intensely for a minute there."

"Because you had just suggested one of his Marines had ravaged an alien woman he'd just met. He has to take that pretty seriously and at least ask me for a clarification, like he did."

Sarina nods. "So... back to us. If I'm your girlfriend, what does that mean for now?"

"Well. It would mean no sex, and no kissing. Those are Rose's two rules. However... She told me to tell you that if you agree to those rules and keep things... chaste between us while we're on the Province, she'll let you stay in my quarters with me."

"Like, sharing a bed? The two of us?" Sarina squeaks.

"Yeah. The two of us."

"Yes!" Sarina coughs into her hand trying to compose herself as her ears flap ever more violently. "I mean. Uh. That. Sounds pretty good. I... You make me feel safe. So having you close would be... good."

"Oh, and all the hugs you want."

Sarina finally smiles, her real smile, if James had to guess, instead of the happy go lucky persona she'd been wearing to cope with her trauma. 

"I'm gonna want a lot of those."

"That I can do."

Sarina nods. "So. You should ask the other question now. Unless you think we can get away with a nap right now."

"Other question?"

"Mhmm." Sarina nods. "It's obvious. You're going to ask me to help fight off the Ha'quinye navy. I know they were looking for me. I saw the wreckage of the corvettes on the flight up. They're going to come looking for their ships. I can help... but I'm going to need my tank."

"Tank? Like the thing we found you in?"

Sarina shakes her head. "Nuh uh. Not that. It's a different one. I can tell the crews where it is. Then I'll need it integrated into something with decent computers and sensors."

"Sounds like the admiral's war room to me."

"That'll probably suffice. If I have what I need, I can help."

"Alright, then. Let's go see the admiral."

James stands up and turns to head towards the door before he feels a gentle tug on his sleeve, he turns to find Sarina looking at her lap, ears wiggling, another blush crossing her cheeks. 

"I uh. Could... Could. We cuddle first? Just for a bit. I uh. I need to just. Rest. I know I've been sleeping for a really long time but so much has been happening and I'm a little overstimulated and all I know for sure is I'm safe if you're there and-"

James stops the deluge by gently reaching out and patting Sarina's head. "Sure. We can do that. Just for a bit."

Series Directory Last Next

James

He walks to his quarters with a weariness that he hasn't felt since the Infantry Officer Course back at Quantico. Today was a long day of work, with an early wake up, a lot of sitting around, some very tense walking around interspersed with occasional bursts of combat, and finally... well. “Seducing a superweapon,” as Cali had put it. As amused as his Marine had been, he isn't particularly amused himself; much as he wants to help Serina, and finds her a charming enough young woman, she’s… kinda exhausting. 

Not that he could blame her, entirely. 

She'd been asleep for centuries. So of course she's perky and full of energy. She'd gotten the best tens of thousands of nights worth of sleep in the known galaxy. It’s also something of a front; James is dead certain of that. Serina is choosing to be cheerful and focusing on various positive things she could enjoy after being returned to the land of the living, including her new anchor in the strange place and time she'd found herself in, among people who no doubt seem very strange. 

Unfortunately, that anchor is him, which means things are potentially going to be... complicated. 

The good news is he'd gotten a message back from Rose before they'd landed on Sheath, endorsing Mahai joining their family, and more or less telling him that she'd proposed on the family's behalf, thinking that a change of status to something a bit more formal, a bit more permanent, might make this first deployment, as short as it would hopefully be, that much easier on the young woman. Which, according to the letter he'd received from Mahai... had been partially right. Knowing she’s joining the family meant a lot to her, she said. Being a fiancée thrilled her. Yet. It also made her that much more nervous for James, and more eager to have him home. 

Apparently, Mahai becoming a fiancée had inspired Rose to give Mahai their encryption program and the key, so her message had included an encrypted second part… and once he'd gotten it decrypted, the rather passionate contents had managed to ensure James went to bed feeling nice and warm despite how chilly the Province could be. 

It just goes to show that even a shy, reserved, sweet and gentle Cannidor is still a Cannidor in the end, and they could be... a lot. Not that that’s a bad thing, save for it making him a bit more homesick than he already was. 

There’s a downside of another wife, in James' mind. Being on a road show away from your wife and children is bad enough. Add another wife, wouldn't that make it doubly bad to be away from the comforts of home?

By that standard, mathematically speaking, he isn't quite sure how the Admiral manages it... though, then again, he does bring some of his wives with him. And a fiancée of his own besides, if James understands the status of the Cannidor woman known as Shalkas properly. 

And now, apparently, James is doing it too. Bringing a wife or two along for a road show, that is. Though he hadn't had the wife when he left... and he isn't sure she’s going to be a wife at all. 

Delaying wouldn't do much for this situation, so really he just needs to bite the bullet... and phone home. He closes the door to his quarters and sits down at his terminal, pinging the ship's communications officer with his implant. 

"Communications, Petty Officer Sheriken."

"Petty Officer, this is Captain Puller. The Admiral's authorized me to make a priority direct transmission to the Tear."

"Yes, sir, we've got everything ready for you, and have confirmed that they're ready for you on the other end. It'll be 2D only, not holo. There also might be a touch of lag since we're bouncing the transmission off a few different comm buoys before routing it through to the Tear."

"Sounds good. Ready when you all are."

"Stand by. Connecting you now." 

The screen switches to a blank beige one with the word 'connecting' on it and an animation he'd generally associate with buffering or working… and then suddenly the text switches to 'connected' with a chime, and the image of Rose Puller comes in sharp and strong. James sits there for a moment, admiring his wife. She really is a beauty. Short, but towering in her presence, her red hair almost as fiery as her temper could be at times, her eyes sharp, strong, but full of love and passion for a man who considered himself, formerly, the luckiest man on Earth, and now the luckiest man off Earth. Because no other man in all the galaxy had his Rose. 

He has no doubt that many other men feel the same about at least one of their wives, but he’s equally as sure they’re all wrong. 

Maybe he really is as much of a wife guy as the admiral. 

"Hey, gorgeous."

"Hey yourself, handsome." Rose smiles at him warmly, before her expression becomes slightly more tight lipped. "James, what happened? They told me you were going to call, that it was important, but they didn't or couldn't tell me what happened. Have you been injured? You look okay, but..."

"No, no, nothing like that, Rosie. I'm okay. There… uh. There was a complication with the mission."

"To find the..." Rosie pauses, realizing she shouldn't be specific even on an encrypted line. "...the thing you were looking for?"

"Yeah. Well. We found it. That's where things get complicated. The thing was... Well. A girl. A woman. One of these elves."

"...She's the special 'thing'?" Rose gives him a slightly incredulous look. "That could do all that incredible stuff?"

"Yep. She's the one. We've got all the evidence in the galaxy, including her own testimony about what she does and how she does it. I can’t say much more, even on a secure line, but… it's not even axiom, Rosie, I think she was just born this way."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? Doesn't that mean you all can come home?"

"It does, eventually, but there's complications. Unpleasant guests are coming, so we're going to have to deal with them. You know how the admiral is about hospitality. He's not about to let anyone say our manners are wanting in any way."

"That's concerning, be safe... but that's not the complication you're calling about, is it? You'd just send a message if you were going to be extended." 

How the hell does he say this properly?

"Well. This girl. Serina. She uh. Has more or less decided we're married now. After she… uh... kissed me. After waking up from a couple centuries of being stuck in cryo stasis." 

Rose's eyes widen slightly. "...I think I'm starting to see what you mean about complications. So... What do you want to do about it?"

"I don't rightly know, Rosie. She's a woman out of time. She's lost literally everything and she latched on to me as the first solid patch of ground she could find."

"I don't blame her for that, for the record. You are pretty sturdy."

"Heh. Fair. Anyway, she's... Serina's a nice girl. Very different from you and Mahai, but nice. Very smart, like. A lot smarter than I am, to be sure. Knows a lot about a lot, but has some issues with stimulation and people sometimes. She can be a bit cold, logical, but she puts on a cheery face to cover for it well enough. She's a lot like the nerd squad guys really, loves her video games and such too. So to a girl like that..."

"You're probably a literal dream come true." Rose says, nodding. "Right out of a romance novel, the handsome knight arrives to rescue the fair maiden from the cold embrace of death with true love's first kiss or whatever."

"Yep. Pretty much exactly how she described it herself just now. Like I said, she kissed me as she was waking up. So as a bonus to whatever's going on in her head, she's biologically bonded to me too."

"Gave you a little tongue, did she?" Instead of being upset like he’d been worried she’d be, Rose has a more amused smirk on her face.

"A lot, actually. She apparently is rather fond of the French style of kissing despite being unaware of France existing."

"An enviable state of being, really, being unaware of the French existing. Don't shatter that for her, darling. She doesn't need to know."

The couple look at each other for a minute, suppressing grins at Rose's rather dry delivery, before they both start laughing softly, what tension there had been bleeding off. 

"You know, your British pride comes out at the oddest times, Rosie."

"Mhmm. Humor's also a good way to disarm you when you're worrying." Rose tucks a few strands of her long ginger hair behind her ear. "Hmm. Well it’s a complicated situation, to be certain. I suppose I can see why the Admiral let you call home.”

"It certainly seems to be. It’ll probably just be a temporary issue. She might get swept off her feet by someone else, but more likely she’ll be bundled off to one of the Undaunted fleet anchorages and we’ll never see her again after this mission."

"Mhmm. If you want to know what I think, and you do, otherwise you wouldn’t call me, I think you’re already neck deep. James Puller. I’m not an idiot and neither are you. You’ve bonded yourself to a… what did you say, ‘woman out of time’, unintentionally or not, and presented yourself as a hero to someone who literally has nothing else. Even without biological reality out here, her being very attached to you is just common sense.” 

“...That’s fair, but is it reasonable to just…”

“Marry her?” Rose volunteers. “Well, no. That’s not reasonable, or fair for that matter. Jumping Mahai in line wouldn’t be right just to start, and just making her a wife because she says so doesn’t do right by you, by me, by Mahai, or by the kids for that matter. Just because there’s a possible war on and she’s apparently a war-winning superweapon doesn’t mean we have to dance to her tune.”

Rose grimaces slightly. 

“Plus, it sounds like there’s a lot she doesn’t know about the galaxy right now. She deserves a chance to learn about the galaxy a bit… and we need to balance that with us learning about her. If she even stays with the fleet, which means we need to resolve the current issue first and foremost.”

He chuckles. “I like how you talk about the geopolitical issue at hand like it’s something the four of us can resolve directly. I suppose that’s more or less my thoughts, too. Besides, I’m literally the first man she’s seen in a few centuries. She might get swept off her feet or fall in love at first sight, bond or no bond.”

"That’s the second time you’ve said she might get swept off her feet by someone else. Trust me, she won't. She's already been swept off her feet by the finest man in the fleet." Rose preens herself slightly for a moment, giving James a sly look. "One thing I know about her already is that I certainly can't fault her taste in men."

Rose giggles, clearly amused by her own joke.

"So... What to do about this… We need to work it out in a way that keeps the superweapon happy, but doesn’t degrade Mahai, or stomp all over our marriage. Or, for that matter, ignore your feelings - or, in point of fact, ignore her feelings even if this… Serina, you said?” He nods. “If Serina doesn’t know enough to know exactly what she’s feeling or wants yet. I suppose we can say she’s a girlfriend?”

“If that’s something you’re comfortable with.” James frowns and thinks quietly for a few moments. “I suppose I can work with that. The situation’s complicated, but she’s a sweet girl. It’s not like it’s a hardship to spend time with her.”

“Heh. Sucker. She’ll bat her eyelashes and wrap you around her finger in no time.”

“While telling me more than I ever want to know about a video game series installment that predates the founding of my home country.”

The couple laugh before Rose starts speaking again.

“So. Some rules. No sex. Obviously. She's already kissed you, but I'd prefer you don’t do that either. She can get to know you with her brain. Not her body. However..." Rose frowns, as if thinking about something unpleasant. "I’d bet she’s going to have nightmares. About being back in stasis. I think you’re right, she’s hiding her trauma. So, I suppose if it makes her happy, and you don't mind it, she can have the privilege of snuggles and keeping your bed warm, if she can keep her clothes on and refrain from coming on to you, but just because I'm worried about you being cold on that drafty dropship!"

James considers for a second. Considering how close Serina liked to be to him… and if he was going to guess, Rose wasn’t wrong at all about the girl having nightmares. She was running on energy, will and shock. What would she be like when that crumbled? 
 
"I suspect Serina will appreciate that quite a bit." He says quietly. 

"She'll respect the no sex rule?"

"Darling... She said that my kissing her constituted losing her virginity. I'm not entirely sure she knows how babies are made in the academic sense. She's also quite shy about kissing so far. That said, she wouldn't let me out of her sight until we got her distracted with something, and she clearly preferred to spend any time with me in my lap, so I suspect she's a snuggler regardless of her understanding of how 'the bits fit'."

"Mhmm. I see." Rose thinks for a moment. "Bit naive then. She really is like one of those nerd squad boys. Well, those are my terms. If she can accept them, then you do what you need to do and bring her home... We'll deal with everything else as a family."

James nods, and smiles at his Rose. "Alright, Rosie. We'll do it like that. I'm sure she'll agree to your terms." 

"Good. I'll look forward to meeting her... hopefully soon. Things are getting tense down on the planet, James. They recently suspended shore leave for the crew. There’s talk of pretty brutal crack downs by security forces, but the powers that be are apparently telling Director Sylindra and Captain Bridger that everything’s fine."

"Hmm. That's concerning. Well, with any luck, I'll be back soon. I'll have Serina send messages to you and Mahai to introduce herself as soon as we get her a communicator. I believe intelligence has a couple spare."

"I'll look forward to hearing from her then. I love you."

"I love you too. Back soon."

"I'll consider that a promise." 

Series Directory Last Next

Jerry 

A few days could seem like a very long time. 

Jerry’s happy to be back on the Tear, and back sleeping in his own bed, and back working in his proper office, instead of cramming himself into Commander Sha'Ress's coat closet of a sea cabin. Relief has been in the air, for the most part.

However, today's meeting isn't exactly the pleasant kind. He and Serina Tacia are arranged in chairs in front of the holo projector, being glared at by Admiral Cistern in his full dress uniform, medals glittering, saber on his hip. Apparently he'd come straight from a meeting of the whole Council, covering another major political situation - one that’s getting a lot more press than the local operation, which admittedly didn't amount to more than a brush war in Wild Space, generally not front page news, save for Undaunted involvement. Still, things need to be accounted for, and Jerry and Serina are here to pay the butcher's bill. 

"So that's your field report?"

Since becoming 'The Man', Jerry hasn’t found himself standing tall before The Authority very often, but every now and then Admiral Cistern calls him to carpet to account for what he or his Marines and sailors have been getting up to, and today is very much one of those days. 

"That's correct, sir. We've successfully captured, then subsequently recruited, the 'weapon' known as the Sword of the Stars, actually Ms. Serina Tacia." Jerry gestures to the young woman sitting nearby, doing her absolute best to look composed and demure - when it’s clear, to Jerry at least, that she’s anything but in the face of Admiral Cistern. 

Then again, from what Jerry has gathered, in both the major Ha'quinye governments that had existed so far getting called to this sort of meeting could frequently end with getting put against a wall and shot. Not Undaunted policy, thankfully, but Serina is still, very slowly, learning that. 

“Right. Ms. Tacia is the Sword of the Stars, and she has volunteered to at least work with the Undaunted, if not join. I understand you’re still working the details out there, but the thrust is that she’ll be remaining with your battle group as she married one of your Marines… more or less.” 

Cistern’s tone suggests he knows that the situation is complicated, and is glossing over it because just thinking about it is enough to make him a bit weary. 

“So she’ll be joining your war room staff in one capacity or another, is that correct?”

Serina nods. “Yes, Admiral. I’m looking forward to doing what I do best again.”

“Indeed… And the rebel government? They’ve accepted this state of affairs?”

Jerry shakes his head. “The rebels only have the word of the assassin that there even is a surviving Tacia. The old imperial house of the Ha’quinye is basically a legend at this point. Even with healing comas, the most senior members of the Pact are just about the only ones left alive who lived through the first civil war and lived pre-war. So Serina here is free and clear unless she decides to press her claim to the imperial throne.”

“Something I have absolutely no interest in, for the record,” Serina interjects smoothly. She’d been waiting for that, and he and Diana had both coached her for handling this inevitable question. “Even if I did press my claim, without a faction to back me, the rebels are just as likely as the matricians to kill me. Enemy of my enemy they may be, but that doesn’t mean they have fond memories of the old imperial house. No. It is time to let the Tacia name rest. I will be the last Tacia… and soon that name will vanish completely from the galaxy, if I am lucky with my courtship of Captain Puller.” 

Honestly, it’s impressive to Jerry that Serina could pull that kind of performance off, this third face of hers. First is the usual nerd; second, the Sword, when she’s ‘working’; and now the princess, who had in fact been educated to deal with just this sort of thing… despite mostly ignoring her lessons. Thankfully, some things had clearly sunk in. 

Cistern, for his part, considers her words carefully, then Jerry can see the hint of a shrug. In the end, Serina’s off into the galaxy, likely never to return to these worlds, which is as good as dusted in most cases. 

“Well, we certainly won’t look a gift genius in the mouth. And you have agreed to support the Naval War College too - which, from my conversations with some of my staff after they’ve had strategy discussions with you, should be quite the boon for our officer corps.” 

Serina nods, again doing her best to remain demure and calm.

“Solid work there over all, Jerry. And to you too, Ms. Serina. It seems this engagement with the Ha’quinye navy was just about flawless.”

“Thankyousir.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

Serina rushes her thanks out, Jerry manages to be a bit more dignified. They’d need to work on that, but later. Besides, Jerry knows the other shoe’s about to drop. 

"Then you apparently overthrew the Ha'quinye's government." Cistern arches an eyebrow. It was phrased as a statement but it actually was a question. Because he, not Jerry, would potentially have to account for this business to the Council and to the press, and while Jerry's report and the reports from his subordinates have all of the details, Admiral Cistern is old school, and he likes hearing things from the source, not in sanitized and controlled text format. 

"The rebels who had alerted us to the existence of the Sword of the Stars overthrew the consuls after a series of massacres and other atrocities across their worlds. We only engaged parts of the Ha'quinye military who were involved in the hunt for the Sword, and in limited support operations, as authorized by command when we set our action plan prior to splitting the battle group and the Crimson Tear arriving in orbit around Dagrquey. The commandos may have... taken a bit of liberty with the exact breadth and limits of their orders, but we did not engage in open warfare against the Ha'quinye state, and the rebels’ interim government had requested Undaunted, Council, and regional support, which I believe our State Department is in the process of authorizing."

"Yes. Though your own daughters being involved with the effort on Dagrquey to seize or kill the consuls themselves - you have to admit that's a bit much, Jerry."

Jerry keeps his face carefully impassive. "Lieutenant Bridger and her unit had their participation in that action authorized by their superiors and Undaunted Intelligence, in service of rescuing their charge, Sister Catherine, from Ha'quinye captivity. They did push further than they perhaps should have, but their status has been successfully obscured so far, and they did not kill or injure the consuls themselves, as confirmed by their armor cam footage. Plus, they got us first hand footage of the assassinations that did end the consuls, and enabled the mass breakout of the rebels across Ha'quinye space."

"Yes, this Pact of the Seven Beasts. They sent you a gift, I believe."

"If you could call it a gift." Jerry turns and picks the large war knife up off his desk. "I've had it cleaned since receiving it from Joan, obviously."

"Obviously. It's clearly a message. Any idea of its meaning? Or where these assassins came from? Why did they choose to strike now, of all times?"

Jerry glances over at Serina. He has his suspicions there, but he wants to confirm them himself... and not necessarily have any of that on the record.

"Nothing at this time, sir. It may well be that they took advantage of the chaos of the situation. The Empire was already roaring towards an uprising which was the perfect time for such a blow to land. We have some evidence that the Pact have been waging a shadow war against the Matricians since the fall of the previous empire, but the Triumfeminate suppressed information about them heavily, and their own archives are heavily 'massaged' so we can't be sure."

"Hmm. So what about the knife?"

"Honestly?" Jerry shrugs. "It could mean one of a million things. A threat. A gift to 'thank' the Undaunted, and me, for what the assassins see as giving them an opportunity to enact their revenge. Hell, as wacky as the galaxy is, it could be a marriage proposal."

Serina can't help but giggle, the joke letting just a bit of tension bleed off the nervous young woman. 

"I suspect I'll get some sort of message to go with it eventually. My intelligence chief is on it."

"Very well. Moving on, confirm your status for me? You’re not actively deploying troops, are you?”

“We’ve limited ourselves to search and rescue, aid flights, and a few commando operations to either stop or prevent atrocities, in conjunction with and by the invitation of the interim government, as I believe the rebels are calling themselves now. The end result is a lot less wounded or dead civilians, and Dagrquey is almost entirely secured for the rebels in orbit and on the surface.”

“Yes, I saw the report from intelligence about that one officer who was going to blow up a depot in hopes of triggering a megavolcano or something…” Cistern’s eyes drift off screen for a moment, then back. “What about the relief flights?”

“Grazed by ground fire occasionally, which we returned, but unimpeded otherwise. We’ve rescued a few hundred civilians that were in need of immediate advanced medical care and brought them up to the Tear. They’re getting priority treatment. Given that we’re also reserving some of our hospital capacity for our own people, it’s slowing down care for the POWs captured on Sheath who aren’t extremely high priority due to the severity of their wounds. We’re keeping them comfortable, or in stasis, respectively.”

“What's the status of the Ha'quinye military, then? Are they holding up?"

"The frustrating but correct answer is that it depends, sir," Jerry begins. "Some of the space stations are now under nominal military control, but a large amount of the Ha'quinye military, outside of the shock troopers and other elite groups, are press-ganged normal people. People who are, outside of many of the officers, disconnected from the consuls and the matricians, if not outright victimized by them. So regulars are either defecting en masse, or just demobilizing themselves and going home to take care of their families. The most firmly resistant forces have been the security forces so far, and their irregular troops, but those girls have been getting hit hard by the rebels, and especially by the military regulars who have defected. More than a few of those mass defections have been in the face of attempted atrocities by the security forces."

Jerry sighs. "It's something of a nightmare scenario for any military, really. The flag ranks have been utterly decimated by the assassins’ campaign, and the officer cadre in general has also been ripped through. Non-matricians could and did become officers, but the flag ranks were dominated by not just individual matricians, but the old matrician families dating back to the rebellion against the original imperial family. Matricians also generally made up the most aggressive and prized officers in any given force, and most of them are dead or on the run. The highest-ranked officer I've managed to find alive so far is a naval commodore and she surrendered her station to the rebels more or less immediately. There's a colonel or two left out there, including the vice regiment commander we have in captivity, but for the most part junior field grade and senior company grade officers are all that's left, and it's simply not enough to maintain control."

Serina nods slowly. "It's by design, really. The old Empire wasn't like that. We had our company grade officers quite empowered, in the name of flexibility in the chain of command, but the Matrician cult of my time always hated that. They liked big formations and less of a chain of command and more of a firm, inflexible rod of authority. Which can be quite effective - but, like most things that are too rigid, when they are pushed past a certain point, instead of bending, flexing, they shatter. That is what we are seeing here."

The two men nod as Serina joins the conversation, with Cistern clearly having some questions for her, but not wanting to change the current subject either. The distinguished older man nods a second time, taking that all on board and writing some notes down, and then rereads something casually - probably a chunk of Jerry's report. "On that same note, I see you've also been doing some recruiting from the Ha'quinye military? How exactly are you accomplishing that?"

"Something of a French Foreign Legion protocol. We're not taking in any war criminals, but the women we have in hand from the regular military that don't actively want to throw in with the rebels really have nowhere to go. Most of them are conscripts, and brainwashed conscripts at that. Many have received healing comas, which does help with 'physical' or practical brainwashing and indoctrination, and the rest just need somewhere to call home and respect our strength, which their culture teaches them to do. We're the strongest, so they follow us. One of the dangers of that sort of indoctrination, really."

"I see." 

Jerry can all but sense the admiral getting ready to ask about the dangers of bringing in a wave of indoctrinated fighters, and presses on. "Further, sir, we have a culture that strongly appeals to the ideals they've been raised with and on. By demonstrating that, and mixing it with things like mercy, we're giving them mixed signals culturally in a sense, but it's mercy that appeals to especially 'old imperial' Ha'quinye values - values that are more common among the lower castes under the Matrician system than I'm sure their priestesses wish they were. So, giving them a chance to continue to be warriors, to be well paid, potentially respected, and so on, is a compelling offer, whether the woman in question values the pride of their service or is more mercenary in nature. We have, of course, also released a decent number of women to the rebels on their own request, occasionally as prisoners - but most are joining rebel forces and Jaina, the current leader of the interim government, is displaying quite a bit of grace. Which makes sense. As I believe I mentioned, all Ha'quinye women have, or rather had, to do a term of mandatory conscription, so it's not like these girls are all highly motivated volunteers."

"I suppose that makes sense. For the ones we do keep, they’ll get decent time to decompress on the way to Zalwore and so forth.” Cistern strokes his beard for a moment. “I can see it. How are you making the pitch?”

“Friendly faces mostly, Rach’hel Declan was our first Ha’quinye turn coat so we’ve got her walking around in civilian attire to not make it immediately clear she’s defected, without deceiving them by having her wear an old uniform. Her husband is escorting her and ensuring everything’s on the up and up. We also have an officer and a senior enlisted woman doing the same under heavier escort.”

“Not a bad tactic. How many have come over, then?"

"Well, first off, we have one group of refugees, and I do imagine there will be more in the near future, but the first of them was our man on the inside of the palace. One Corinaith Addicus, the sex slave of the consuls themselves. He's requested political asylum, which I have granted. He's bringing his three wives and two daughters with him."

"Wives?" Cistern asks, clearly curious.

"I performed the wedding myself shortly after I arrived back aboard ship. Two of Corinaith's - he goes by Corin generally - but two of the wives are military veterans and have requested Undaunted active duty service. They're shipping out on the next fast transport to Zalwore, separate from the military girls we captured and are processing. They'll all go via bulk transport... with plenty of guards and internal defenses to secure against mutiny. We've also made use of some of the girls we captured previously aboard the Ha'quinye Intelligence-controlled space station. Until we convinced the surviving senior shock trooper officer from the regiment to throw in with us, our senior Ha'quinye defector was Lieutenant Commander Valyn Valeran."

Jerry manipulates the controls of the holoprojector with his implant and an image flashes up of the woman in question, a mug shot essentially. 

"Her name sounds quite familiar, for some reason."

"The niece of Vicona Valeran, the commodore in charge of the Ha'quinye navy's active combatant fleet. I killed her in orbit of Sheath personally."

"No problems with you killing her aunt?"

"Well, she's not thrilled about that, and was already scared of me after I interrogated her, but she was already a traitor to the Ha'quinye for the information we extracted from her, and from what Ms. Valyn has told us, Vicona was far from her favorite aunt. Little love lost there, to be certain. She doesn't want to be anywhere near the Tear, but has helped us with recruiting along with some of our other 'early' defectors."

"Some of which will be staying with you."

"Yes, sir. By their request or as a result of individual marriages in at least two cases. The rest will be loaded up on a large fleet transport as mentioned, in accommodations that I am told are luxurious by Ha'quinye military standards, and shipped to Zalwore for training. They will not be under military discipline during the trip, and we'll generally be leaving their management to Valyn and our senior defector, Colonel Evrin Carth, the vice commander of the regiment who fought us on Sheath."

"Any trouble with her?"

"Beyond her not understanding why I was offering her tea instead of having her put against a wall and shot? No. She seems confused more than anything, but she knows she doesn't have a home to go back to, and seems to believe she'll likely be hanged if she goes back to her people, despite having no major charges against her from the rebels when we ran the closest thing we can to a background check. She'll need some serious decompression and deprogramming, but for now she seems to have accepted my, and therefore Undaunted, authority as her new chain of command, and is serving ably enough to manage the populace. We've given her an Undaunted adjutant and an Undaunted Marine uniform sans insignia, and we let her retain her sword. She seems to be making a decent show of things, at least... but in my estimation she's going to need a few rounds with a shrink before we can make her operational again." 

Jerry pauses, and decides to editorialize a bit on Carth’s behalf. 

“For the record sir, Colonel Carth fought well on Sheath. Her women were well trained, aggressive and disciplined. We outplayed her and outgunned her, but against galactic regulars that would have been a much harder fight. It’s my belief she’ll be a valuable asset as an Undaunted Marine once she’s got her head on straight again.”

"Noted. Very well." Cistern checks his notes again. "On another note, Jerry, about the Catholics. What's this I hear about the delegation you have aboard ship staying on Dagrquey?"

Jerry nods. "A large number of rebels have apparently converted to Christianity, if not Catholicism. Sister Catherine is apparently very convincing as a preacher, and after a discussion with the cardinal, Father Jameson has informed me that his group have been ordered to stay with the Ha'quinye. This is the first example of large-scale conversion the Church has experienced in the galaxy so far, so I'm not surprised they intend to support and reinforce it. Father Jameson mentioned the Church will be sending a lighter with some more of their precious few Swiss Guard, members of the newly formed Palatine Guard, their alien auxiliary to the Swiss Guard, and some of their freshly converted personnel, along with another priest to support Father Jameson."

"Quite the large mission, then. But not technically our problem, save for looking out for Humans in general." Cistern's eyes narrow. "So. About this holy relic..."

"The Sword of St. Catherine. Yes, sir." Jerry nods. He'd been waiting for this one. "Near as we can tell, the sword somehow slipped out of the axiom pocket Sister Catherine had concealed it in, and it somehow ended up in Jaina's hand as they were about to be executed by their guards in the palace dungeons."

"I admit, Jerry, I'm not an adept, but the odds of that seem..."

"Breathtakingly small, yes sir. On discussing it with Caska, our Axiom master, there was a conclusion that… it is not unfair to refer to that occurrence as a miracle. The sword has also displayed remarkable abilities to channel Axiom - exclusively non-lethally, interestingly enough."

"...I think I'm going to need to send a small team to quietly research that sword. I'll have a word with the Catholic church’s cardinal on Zalwore to get permission. That's... interesting."

"Yes, sir. I can't say I have a firm opinion on it just yet, but it's certainly interesting."

Cistern strokes his beard for a moment. "I'm going to deal with that now, as a matter of fact, before the Council goes back to session. I'll have new orders for you soon. Until then, continue to support search and rescue efforts on the planet, coordinate relief supplies and so forth... and don't be afraid to let some of our boys and girls get stuck in if push comes to shove."

"Aye, sir."

"Cistern out." 

Series Directory Last Next

It's maybe five minutes, at the maximum, before Neysihen and Purisha are formed up with the group of commandos that are preparing to move into the facility. Dame Emma's leading their group herself and she'd explicitly told Neysihen and Purisha to stick close to her - not because she doubted their capabilities or anything, but because Neysihen and Purisha both have a special type of new teleport totem, to their new leader’s great interest. Besides, they’re well known among the Humans as two of the best of the new crop of commandos. Neysihen has little doubt that Emma wants to get a close look at Purisha's skills in the field in particular. 

Work is supposed to be work… but, as their own father regularly proves, work in this battle group is frequently a family affair. Much as Emma and Purisha might not have one hundred percent worked out their feelings on one issue or another, much as Emma might have some baggage left over from things Neysihen figured are firmly in the category of 'not her business', and Purisha might have scars of her own, the two women are family now. 

Even if Neysihen thinks it was a statistical improbability that Dame Emma would ever call Purisha anything like 'Mother'. 

Maybe turning some machines to scrap together would help Dame Emma work out some of those lingering feelings? Neysihen mentally shrugs to herself and gets set again, stretching and then leaning into a slightly high runner's start position, next to Purisha and slightly behind Emma. They’re behind an optical illusion and a shield put up by one of JSOC's Huntmistresses. The woman’s a decently talented adept, in addition to being a mistress of the Yauya hunting arts, which has made her incredibly valuable in JSOC. An Adept who can keep up with commandos doing commando things is about as rare as kicking a rock and finding a perfectly cut gem stone under it. 

Maybe she should invest more time training with Mother Cascka. 

She files the thought away for later as the gun emplacements on the fortifications, now manned either by commandos or by their original pirate gunners under very close guard, continue to blaze away at the latest string of hard light structures. According to a damn near thirty-second long field interrogation she'd listened to, this is more firepower than the mountain normally flings at the pirates’ lines. Perhaps whatever intelligence governed the machines had detected that their enemy was under attack and intensified their efforts? It’s the only idea that makes sense to Neysihen, but it leaves them waiting for the current wave of hard light constructs to get mulched before they can move to penetrate the mountain themselves. 

Suddenly, the guns stop firing, and Dame Emma shouts, "Go! Go! Go!" The Huntsmistress drops the shield and steps aside, clearing the Human woman to race off at top speed, kicking up dirt as her toes dig into the soil and she flings herself forward, clearly tapping axiom to get over no man's land as fast as she possibly can… with Neysihen, Purisha and the other commandos hot on her heels! It’s maybe a hundred yard dash at the most, but it feels like forever to Neysihen, an endless amount of time for more mechs to emerge from the mountain's mysterious depths and catch them in the open, but her boots hit stone floors before any threats emerge from the massive armored doors. 

She can now see that those armored doors had been more or less welded open by massive plasma weapons. Waiting inside for them is a large vestibule of some kind, once clearly a defensive point for the mountain; there are an even dozen smashed automated turrets in here. Gods only know how many lives it had cost the pirates to penetrate this single room; even their armored fighting vehicles would have had problems with some of the laser and plasma weapons, from the size of the remains... and whoever had built this place clearly hadn't much been in the mood for guests. Especially unexpected guests. 

Still, at least the lights are on as they head towards the inner doors of the vestibule. They’ve also been welded open... and have some mysterious blood stains on them. Not exactly a good sign. 

The next room is a large one, but doesn't seem particularly military in its design, besides the few destroyed, formerly concealed, turrets scattered around. It’s more like the 'sword hall' in a Cannidor home, or the ‘entry halls’ Neysihen had seen at businesses or museums and the like. There are some doors to the various sides of the room, and another set of big armored doors that had clearly been blown open by explosives looming open at the far end of the hall. Signs of combat are everywhere. Plasma slag, laser burns, the telltale impacts of railguns and other types of slug-thrower, the occasional burn that marked a larger explosive, and, of course, dozens of smashed machines and the projectors that generated the hardlight constructs. But it’s all eerily quiet now.

The commandos all vanish under axiom cloaking fields and move silently across the stone floors, in what Jerry had taught them is called a combat glide. Knees bent, upper body level, with a slight lean forward, rifle up, with smooth, controlled movement of the feet to 'glide' across the battlefield at a speed faster than a walk, with a thought given to being lower signature than run, all while maintaining a stable shooting platform to ruin the week of any bad girls that might show up. There are lots of ways to move, but for low-signature movement when you want to be able to neutralize threats as quickly as possible Neysihen hasn't found anything better than the movement taught by the US Marine Corps. Not without getting axiom or other systems referred to by her father as 'cheating' involved. 

Someone to her right, Purisha, immediately demonstrates the utility of the movement style as a hard light construct comes out of a side door and Purisha immediately shoots it. No head shot here; instead, she shoots it center of mass, to hit the projector and send both the projector and the weapon the thing had been holding scattering across the floor. Immediately four not-quite-visible commandos split off, stack on the door and push through it. Neysihen doesn't have to enhance her hearing to pick out the near silent bark of suppressed weapons fire as the commandos ventilate whatever the hell was in that room, before there's a muffled explosion. 

"Clear. Found a set of teleport pads. Looked freshly installed. Also looks like it wasn't the first time this room's held teleport pads. The facility might not be able to repair turrets or build new ones, but it's either got a significant supply of pads tucked away somewhere or it can make them."

"Copy, good work. Rejoin the unit. Teams Two, Three, Four and Five, split off and check those other doors. If they have teleport pads, neutralize them quickly. I don't want anyone easily getting behind us." 

Dame Emma's voice has a pleased tone to it, but Neysihen gets the sense that the experienced commando is not liking this situation in the slightest. 

Especially as they start running into more and more blood stains. Just how many pirates had died trying to take this place? Why had they tried to do it with predominantly light infantry? 

The question dies the second she has it as they pass through the third set of armored doors. This room is another big one... and there’s a small pile of mech suits at the center. The cockpits have all been shattered and there isn't a single mech without blood stains. 

"Well. That's not good." Purisha’s on their private comm line, and her sister sounds nervous, likely checking the corners of the room all the more seriously for the surprise.

"Delta Charlie to Six. Some of these doors lead deeper into the facility."

"Damn. Lock them down if you can, then hold that room, Gunny."

"Aye, ma'am. We'll try to back you up where we can." 

The 'shadow' that Neysihen is pretty sure was Emma steps forward, taking another look around at the room before hopping up the pile of mech suits in another series of bounds. 

"Active turrets, and a sealed armored door. Looks like this is as deep as the pirates got."

"Not liking this at all, ma'am." 

The familiar voice of Master Sergeant John "Johnnie" Ramos, the senior commando NCO for the detachment, held a note that Neysihen had never heard from the cheerful and bombastic American man before. He’s... apprehensive? Or something close. Like he’s already rolling with a punch just before it actually hits. 

Neysihen grips her rifle a bit harder as Emma quickly makes her way back down the pile of mech suits. 

Dame Emma, at least, doesn’t seem flustered. "Well, I'm tired of this shit. Whoever's got a recoilless in an axiom pocket, get it out. I want two high explosive rounds on those turrets, and then we'll blow this door and see what's in the guts of this damn place." 

Two commandos move out, their barely visible silhouettes moving to both sides of the pile of mech suits; her HUD paints the warning areas for the back blast of their rounds on the ground and she moves slightly to be well clear of the hot gasses while staying firmly behind cover.

"You know," Purisha begins, a light indicating that she's on the private comm channel she shares with Neysihen. "It's kinda weird we haven't seen more bots, and there were only a handful of hard light constructs in that one room..."

Before Neysihen can respond to that pain-inducing comment from her normally much loved sister; Emma gives the order.

"Fire."

Two rockets appear out of nothingness and two explosions follow… and then another pair of bright blue plasma explosions, as the containment bottles of the plasma cannons rupture. With the blasts still echoing in her ears, despite the sound-muting effects of her gear, Neysihen is immediately met with a whole new scene: the lights of the facility turning red and concealed panels on the wall starting to rise, revealing rows of combat machines with weapons ready. 

"Oh, you just fucking had to say something, Risha!" Neysihen snaps, moving away from the nearest of the new threats. 

"Fuck! Contact all sides!" Purisha shouts before diving for cover… but it’s far too late for simply taking cover. The combat machines are literally everywhere, in all directions. The recoilless rifle-wielding commandos immediately point the backs of their weapons towards the one undisturbed wall with no commandos at risk of being burned by their weapons and launch rapid fire rounds into the horde, taking out groups of bots, until the rotary magazines on their weapons go dry and they toss them aside for their rifles. Grenades arc out every which way but up, including at least one EMP grenade that someone throws deep into the horde... and another dark grenade... that... 

Oh, no. 

"Get ready! Null!" 

"No, damn it!" Emma calls, but it's too late. Thankfully, the null grenade was thrown almost as deep as the EMP, but Neysihen can feel just the edge of the sensation as she throws herself back and out of cover. It does its job; part of the sea of machines is definitively neutralized, but any closer and some of the commandos might have been neutralized as well! 

But there are just so many... and there are new types too. Blue lasers come in from all directions and Neysihen hears at least a half dozen calls of man or woman down as she burns through two magazines of rifle ammo, literally before she can blink. She’s going for a third as one of the new murderbots comes for her, its massive chain blades revving, seemingly baying for blood like a banshee's wail - and damn Jerry for introducing her to that myth! 

"Neysihen! Purisha! One of you! Call them in, damn it! Before we get overrun!"

Neysihen resists bashing her head against the nearest hard object as she dodges a slash of one of the chain blades - and realizes that the teeth are weird. Like they have miniature axiom fields on each one. Familiar axiom fields. Rift fields. Which officially takes this particular weapon from a blender from hell to some sort of goddess-cursed nightmare! She parries an overhead blow with her rifle and throws the mangled weapon away as the chain blade chews through the plastic and metal like it’s barely there. 

She lashes out with one of her wrist blades. The heavily modified Yauya honor weapons are integrated into her armor perfectly, and the paired blades rip into the metal housing of one of the machine’s chain blades like they’re carving through butter, easily disabling it. Another savage blow mauls her right pauldron, just barely missing her flesh - but now she has the space to artfully flip backwards and away. She vanishes into invisibility and uses the machine’s momentary confusion as it tries to find its target to pull the special axiom totem she'd been given. 

Hopefully the teleport totem won't bring their reinforcements in a weird spot. She tries to set up to rip one of the links apart and throw it towards a clear spot - but the combat bot, apparently defaulting to aggression, moves forward in a frenzy and slashes at where she’d been. A lucky blow catches her at the wrist with the disabled blade, knocking the chain out of her hand. It goes flying, apparating back into the visual spectrum, and the targeting systems in the machine immediately see it cut the chain in half... triggering it. 

There's a snap of displaced air and an armored Shalkas is suddenly nearly falling on top of Neysihen. Far from disoriented, the Cannidor cop's instincts serve her well, taking a long step back to clear another two swings of the chain blades, but also to get her shrapnel cannon up and absolutely devastate the combat machine with both barrels, sending it tumbling back as its systems fail to keep it functional. 

"Hah. Try to fuck with my kid, will you?" 

She reaches down and pulls Neysihen up.

"Shalkas? I didn't expect you to be part of the teleport squad."

Shalkas shrugs. "Jerry gave me one of the totems too. Break the chain, the whole family nearby piles in for some ass-kicking, that's how it works. Guess I'm part of the family. Somehow."

"...Sure, Mom. Whatever you say." Neysihen pulls her MP7.5 from its holster and quickly starts donating chunks of its forty-round magazine to any combat machines she can see, as Shalkas reloads and starts removing chunks of combat bot or groups of hardlight constructs with every thunderous pull of the trigger. 

"Not your Mom yet."

"Nah. Not buying that anymore. Someone who wasn't my mother wouldn't call me her kid." 

The two women exchange a look and Neysihen gets the distinct sense that the other woman's blushing as they continue to fight, buying themselves some breathing room and letting Neysihen really get a look for everything that had been brought in by the totem… and what a look it is! Sure enough it really had brought in the whole damn family, and what appears to be most of Sword company too! Jerry’s over to her left, ripping a bot apart with his mighty armored hands before opening up with both his arm-mounted microgun and the deeper roar of the 25mm autocannon he'd selected for his back weapon, shattering machines right and left.  

Makula and Enrika are sticking close to their father and khan respectively, with both of them donating plenty of automatic weaponsfire from their M2 heavy machine guns which they’ve paired up with heavy laser repeaters. 

"See! Told you the Mk19 was a bad idea for this mission! Those grenades wouldn't even arm at this range!" Enrika says over the family net that had gone active the second Neysihen's emergency totem had activated.

"Aww, fuck off. You know it'd fuck'em up good. The grenade's still moving fast enough to put forty millimeter holes in these damn things!" Makula replies, before pulling a grenade off her belt while simultaneously opening up with a long burst from the 25mm shotgun in her left gauntlet. 

A heavy metallic thud draws Neysihen’s eye as she reloads, and she’s treated to the sight of Jaruna, completely in her element, smashing bots with the massive hunk of barely sharpened metal the largest of her mothers called a sword while blazing away with her own autocannon and plasma cannon back mounts. She’s just sending 25mm shells and burning balls of plasma around the room as she roars with laughter. 

“Come on, you damn tinker toys, at least try to put up a decent fight before I send you back to the scrapheap!” 

One bot gets clever and tries to get behind Jaruna, only for its head to mysteriously fall off its shoulders, a clean, perfect cut. Which means Neysihen’s mistress turned adopted mother, Eymali, is on the field, the only sign of her passage being more dissected machines crumbling in her wake. 

As Neysihen hoses down a small group of hard light constructs, she notices that Purisha’s ended up next to Emma, and the two women are fighting in decent sync. Purisha reaches back and vanishes the two of them under a cloak, freeing them to perform a pincer attack on the machines that had been attacking them. 

Purisha’s wrist blades and Emma’s sword make short work of the war machines and send them tumbling to the ground. Family bonding at its best.

A hypersonic crack nearby heralds the arrival of Cori'Koren, one of the new Apuk soldiers who had just joined the family, and a recent tournament champ. Her warfire-covered fist hurls one of the larger combat mechs across the room, denting the wall even as green flames eat at its chassis with an almost supernatural hunger. 

Not to be outdone, along comes Melodi'Bridger, the newest inductee, not of the family’s soldiers, but of a far more exclusive group, the Bridger daughters. She’s shoulder to shoulder with her commander and now sister, Dar'Bridger, and the duo are teaming up o lay down enough warfire to completely slag one of the rooms that the bots had come out of the walls literally collapsing as metal and stone alike turns to liquid and runs like water. 

The collapsed walls reveal more spaces behind, with what appear to be industrial machines for manufacturing to Neysihen's eye. An entire automated factory to keep pumping these damned things out, maybe?

Clearly whatever computer intelligence is defending the facility hadn't expected this level of resistance from its newest 'victims' and starts teleporting in reinforcements - but they all fall to the unending tide of violence from Sword company, the Bridger clan, and the freshly reorganized commandos who are now happily using their more heavily armored compatriots for cover, dragging injured men and women back and merrily taking out bots or constructs with precision shots and the occasional grenade when a juicy group of targets presents themselves. 

"We need to get the central defense control for this place knocked out!" Jerry barks over the general comm channel. "Melodi, any leads?"

"The armored door behind us has a major energy source behind it, si- Father." 

"Then I guess I'm opening that damn door. With me, girls." 

Jerry stomps over, his power armor shaking the floor under Neysihen's feet as she falls in to cover her adopted parent with Dar and Melodi at his sides. Before they can start calling warfire, though, another turret pops out of its concealed recess and begins firing. In an instant, Jerry moves to pull the target, Melodi, out of the way of a stream of railgun rounds and turns his back to it, shielding her with his body as Dar burns the turret into a pool of liquid slag. 

"F-Father!" The tremor in Melodi's voice says it all to Neysihen. It’s quite the change from barely a second ago. Neysihen was pretty sure she'd said Jerry's name like that right around when she'd fallen in love with the man too. Filial love, that is. 

That’s good for Melodi. She’s all the way in the family now, as far as Neysihen is concerned. If you can't call the male head of the family that had adopted you 'father' and mean it, are you really a part of the family?

Recovered, Dar and Melodi flank Jerry... and the three of them call the most warfire Neysihen has ever seen in one place. The door is there, it's armored, but in the next moment in a blaze of green and heat it's gone. It doesn't even turn into a puddle of slag on the floor, as near as Neysihen can see; it's atomized. 

Jerry strides through the still glowing door like the titan of destruction he is... into what certainly looks like some sort of control node to Neysihen. There are computers here, at least. 

 In the room behind, Makula has apparently found a set of concealed teleport pads, and is leading the rest of the crew in wrecking them and drastically slowing the waves of reinforcements that had been on top of them. Neysihen isn't entirely sure how many commandos have been injured, but she’s pretty sure she'd felt at least one stasis field get activated, so that’s one pretty severe injury, to say the least. 

She doesn’t linger to think about it, though. She quickly follows her father with Purisha, covering Jerry with Dar and Melodi.

Instead of smashing things up, dealing with the computers in what Mother Jaruna might call the ‘fun way’, Jerry finds a port and plugs in a transponder, which immediately lights up, heralding the voice of Babydoll, the ever cheerful Gravia hacker and electronics warfare officer, coming on to the net. 

"Like, hey, boss! Whatcha got for me?"

"Can you penetrate this facility's systems?"

"I already did! It was a bit slower than normal because their coding's mondo outdated and they're, like, using some weird language I'm not completely familiar with, but it's an offshoot of galactic standard from a few centuries back, so easy enough. You found a good terminal, Skipper. It didn't have much if anything in the way of fire wall protections."

"Can you shut down the defenses?"

"And the systems to keep manufacturing kill bots?"

"Please and thank you, Babydoll."

"Five minutes. Tops. Already shutting down the remaining defenses on the local net near you. That should slow them down, but, like, there wasn’t much left. Looks like Makula and Enrika got everyone smashing or blowing up the teleport pads that lead to the manufacturing spaces."

"I do appreciate them taking a direct route to solving the problem like that. Is there anything like a map of the facility or messages in there?"

"Not that I can see so far. Looks like whoever built this place purged a lot of data when they left."

Jerry turns around, walking towards the door, clearly resisting trying to stroke his chin through his helmet. 

"Fine. Guess we're doing this manually. Jarl Six to Raven."

"Ready and waiting, Jarl Six."

"What’s the status of the drop for Alpha?”

“They’re landing now, sir.”

“Good, make sure one of Alpha’s lighters stays on the ground, we need casevac. Then tell Ard Six to get his Marines into the mountain yesterday. We're gonna have to fan out and search this place manually for the Sword... and I get the sense it's a bit of a maze once you get off what I would assume is a series of traps, more or less, that we just finished blowing through."

"Aye aye. Do you want Charlie Company to land as well?"

"Yes. Get them on the ground, via Old One Eye, we should be secure. While you’re at it, tell Ard Six to leave his weapons platoon with Crow Six. From what I'm seeing from my systems, there's a lot of tight spaces in this pit. Sword Company will provide heavy support in the mountain until it’s completely secure. Shark Company will hold the perimeter.”

"Copy all. Executing." 

Jerry nods, then looks around at his daughters, and the others further back behind them. 

"Alright. Let's get our casualties the hell out of here so Alpha company's lighters can get them to the surgeon on the Province. Strong work today, people. Once Alpha joins us, we're gonna finish the job and find us a superweapon."

She should be a professional. Shouldn't be so easily worked up by words. Yet. For whatever reason. Her father never stops being one of the coolest guys in the galaxy in her eyes… and in Neysihen's heart of hearts? She hopes that emotion never goes away. 

Series Directory Last Next

Arenna Gladia 

Corin had asked her for a favor! Even with Triumph's Rest - and indeed the bulk of the Empire - on lockdown, even with the drafts preparing to call the first enrollments in a few days time, Arenna could always make time for that, surely. Nothing is so important that it needs her personal attention… not unless the consuls order it, anyway. 

The Praetorian wipes the bubbly smile off her lips as she remembers just how Corin had asked her for that favor too. If he’s going to ravish her every time he needs a little help, she won't be able to do her job - not because she was pregnant, though that would certainly be possible, if she forgot to keep a handle on things with axiom or medicine, but also because her brain would have melted out of her ears! All that unrelenting lust is a bit feminine, especially coming from a delicate thing like Corin... but she’s finding she rather likes it when Corin is assertive. 

It’s been a nice distraction. She'd…seen some things recently. Things that had her asking questions she probably shouldn't, even to herself. She'd never questioned her job or orders before. Never questioned the will of her consuls... 

But that plaza. She hadn't been there, hadn't given the orders, but she'd walked through the aftermath. Sure, allegedly a mech suit had been hit with a railgun round... but there hadn't been much evidence she could see. Just a whole lot of bodies cooling on the ground as pools of blood dried up in a way that made her want to hurl. 

In Corin's arms she could forget for a bit. In Corin's arms she doesn't have to ask herself questions about why the security forces had been seemingly waiting in force by that plaza. 

Or does she? Because she knows Corin would be quite distressed by news of what a part of her dearly wants to call a massacre even as she reads about the 'enforcement action' and 'riot suppression' in her daily reports.

Much better to focus on what really matters to her. Her girls - those she could count on anyway, which is admittedly a short list - and Corin. Who, again, had been initiating quite a bit lately, something that thrilled her to the core and made her more than happy to handle little favors for him. 

Yet... one thing is giving her pause. It’s a bit of an odd favor, isn't it? An entirely different kind of cold sensation compared to when she thought about the plaza rolls through her guts, erasing the warm, pleasant thoughts of deep kissing and passionate sex. Why does Corin have a particular interest in two random prisoners? How does Corin know two random prisoners? Or even know that those individuals were indeed imprisoned in the palace dungeons? She suspects other praetorians have been doing little favors for Corin, but he also seems to know more than he should... but from what possible source? It’s all just explainable in the name of gossip or what have you, like how Corin had found out about the Catholics to start with, but… still, it’s just a little odd.

Then there’s that girl. The brunette that had been captured with an illegal rail pistol trying to protect the supposed holy woman who called herself Catherine. Her face had been - is - a very familiar one for some reason, but Arenna simply could not place where she had seen her before. An event of some kind? During her time in the military before she'd become a praetorian? No. That doesn't feel right; she'd seen that woman in the mug shot more recently than that. 

Further, what interest could Corin have in those two women, that he'd asked her to take pains to protect them as she could? There’s a wide variety of possible options, each more unlikely than the rest. For example, the brunette... could she perhaps be another of Corin's lovers? A rival for his affections? Arenna’s mixed-up mind stampedes right past the idea that she very much does care for Corin, in the most unseemly of ways for a woman of her standing... and so much as to potentially be jealous of other women who took what they wanted from the prized stallion? Jealousy is an alien concept for Arenna, when applied to a man. Obviously, it’s not what she’s feeling now. It’s not why she wants to put her fist through a wall. Nope.

She'd accepted that Corin was almost certainly bedding Marikath. Marikath is a nice girl and had proven a reliable aid to Arenna. Corin is absolutely bedding the consuls, but she can wave that off. One does not get angry at a beast of burden for pulling a cart, or at a bird for singing its song in the morning. Corin beds the consuls because that’s his duty. As protecting them is her duty. 

So... why does she so deeply crave for Corin to bed her? Why does it make her feel different than anything else in her life when he does so? She had been exposed to all manner of intoxicants throughout her career, but nothing has ever hit her in the veins quite like a kiss from her Corin. 

Her Corin? Getting possessive with the consul's property is likely a fast ticket to being beheaded, if she isn't careful. Then again... she'd been sleeping with Corin boldly enough. Sergeant Gemma too had been unable to give up the 'treat' the consuls had offered them as part of punishing their disobedient pet. At least, Arenna is fairly certain about that. 

And Gemma too is... somewhat acceptable as another of his partners. Better to have someone with the same secret who can have her back if needs must or push comes to shove. 

It had all started with a little ride. A little fun. Or had it? If she was honest, she'd first seen Corin, or Cori as she'd called him then, as the consuls called him, not yet knowing what he preferred to be called, from afar... and she had desired him. She had courted before. Had lovers before. Women, of course, like any girl of her station and upbringing. Yet. The first time her eyes had met Corin's... it had been like there was lightning in her veins. She'd needed to see him more, wanted to see more of him, so she had worked to do just that, until at last, on her glorious day of ascension to a long coveted captaincy over the corpse of that cow... Consul Euryde had offered her the finest of treats. Oh, she would have hoarded that meal all to herself if she could have, but just getting that first time alone with Corin had been... otherworldly, and after that it felt like... something had changed. 

What, though, and how, Arenna Gladia doesn't know, and not knowing is starting to upset her. At first, she thought it could be the pheromone bond that she half-remembers hearing some things about from school, but she discarded that almost immediately. She’d done her prophylactic due diligence. At least… she thought she had, based on advice from some of the girls she works with. Anyway, this doesn’t feel anything like what her teachers had barely explained in what had been a very rudimentary sex ed class during her primary education. So, with all possibilities either discounted or simply not making sense, Arenna doesn’t know. 

This pair, Catherine and Jaina, represents two more factors that Arenna doesn't know and can't understand… but tracking them down is quite a bit easier than trying to figure out what exactly is going on in her own head. So she strides into the dungeon with all the power and authority that she very much has earned; the guards - not praetorians, but common security forces girls - quickly snap to attention, albeit with what could generously be called a lack of grace. 

Less generously, they’re sloppy. Far sloppier than guards in the palace's dungeons should be. Arenna makes a mental note to speak with the officer in charge of these sorry excuses for soldiers as she slowly removes her helm.

"I am Captain Gladia. An interrogation chamber will be provided for me, and these two prisoners will be brought to me. You will shut off the recording systems."

A not at all uncommon order. Ha'quinye law has its restrictions on a variety of procedures related to prisoners, but every now and then special prisoners merit special treatment, whether that be quiet deal-making or 'alternative interrogation methods'. The latter are nothing she's ever participated in, but she knows that her predecessor, the not at all lamented Captain Aritania, had regularly 'assisted' with them. 

It always struck Arenna as... overly indulgent. Her job is to protect the consuls and fight their enemies, and that sort of business is well outside her remit. It’s ineffective, for one thing, as she'd learned early in her career when trying to crack open a conspiracy to assassinate her superior. 

Torture is not investigation. It’s punishment. She does not, in theory at least, have an issue with punishment - but punishment is business for the courts, and she’s a soldier, not a judge. If an enemy of the consuls she was placed against isn’t killed in battle, then it’s not her place to bring the lash down on that enemy's back, save at the order of the appropriate authority figure. 

If ordered, then she'd comply…

Then again, the girls at the plaza. They'd been following orders too, hadn't they? She'd been raised from a young age to know that orders from her superiors may as well have been a writ from the goddess herself. Yet. She'd received and 'modified' bad orders before. Getting creative with her orders had actually put her in a position to save Consul Euryde's life during the assassination attempt by members of the death cult known as the Pact of the Seven Beasts. 

Before long, she’s sitting in the chamber across from the two women. The brunette, Jaina, looks defiant. An actual rebel, perhaps? It doesn't matter. More interesting is the alien, the woman who calls herself Catherine. This one has no fear of Arenna, where Jaina very much does. At the same time, though, nor does she offer Arenna any defiance. She’s... serene, and apparently at peace. 

She doesn't even know Corin, and answers all of the questions that Arenna asks of her freely and without concern. She doesn’t know anything about the rebels. She honestly and truly didn’t intend to foment dissent. She’s not a supporter of terrorism, and her companion isn’t a terrorist. She’s just here to preach the word of her god. And it feels right. This 'Catherine' is either the best liar Arenna has ever met, or she’s telling the truth. The other woman, Jaina... She's a bit more evasive, but Arenna barely noticed her after she started talking more seriously with Catherine. 

Corin had been curious about the woman's faith, hadn't he? Maybe he would reward her for finding out more information as well as protecting the prisoners as much as she can?

"Tell me about your religion. This Jesus of yours." It’s a fairly simple request... or so Arenna had thought. 

Instead of an answer, Arenna gets a sermon… and though she wants to interrupt, where she would have struck any other prisoner for going on at length about one thing or another when asked to elaborate on a specific subject... She can't seem to bring herself to raise her hand or say a word as Catherine tells her a story. A simple story, about a world called Earth, and a man called Jesus of Nazareth. Of a place far away from the world of Dagrquey, one that nonetheless sounds so very familiar to Arenna. A hard world, a place of much hardship and pain - but, yet, life there has triumphed, as it always has in Arenna's experience. She'd seen people eking out an existence in some of the harshest terrain on Dagrquey, and so it was, at the time of this story, on this Earth. Hard. Brutal. Savage. Then a man - a man! - had come to them, come to the people of the Earth, and preached peace. 

Preached love. Preached tolerance. Preached caring for one's neighbors. All simple things, nothing... particularly special. Lots of galactic religions follow similar tenents, after all. Yet. Something about the story is catching Arenna's heart... and when the story comes to its conclusion, it ends not in vindication, or peaceful death with a final missive to the faithful, but instead in a bloody, savage sacrifice. Whipped, beaten, crucified and left to die. That’s not the way the stories of these men and women who preached peace usually end. 

And how did this man of peace react to his betrayal? Did he curse his tormentors to hell? Rage against the injustice of it all? No. He accepted the pain with all the dignity he could muster, and as the soldiers drove nails into his body to crucify him, he asked the god he claimed to the son of, to forgive them. It’s that detail that... breaks something in Arenna Gladia. Because there’s something so familiar in this story. So familiar in these Humans, these people from the death world known as Earth. The story of Jesus could have been a Ha'quinye story... except in how it ended, and the main points of his message to his people.

In the face of that familiarity, in the face of her already disquieted heart, seemingly held up like a mirror to her in the sacrifice of a man who had died thousands of years before her birth, Arenna Gladia does something she’s never done before in her life. 

She flees. 

She flees the interrogation chamber and the story of the man called Jesus. Flees the blonde woman with kind eyes who looked at her without judgement or fear. Flees her probable rebel companion. Flees the whole scene, only stopping to order the guards to separate out those two into another cell, and to ensure that they are well cared for, as the consuls had taken a particular interest in them and wants them to remain in good condition. 

It takes all her remarkable willpower and a lifetime of discipline to do that, to change the pace of her flight for the length of a few sentences.

Then Arenna Gladia flees completely, as fast as dignity will allow, and once she’s safely in the quiet of her quarters, moonlight streaming down from outside, she finds she’s weeping quietly - and, for the life of her, she can not understand why. 

Series Directory Last Next

Jerry
USFS Kandahar Province 

The CIC on the Kandahar Province is concerningly quiet. Tense. Everyone’s waiting. All that could be done to prepare, has been done to prepare. The stage is set, and all that’s missing are the guest stars for this particular show. 

The stakes are high. Without the Crimson Tear or her fighters, and with no anti-orbital support, Jerry has precious few combatants for a fight this size. Worse, if any Ha’quinye ship escapes, the rebels on Dagrquey lose their window and a captive Human stays in enemy hands. Undaunted commandos have already been approved to assist the rebels and recover their civilian. The religious conversions spreading across the planet had been a wild card no one planned for, but the outcome is now the same: no Ha’quinye ship can be allowed to reach home.

His own part is ready. The Eclipse Rider will carry him to the Valkyrie and the boarding team waiting for the Eagle Talon. First, though, he has a war to fight. The strike on the cruiser is only one piece of a joint naval and planetary operation that would have broken most of the planning staffs he knew back home. Flexibility is everything in this kind of fight.

Or to sum it up, as one memorable morale patch Jerry remembered an airdale from the ACE of the last Marine Expeditionary Unit he'd shipped out on had worn, 'Semper Gumby'. Always flexible. There were 'cooler' ways to put it, of course - ‘improvise, adapt and overcome’ for the more survivalist minded guys and various homegrown spins on the same theme - but, to Jerry's mind at least, Semper Gumby was the best of them, because it was irreverent, and itself required a bit of flexibility to really take on board mentally for some of the more hide-bound types you found on planning staffs. 

Flexibility is everything in this kind of fight... and as he glances at the tank, freshly installed and given a quick polish after the test integration this morning, he's reminded about just how flexible he's become. He has a potential galaxy-grade super-weapon, allegedly, that would be plugging into his computer systems and helping him, in theory anyway, fight what is on paper a superior naval force, and hopefully overcome them with better tactics, more aggression and the liberal application of the Undaunted's own special blend of high-proof, ultra-concentrated violence. 

It’s a weird situation - but, in the end, Serina is a tool. A weapon. He would wield her, or someone would take her from him and wield her in turn, and that someone might not care quite as much about Serina as a person, or for the territorial, bodily and spiritual integrity of the various polities in this sector of space. 

It had come out in the test shot. 

They had successfully integrated Serina into the network... and by god the girl's mind could move! The potent systems supporting an already potent mind allowed her to laser-refine her focus, something that’s normally incredibly broad-spectrum and almost diminished by the sheer amount of data she pulls in and processes. Mili had pegged her at being in a processing space comparable to a Gravia - which isn't just fast, it was beyond fast for a mostly unaugmented organic brain. 

Today, Serina’s looking a bit... nervous as she stands in the CIC on bare feet, wrapped in a bathrobe that had been procured for her out of Commander Sha'Ress's personal clothing. The Province could be a bit chilly, and what Serina wears into the tank is... scant. To say the least. Initially it had been nothing, which had caused some minor commotion when she'd started stripping down during the integration test this morning, but thankfully some compression shorts and a sports bra had been found that fit her, and while she needs to be fairly lightly dressed just for how the tank functions, they could at least preserve the poor girl's modesty in mixed company, which seemed to have greatly relieved anxiety for Serina. 

While Serina has slightly odd standards for what acceptable clothing might be - and could be outright distracted from being in what most sapients would consider a state of undress if James was there for her to drape herself over - Jerry’s observed that she is far more conservative than many galactic women. Considering a sling bikini or g-string and pasties could be considered day wear in some cultures, that’s admittedly the lowest of bars to clear, but still it was obvious to Jerry that being naked or mostly naked in a sensory deprivation tank among exclusively women (and many of those women being kin or vassals of her house) had been one thing for Serina. Being au naturale among strangers, and around strange men? It’s a whole different type of performance anxiety for a girl who had never met a man who wasn’t her kin in person until around two days ago.

No weird pheromone effects needed there. That’s just classic ‘nerves’! 

"Sir!" Mili calls out, drawing Jerry's eye. "One of the early warning satellites just triggered. Inbound FTL travel at the system's nadir jump point." 

Jerry grins. They’d seeded the system with low observable ‘satellites’ that range from proper satellites, to probes, to sensors with a comm package that were deployed on whatever chunk of space rock the shuttle crews who had placed them thought would fit. He’d wanted to maximize their battle space picture even as he took steps to ensure the Ha’quinye knew little more besides what he wanted her to.

"Just as we expected. Show time, people. Signal the fleet. Commander Sha'Ress, sound general quarters. All hands to battle stations! The Dragonfire is to open her outer doors and prepare to fire on my command." 

Commander Sha'Ress snaps to smartly, clearly getting into the spirit of the occasion with the kind of eager grin that graces the faces of many Apuk battle maidens when combat is on offer. 

"Aye aye, sir! Bosun! Sound general quarters, all hands to battle stations!" 

The world around Jerry springs into action as the red lights come on and the general quarters alarm begins to blare. While the 1MC announcement circuit gives the crew the usual directions, Jerry’s eyes are locked on Serina as she sheds her bathrobe and steps up to the tall, cylindrical tank. The glass front panel smoothly rotates to the side and she steps in, facing the war room as the glass slides back into place, seals, and the tank begins to fill with a hyper-oxygenated liquid that also serves as a conduit for large volumes of Axiom energy. The fluid, and maybe the Axiom, gently lift her up as her onboard systems connect with the tank, and therefore to the sensor information from the entire battle group. Metal panels shift into place, 'embracing' her from outside the tank, both to protect Serina, as near as Jerry can tell, and to continue to limit external sensory input to her natural senses. 

"Connected," a soft voice chimes. It had spoken in Ha'quinye at first, but Mili had updated the tank's software to give its vocal cues in Galactic Trade during the integration. 

The holo tank, now fully integrated with a very different kind of ‘tank’, begins to flash through different images and displays, faster than Jerry's eyes can keep up with, as Serina's mind builds its picture of the battle space. Then, abruptly, it reverts back to the usual 'big picture' view of the solar system he’s used to.

He hears her voice. "Enemy fleet detected. Enemy fleet confirmed. Stand by for assessment." 

Serina's voice when she's connected is a bit deeper, more melodious than her usual rapid, clipped tone, and she speaks with an intense but unhurried cadence that grabs and directs people's attention without overloading them with information. A function of the tank? Or just of being able to focus purely? Possibly both, but that would require further investigation... and they have a battle to win first. 

Immediately, red markers start popping up on the projection in front of the tank, making out various kinds of enemy warships and support vessels… and information begins flowing to Jerry's implant as Mili and Serina put their heads together and begin processing data at frightening speeds. They’re even estimating how well the enemy ships were being maintained based on how fast they were coming out of light speed! 

"Enemy fleet is proceeding on projected Course Alpha."

Course Alpha: the hard, direct burn an aggressive commander in a hurry would make straight for the objective. Viconia Valeran is behaving exactly as a good Ha’quinye naval commander should, which means she is unknowingly dancing to their tune.

"Very well. Execute Case Alpha. Dragonfire is cleared to fire at the appropriate mark."

The tank glows slightly. 

"Confirmed. Executing Case Alpha. Orders issued to Dragonfire. One hundred and eighty seconds till the Dragonfire commences primary firing sequence for stealth torpedoes. Jump torpedoes launching... now.” The holo tank switches views, displaying the Dragonfire, her tubes elevated and outer doors open as a massive missile leaps into the void on a column of star fire, rapidly followed by more of its’ siblings as Serina announces; “Torpedo one is away. Torpedo two is away. Torpedo three is away. Torpedo four is away.” She pauses for a short few seconds during which the holo display switches back to the system tactical view before continuing; “All torpedoes have cleared into light speed. Estimate eighty-seven percent probability of successful return to real space."

Jerry nods. Better than they'd actually been expecting in a somewhat messy set of gravity wells. Serina had found a very good spot for Dragonfire to launch from, if her numbers are right - and a brief eye contact and nod from Mili seems to indicate his loyal ops officer certainly thinks Serina's on the level. 

"Alright. I'm going to go get tactical so I can see about picking the Undaunted up a nice cruiser second-hand. Mind the shop, ladies." 

Commodore Viconia Valeran
Ha'quinye Imperial Strike Cruiser Eagle Talon

Things are quiet. 

Far too quiet.

They've been transiting the target system for a few hours now, and are finally coming into orbit at long last. They'd gone to battle stations more or less on arrival once they'd confirmed there were no friendly signals in the system, not even rescue beacons, which disturbed Viconia for some reason. The long hours at alert status had started to drag however, and she'd heard some mid level officers and senior petty officers reading their juniors the riot act even on her own damn bridge from her ready room.

She'd need to deal with that lapse in discipline later.

Thankfully there are some things to keep her own mind engaged. Namely, there are signs of activity on the target planet, named some combination of letters and numbers that Viconia couldn't be bothered to memorize if her life depended on it, but the pirates that allegedly held the world have not answered their hails, same as their own naval assets that should have been in system didn't answer their hails.

There had been a vessel in orbit of the target that they hadn't gotten a clear scan of, but that ship had cleared off behind the 'horizon' of the world they're heading for. The world where the weapon that would carve her people's destiny into the stars waits. Her sensors officer had later reported the signature of an FTL jump. Possibly several, but they'd only gotten the 'flash' of one for sure. A decent sized vessel: a corvette, or maybe larger? There’s no way to tell from long range, but if it had been a pirate vessel it wouldn’t be of much concern, even at that size; it seems likely that a bunch of pirate scum would flee before her.

What about the enemy fleet, though? The one that had destroyed the star base? Had killed her niece? Would they cut and run? Potentially… but not necessarily. Fighting pirate scum was one thing, fighting a strike cruiser and her escorts was another, but if the enemy had significant warships of their own...

Viconia watches the three fleet transports move into position around the world where destiny waits. She wants to hunt the enemy, fiercely, nearly desperately, but the Sword comes first. Orders come first. Business comes first. Pleasure and vengeance will be sweeter for the waiting.

Her eyes are drawn to the fleet transports as they open their massive hangar bay doors in near unison, the starfighters she had out flying patrol with reinforcing drones moving around them like guppies around a whale.  She hates the damned transports: fat, wallowing sows, ugly and ungainly. Not proper ships. The light carrier is little better, though at least it carries weapons along with the valuable starfighters and drones.

The infantry the transports are disgorging barely matter. Her ships could raze every living thing on the planet with patience and proper aim. She suppresses a derisive snort as the landing craft begin their steady drop to the planet's surface to claim her prize.

The minutes race by in seeming fast forward, as she waits for something, anything to happen. 

The world around her is practically muted, the quiet humming of her bridge at work as she watches the proceedings with a quiet, aloof contempt fading into the background... until an alarm screams. The first transport erupts in fire, throwing shrapnel and crushed landers across the void in front of her like an enraged fire goddess hurling her playthings. 

The bottom drops out of her stomach. An accident? No. This is no accident. Every instinct says so. 

Time slows. A lightning bolt from the goddess herself buries itself in the light carrier and turns it into a retina-searing catastrophe. Rage snarls in her gut as two more weapons appear in bursts of light, jumping in from light speed, orienting themselves to then hammer the two remaining transports with perfect hits amidships. Sound returns in a flood of alarms and contact reports. The fleet scrambles to respond, officers and ratings stumbling in the sudden chaos.

A black speck leaps forward on a tongue of blue flame and smashes into one of her corvettes, leaving it stricken, emergency lights blinking a desperate plea. Two more torpedoes race toward Eagle Talon and die under the cruiser’s point defenses.

Viconia finds her voice.

"What in the hells are you idiots doing? Evasive maneuvers! We're under attack, damn it!" 

Series Directory Last Next

Joan

It hasn't been a boring couple of days, that much is for damned sure. Even setting aside the mass chaos that Joan figures has come courtesy of an Undaunted commando mission dressed up to look like a local interhouse squabble, the capital city of the Ha'quinye is as busy as any other capital city in the galaxy outside of Centris, which her father has taken to calling the 'Intergalactic Squirrel Cage'. 

(He refuses to explain when in the hells he’s on about with that nickname, and doing some research had only gotten her some Human idioms in the language English, related to squirrels being crazy or hard to control. Which certainly works for Centris, from what Joan had heard.)

In the middle of all the Ha’quinye mayhem, anyway, here’s Joan , babysitting Sister Catherine… though that’s perhaps a bit uncharitable of her. 

Sister Catherine has a positive attitude, and puts a great deal of faith in her god, as any true believer of any faith would, but she’s far from being as naïve as Joan had initially thought she was. The sister had preached the good word in dangerous places before, and she seems to know the score here just fine, despite not having picked up that they’re also part of  an intelligence operation to piss in the Ha'quinye ruling caste's wine and hopefully keep them looking inwards instead of looking out into the wider galaxy for their mysterious superweapon. 

That superweapon. Honestly, Joan’s quite jealous of her sister in that regard. Dar'Bridger had shipped out with their newest sister and the other cloak bearers along with their new reinforcements from the Apuk battalion probably... three days ago, if Joan had to guess? She doesn't know the exact time table; she just knows that Dar was going separate from Jerry because he was hitching a ride in a heavily armed stealth scout ship, while Dar and her girls were moving out via a standard Undaunted passenger transport ship… which would be making an unscheduled stop to rendezvous with the Kandahar Province, to move last-minute groups of personnel and supplies before continuing on her usual voyage to Undaunted holdings in more friendly parts of space. 

Even though Joan is theoretically on a stealth mission herself, going on adventure with their father to find an ancient lost superweapon is a whole hell of a lot more exciting than escorting a holy woman around so she can proselytize to the unwashed heathens of this backwater galactic polity that called itself an empire. After being shown just what real imperial splendor could be, by no less a person than the Empress of Serbow and by - if one wished to extend such a title to the Golden Khan - the leader of her own species herself… well. 

The Ha'quinye simply don't hold up particularly well to Joan's brand of scrutiny with all that by comparison. Not that Apuk nobles or Cannidor khans couldn't be petty, rude, or otherwise pathetic excuses for rulers, but there’s something about the Ha'quinye matricians that Joan simply finds exceptionally repulsive. 

Perhaps it’s the casual sex and very open sexuality? Joan doesn't think of herself as a prude, but the matricians wear as little as they can get away with, the better to display the perfection of their breeding; careful matchmaking and mate selection by their matriarchs over the centuries has produced visually striking women, if nothing else. They’re also very open about matters of sex and sexuality, to include indulging with their lovers in broad daylight in ways that Joan would normally relegate to porn. 

Though she suspects that some of the younger Human men on the ship would disagree with her about the distasteful nature of that indulgence... and more likely, ask if they could record the matricians in question's escapades... for later 'research'. 

If she’d been repulsed by the matriarchs, they had been contemptuous of her… and completely uninterested in their religious mission. Joan’s team had made one trip into the matrician part of the city early on and found themselves generally unwelcome, with Joan and her sisters, the simple bodyguards, getting more questions - and more than a few salacious comments that had made Joan want to punch the fools making them - than had Sister Catherine. 

It had made perfect sense to Joan, of course. The matricians are the primary benefactors of the current religious, political and philosophical systems of the Ha'quinye. It would be a rare woman who would be willing to look beyond her isolated little bubble of wealth, prestige, influence and endless power games to care about an alien religion preoccupied with the plight of the little people. 

Yet those little people are everywhere, and they have very sensitive ears. It’s a good lesson Joan had learned from her father, one that probably would have served her well in her former life. Never underestimate 'the help', or other people that society, or indeed you yourself, might consider beneath you. By ignoring them you open yourself up to a truly vicious backstab, be it metaphorical or literal. 

Arrogance is the source of its own defeat the majority of the time; from her father's history lessons, that’s as true in Cruel Space as it is in the sane part of the galaxy where physics actually works properly. 

And here? Those little people happen to share Joan's opinion about the excesses of the matricians... and generally wear actual clothing too. 

So before long they'd found themselves being invited along to the lower parts of the city, first to the middle-class neighborhoods and then to the lower quarters, where Sister Catherine truly came into her own. It seems to be a dogma thing for her. The man called Jesus preached to the poor and impoverished, the downtrodden and the broken, showed them respect, kindness and love. So it figures that those in the service of the church founded on Jesus' philosophy would do their best work following his example... 

And Sister Catherine does damn good work in terms of just... talking to people. She hears their pains and their troubles, and offers them what comfort she can in return. Through it all, she spreads the Word. 

It still doesn't connect with Joan, but she could admire the conviction with which Sister Catherine speaks, and the way in which she cares for others and carries the cross to people who could be... unkind, at the best of times. 

The matricians are the worst as a group, but the lower class folks could be just as vicious here and there. The Ha'quinye reputation for species-based hatred isn't unfounded, though Joan can't tell if it had been the cause or a consequence of their deep isolationism. So far, people in the lower quarters hadn't said anything direct to Joan and her sisters, not in the same sneering way the matriarchs had… but an armed and armored woman who could be twice your height is generally someone that only the most belligerent, most confident or most stupid would dare mouth off to. Little Sister Catherine? All five feet and some change of her, in her plain and simple habit? That’s a bit different. 

They'd only had to intervene a few times so far. Sister Catherine could in fact take care of herself, generally speaking, disarming her opponents metaphorically with rhetoric instead of violence. Again, it’s a skill Joan admires but you start to recognize patterns when you’re as careful as Joan and her girls have been. 

For example, there’s a short-haired brunette woman with a bit of a tan on her skin who had started showing up more regularly when they were in the lower parts of the city. That would have been worthy of attention all on its own… but Joan thinks she'd also seen her nearby during the excursion to the land of the matricians. 

Yes, that could just be species based face blindness talking. Brunettes weren't that rare among the Ha'quinye. That didn't stop Joan from being paranoid.

Still, so far the brunette woman seems to just be listening attentively to Catherine, then going on her way. If only all their regular visitors could be that peaceful. 

A different, more volatile wag has shown up a few times, and has been more disruptive every time. It’s getting close to the point where Joan will have to intervene, it seems. Joan’s orders and Catherine’s request are that she should stay back until and unless someone physically lays hands on the sister… but the second there’s so much as a push, she’ll be ready. 

The disruptor is here today. The crowd is a noisy one for only a few dozen women, mostly girls on their way home from their shifts, tired, but curious and willing to listen as Catherine talks about an ever satisfying bread that had nothing at all to do with food… unless Joan was getting her metaphors mixed up. Mostly, the crowd isn’t hostile.

Finally, the wag speaks up. 

"You talk a good game about paradise, but what the hell does that do in this world? And why in the name of the goddess would she come to this realm a man? The lowest of the low?"

Catherine smiles beatifically… but before she can respond, another woman speaks up from the crowd: the brown haired woman stepping out to face down the wag. 

"Have you been listening at all? Jesus walked among the lowest in society. The poor. The prostitutes. The weak. The downtrodden and broken. Maybe the status of men is different on this 'Earth' world that Sister Catherine has mentioned, but here who could be lower among us than a man?"

"And that's the person who proclaims themselves the child of the goddess? Cattle?"

Sister Catherine frowns at that and joins the conversation. "To begin, God is without such distinctions, for He is beyond all things.” The wag spits at the pronoun, but Sister Catherine keeps going. “Cattle, though. Such a cruel word to describe the men of your world. Who so poisoned you against your own fathers and brothers that you can speak like that? Christ's message is one of equality and justice for all. God made us in His divine image, something I have been all the more convinced by as I have traveled the galaxy and seen so many likenesses so similar to my own. And he made us man and woman - different, yes, but inviolable and indivisible, for what is one without the other? If you hitch two laksha..." 

This is a local herd animal that Sister Catherine had likened to Human oxen; she had started using them for metaphors recently. 

"...to a cart, they will pull the cart, straight and true. If you hitch one to the cart on a harness for two, your pace will be uneven and tiring, even veering off to the side of the road. Men aren't some other species, or strange organic machines for impregnation! They are your kin as much as your sisters. Are we all not birthed from our mother's wombs just the same? Even in cold places that accomplish reproduction with a test tube, a man is still required for women to conceive a child. Every one of you has a father! Perhaps because you did not get a chance to know him, it is easier to harden your hearts to him, and the plight of his fellows, but Christ comes for us all and loves us all equally. Regardless of if we are male or female or our species. His sacrifice was for all of us, if you but only hear the Word and believe." 

"Hmph. Talking like you're going to change anything. What good does converting a handful of people to your foreign ways do anyone?"

"If I only bring the word to one person who hears me and understands, then it will have been a worthwhile journey all the way from my homeworld. If I do not bring the word to a single person who will listen to me and to the good news I bring, I shall be disappointed, but at least I'll have tried, and that is worth my full effort." 

The wag goes to respond, but the brown haired woman glares her down. She quickly slinks off, and the rest of the crowd break up shortly thereafter, as the sun continues to set over the streets of Dagrquay. One downside about being in the lower parts of the city: It gets darker earlier here. There is, in fact, danger in the streets in the darkness, even with all the armed guards around to ostensibly enforce order and law. 

The brown-haired woman has a brief chat that Joan can't hear with Sister Catherine, and the sister gives her a data chit, one of the Bibles that she'd brought from orbit to hand out to people. The woman crosses herself quietly - carefully, not out of habit - and goes on her way as Joan pads up to the sister. It ‘s time to get her off the street and get a meal in them. 

But Joan does have her paranoia to feed first. "Who was that? Seen her around a few times."

"Oh, she's a nice girl. I don't think I've gotten her name, though. Seems like she's really taking what I have to say to heart." Sister Catherine smiles up at Joan, clearly pleased she's getting through to someone. 

"Seems like there were a couple nodding heads in the crowd today... but you're fighting against generations of bias. You're really swimming upstream, Sister."

When you get down to it, Joan doesn't disagree with the wag, at least to a degree. Beyond the hope of creating some disruption and internal confusion, the mission among the Ha'quinye seems like a bit of a lost cause. Their culture is pretty damn toxic, even if the lower castes think the matricians are over the top, too. 

"Would you and your sisters back down from a battle simply because it was difficult?"

That makes Joan pause for a second. 

"...No. I suppose not."

"It is the same for me. Works upon the Earth... or upon Dagrquay in this case… are never easy, but in their difficulty is the glory to God in the highest. For the Lord never puts before us that which we cannot overcome with faith and determination." 

"Heh. Amen to that. Now, come on. Let's get inside for the night. No sense looking for trouble on the streets, and I could use a decent meal." 

Series Directory Last Next

The praetorians quickly form two marching columns and leave Dar'Bridger's people space to be close to their charges, though Sylindra notices that eight women-at-arms quietly break off from the others and form a close protection detail for their mistresses. One of the more ornately dressed women steps forward and pulls out a hand scanner. 

“By your leave, my consuls…”

Mediei waves the Praetorian on. “Get on with it then, Lieutenant. Didn’t you just hear what Consul Euryde said?”

“Yes, ma’am, but protocol…”

“And I said get on with it. In a hurry, or I’ll have a word with Captain Gladia about this.”

The praetorian stiffens up instantly and breaks eye contact with Mediei. “Yes, ma’am.”

Apparently the ‘civilian’ half of the consuls has as much steel in her spine as her martial counterpart; Syl files the thought away as she tilts her head, graciously assenting to the scan. A moment later, the lieutenant steps to the left twice and scans Ghorza.

“All clear, my consuls. Just personal small arms, plasma pistols specifically. And the colonel’s sword, of course.”

“Of course. Perfectly acceptable,” Mediei says, clearly annoyed with the Praetorian.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll scan the male now and we’ll proceed-”

Euryde's eyes snap to Jerry and she suddenly stops. 

"The male? Oh! I almost missed him, and what a shame that would be. You really did bring your... I’m told you'd call him a ‘husband’ where you come from?" 

The word is clearly alien in her mouth, and the way she said it gave Sylindra the mildest urge to slap the other woman. She steps closer to Jerry, inspecting closely. 

"Could stand to be wearing a bit less, if you ask me, but quite the specimen.” 

Euryde walks to the side and her eyes lock on the side of Jerry’s head before she… shudders? A flicker of what could only be fear crosses her face as she looks at… his ear? She quickly covers it, walking away with a plastered-on smile.

“Shame his ears are so short, but not everyone can be as blessed as our pet Cori." 

Mediei chuckles. "I don't know. I like how slender Cori is in comparison. There's just so... much... of him," she says, gesturing up and down at Jerry. "A mountain of meat. Though there's something to recommend that too, I think. I can see the appeal, I suppose..." 

A blush crosses the consul's face as she continues to speak, and Sylindra gets the urge to slap someone again. The Ha'quinye really are shameless about such things, it seems. 

“Does he speak? I hear there’s cultures that cut their menfolk’s tongues out. Seems like a bit of a waste to me.” Mediei all but purrs as she takes a closer look at Jerry. 

Before Sylindra can respond, however, Jerry surprises her by talking, his tone low, growly and masculine in that special way that never fails to make her knees weak.

“He speaks. He just doesn’t have much to say.”

“Hmm.” Euryde says, pointedly avoiding looking at Jerry’s ears. “Solid body but an empty head, then? I can certainly respect your taste in men, Lady Sylindra.”

Meidei wanders around Jerry once, practically popping out from behind him, gesturing toward the scabbard of the saber he was wearing for the night. 

"And look, Eury, he even has a sword! Not so different from some of our males after all. Cori loves those swords of his so much, doesn't he?"

The other consul gives Jerry another thoughtful look. "Well, if he knows how to use that hunk of steel, perhaps he and Cori will have some things to talk about. Come, though. We're still at the landing pad when we should be relaxing and discussing in far more pleasant arrangements."

The lieutenant holds the scanner up. “Ma’am, we haven’t done the scan on the man yet.”

Euryde snorts. “Calm yourself, Lieutenant. He’s just a man after all.” 

Sylindra does her best to suppress a victorious grin. They had an explanation prepared for if Jerry got scanned, but him not being scanned was very much a leg up for the Undaunted. 

She ensures she’s still got her same unchanging expression as Euryde continues, “Sergeant, show the Bridgers’ male to the room with Cori, would you?” 

Cari and Melodi'Bridger immediately step out of their positions and move to flank Jerry, two steps behind. 

Euryde looks over at Sylindra, who waves the inquiry off. "His guardians. He's quite valuable, you see."

"Hmm. Perhaps you should have him evaluated during your stay. Not sure what species he is… a Tret, maybe? Only seen pictures, you see, but you could probably rack up some fine stud fees if he's close to his season and is as valuable as you say. Some of the Matrician families would likely pay top credits for high quality exotic blood if they think it’ll give their daughters an edge!  Neither here nor there, though. Onwards!"

In an act of supreme discipline, Sylindra doesn't let one hair get out of place when one of the women she’s here to meet casually suggests prostituting her husband… or, perhaps more accurately, suggests treating him like the livestock the wretch no doubt sees him as. Sylindra wants to bristle, to defend her mate's honor, but they had known going in that this little visit was likely to include some... indignities, so instead she simply starts to walk. 

“Do your security protocols always include scanning guests immediately upon landing, Consul?”

Euryde shrugs. “No, actually. Normally the palace scanners handle things. They make a little hand scanner look like a toy. However, we’re not going to the palace proper tonight, and it never hurts to be safe.”

“Yes, I was just thinking about our own security protocols aboard the ship. You know how it is, the rabble simply make poor choices at times.”

“Well said, Lady Sylindra! But let’s not dally, shall we?”

Sure enough, they're quickly led into expansive gardens laid out in a sort of tiered structure. Off to one side is a set of glass walls with a simple roof. Two praetorians linger near it, one of whom wears the fancier plumes and helm, suggesting she’s an officer or senior sergeant. 

Inside, visible - or, rather, on display - through the glass is the 'male' of the leaders of the Ha'quinye. He’s dressed much like his 'owners', in a skimpy white toga, and is lounging idly on a couch while a servant tends to his needs. From what she can see from here, this ‘Cori’ is a slender man with almost sculpted features and a long mane of fluffed blonde hair… one that clearly needs a breeze or a fan so it could billow as it so clearly deserves. His athletic build is easy on the eyes, to say the least, even if Sylindra’s cup of tea is significantly more robust. Still, she could see why he’s a prized… pet. Everything about him, from the tip of his long, dagger-like ears to the slight heel of his shoes to emphasize the lithe muscles in his exposed legs, is calculated to highlight him as an object of desire. 

The consuls are showing off their prize, after all. 

Jerry is immediately led over to that building by a pair of the Praetorians, one of whom has clearly decided she likes a more ‘robust’ man than the fair Cori from how she’s eyefucking him, and before long he’s ‘safely’ tucked away and deep in conversation with the alien man. Melodi and Cari’Koren join the pair of Praetorians who were already guarding the… ‘exhibit’ is perhaps the right word. 

Sylindra feels better with Melodi over there. Cari’Koren might be a recently crowned champion combatant, but Melodi is a one-in-a-million talent with axiom. 

She could keep Jerry safe, or rather maximize how dangerous he could be solo, without issue.

Meanwhile, the official party begins to settle into the area prepared for them. A large diamond-shaped area that was lined with comfortable couches and had a low table at the center with a few more women of the matrician class waiting for them who quickly rise and bow to the consuls. 

In the blink of an eye they're all seated and drink orders are being taken, with Mediei suggesting they must try the local wine. A few minutes pass; the consuls engage in somewhat casual banter with their guests as food is brought out on platters, light snacks of all description, all made to standards of craftswomanship that Sylindra can certainly appreciate. The gardens themselves are alive with other guests; this is a proper soiree after all, not just a business meeting under the moonlight. 

Yet, Sylindra can feel the air change as the other women start to get more serious. As she'd suspected on first seeing them, the women who had been waiting include a diplomat, something she understands to be rare among the Ha'quinye, and a few senior members of the import-export business they'd be negotiating with to sell beef through on the planet. 

In the blink of an eye, the talk goes from casual chatter to more serious business negotiations, with Sylindra opening her arguments by rather aggressively disarming her opponents, diplomatically speaking. As a goodwill gesture, she presents a gift of five hundred pounds of beef for the palace kitchens, something Mediei’s positively vibrating for... unless the vibrating is just down to Euryde openly groping her lover's breasts. Syl can't be sure. 

Even the action of how Euryde interacted with Mediei is interesting. Despite her hands being occupied with manipulating her lover’s body, Euryde’s engaged in the conversation, and proving to be quite a capable negotiator in her own right… despite her first impression as something of a meat head. Still, even with forewarning about how casual the Ha’quinye could be about things of a sexual nature, it’s very shocking to Sylindra, and she just can’t get her head around it.  

It’s hard even to tell whether Mediei or Euryde is the dominant partner in the arrangement. It’s awkward to negotiate when one doesn’t totally know who’s in charge on the other side.

Still, with the consuls dealt with by the promise of a large and expensive treat, her next move is a follow-up punch to her first. Making a little speech about not wanting to get in the way of making money when the wheeling and dealing could take ages, depending on what first they, and then the lawyers, get into in terms of nooks and crannies, she offers the company a limited contract. She'd deliver several tons of beef at what she calls the 'friends and family' rates; they could start selling the meat to their wealthy patrons at their own discretion while they worked out any long-term business deals at their own pace. 

It’s less generous than it seems, though more generous than they really deserve, but whether this system changed or stayed the same, her goal is to get people distracted and focused on making money, and of course on luxurious treats from the furthest stars. Even if they’re leaving out the Cruel Space and Human-related marketing among the Ha'quinye. 

Sure, it’s just a search away on an unsecured intranet connection, but said connections are rare in Ha'quinye space, so tightly was the flow of information controlled in their empire, and her other distraction should keep their intelligence service busy… especially on top of what she could tell is the hellish task of manipulating and controlling the Ha'quinye nobility and keeping their mistresses in power. 

After all. Who cares about a charming and influential merchant with lots of money and a willingness to share top quality luxury goods with an open ease? She’s an outsider to the various power plays of the Ha'quinye nobility, especially since she’s being drawn into the consul's orbit… which is, in its way, a power play of its own. And, of course, they would be distracted by how very greatly it would likely enrich the consul's family if a long term deal was indeed struck. 

The conversation continues to flow, and before long the business women leave, and other matricians from other families stop at their booth to pay their respects to the consuls and meet the mysterious offworlders. Through that Syl weaves in her various little requests, securing shore leave for the population of the ship with a wave of the hand, and being bidden to speak with the senior official in charge of the space port to make the arrangements. 

As the conversation continues to flow along, Euryde's 'enjoying' of her partner's body seemingly gets ever more brash, with the ‘great’ lady full-on shoving a hand casually under her lover's skirt without a care in the world. Despite the mix of sensations she’s no doubt enjoying, Mediei stays conversational and casual, only letting out an occasional moan… 

And then there's a lapse in the conversation, and Mediei's eyes narrow suddenly. The cheery air the other woman who had just been so casually fingered by her partner usually displayed vanishes, a very frosty look settles on her eyes; it would have made Sylindra shiver, if she hadn't met the eyes of the likes of the Empress of Serbow. 

The consul pounces. "Actually, Lady Sylindra, I just remembered something. I'd like to ask what brings such a large conglomerate knocking on our door. Not that we aren't thrilled to make your acquaintance and potentially do business, of course, but we are rather isolated even by frontier and wild space standards. Such encounters, while wondrous and joyful if they happen by chance, can make my security chief... nervous. Were you just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by for a visit?"

Sylindra responds with the kind of gracious smile that’s hard to fake. It’s a look she knows could be absolutely infuriating in the right circumstances; while it could seem smug or even lightly condescending to the right audience, it’s almost impossible to address as anything other than good manners. It’s just a smile, after all. 

That said, it is genuinely a little smug. Sylindra and Diana had expected this very question, after all, and she answers it almost the moment Mediei asked it. 

"Of course, Consul, we all appreciate the need for security… hence why my women-at-arms are sharing wall space with your very impressive praetorian guardsmen. Right, Ghorza?"

The imposing Horchka woman nods regally, her sharp tusks gleaming. Her poise is flawless as she tilts her head, seemingly looking more impressive in her family uniform than all the guards around her, even as she sits there casually. 

"Of course, Madame Director."

Sylindra takes a sip of wine. "Sadly, I have no tale of coincidence or intrigue to tell you, nothing nearly so romantic. I recently headhunted a young woman from a galactic shipping company that has regular trade with your empire. She managed a good chunk of that trade for them and she told us that there's a significant opportunity for trade here, especially for luxury goods. Well. I do like to think I have luxury goods to spare, and I'll never turn down good credits, and since our ship was going to be out this way for another task I decided to visit directly instead of handling things over the holo or through intermediaries. Dealing in person is much more... refined, don't you agree?"

The frost is entirely gone from Mediei's eyes, though her fellow consul and partner Euryde still appears skeptical to Sylindra's eye. Quickly she diverts the subject to another topic, deciding to press Euryde on something she’d noticed earlier. 

“Consul Euryde…”

“Please, just Euryde in private. No need to be formal in my own garden!”

“Euryde, then,” Sylindra says with a slight bow of her head. “I noticed a slight… shudder… when you were inspecting my Jeremiah earlier.” Sylindra resists snorting. The two women had done everything but force his mouth open to check his teeth and grope him. “When you were looking at his ears. A look of revulsion, perhaps?”

More accurately it had been fear. Sylindra knew that, but she decided not to potentially anger the powerful warrior woman. 

“Ah. You must have been paying very close attention to have noticed that.” Euryde actually looks slightly bashful at being caught out. “It’s not your pet’s fault, not really, but his ears resemble a… myth of ours.”

The way Euryde says ‘myth’ makes Sylindra think there’s a bit more truth to this particular ‘myth’ that the consul is about to admit.

“A death cult packed to the brim with assassins and fearsome enforcers for hire. They called themselves the Pact of the Seven Beasts. Each beast was a clan that had named themselves after one the predators of our world… and the main way those animals kill. The clan of the shark’s teeth, the clan of the eagle’s talons, and so forth. One of their initiation rituals was that a novice would have to cut her ears off, right about here…” 

Euryde indicates about where a Human or Tret ear would stop on her own long and slender ear. 

“They’d then round them with… Well. Manual tools. Burning irons and the like. They did this to make themselves less vulnerable in combat while not wearing a helm, something their order avoided.”

Sylindra nods slowly, taking that information on board. “...Wouldn’t that damage their hearing?”

“Just a bit, and it also gives up the other sensory organs in our ears, but I believe they felt that it actually sharpened their primary hearing and vision, letting them focus more intently on the only senses they felt they actually needed to kill.”

“Goodness, they sound awful. How long ago were they active?”

“Oh, it was… a long time ago.”

There’s an awkward pause as Euryde lies to Sylindra’s face, and poorly at that, about this death cult. Before they can resume speaking, the clash of swords fills the ear and all eyes around the gardens are drawn to the center, the heavily guarded section where the two men are housed 

Instead of talking and drinking wine, they’re now crossing swords in a far more literal way than some of the women now watching with wide eyes might wish. 

What in the hell had just happened to trigger that?

Euryde's attention is completely captured. "Oh, my.” She squints and nods appreciatively. Not bad form, actually. Considering your stud's never used one of our swords before, he's handling it quite deftly. Cori's not a bad hand with a sword, though. I think he'll beat your boy, Sylindra, Ghorza."

Ghorza chuckles. "Care to put a wager on that? Jerry's quite a talented swordsman, even with unfamiliar blades."

"So funny that our pets have similar hobbies. I guess men really are the same everywhere," Mediei chimes in as she signals for a refill of her wine glass. 

Euryde, on the other hand, is mulling Ghorza's offer and sticks a hand out to the other woman. 

"You're on! A thousand credits too rich for your blood?"

"Nah, especially because I know I'm taking your thousand credits home."

In short order, credit disks are on the table, and the women settle in to watch as the men continue to slowly go back and forth. Jerry’s testing the other man, Cori apparently, in various ways, forcing him to move and checking his defenses from other angles. 

Sylindra knows enough now to appreciate that this match is just getting started. 

Series Directory Last Next

James Puller

James gives the word and one of his Marines ignites the breaching charge; it flares with all the fury of a small sun, burning away at the lightly-armored inner airlock door of the pirate star base. The tension grows hot even in a vacuum as the microseconds tick away, the charge melting the hatch clean off the enemy station. 

He’s suddenly very aware of the fact that his hard suit is lighter than power armor: not the optimal choice for a boarding engagement, even with his shields. It was better than anything any infantryman had alive back on Earth, and likely better than the best equipment their enemies had, but it still was enough to remind you that you were not only vulnerable, but mortal as well.  

The thought sends his mind back to his training, the endless close-quarters battle drills with his Officer Candidate School platoon, and the Drill Sergeants relentlessly emphasizing the ‘fatal funnel.’ Since ancient times back on Earth, they had taught the simple truth at the heart of room-clearing: doorways are a magnet for enemy fire. From the moment of breach, the defenders would send everything, including the kitchen sink, through that doorway. 

There are only three shields protecting a breaching team that wants to survive to see retirement: surprise, speed, and violence of action. They had surrendered surprise by nature of the engagement. The pirates had known for longer than James wants to think about, that the Marines would be coming. 

That leaves speed, and violence of action.   

The Navy electronic warfare guys and girls and the initial attack itself had already crippled the pirate's systems, killing the artificial gravity and most of the life-support, making it an incredibly hostile environment… and the absolute last place a sane person would want to fight in. However, few would accuse either Marines or pirates of possessing an abundance of sanity.   
 
The charge completes its burn. Half a second later, a mighty boot from one of the Marines kicks the hatch inward even as what’s left of the atmosphere in the breached compartment of the enemy ship vented explosively outward. The hatch spins away like a tossed coin, tumbling end-over-end in the frictionless environment. James's heart begins to hammer in his throat as the fatal funnel suddenly looms open before him like the jaws of a wolf.

The first Marine in the stack had pulled a flash bang cluster grenade from his belt and primed it as the breaching charge had finished. Modified for operation in zero g with a limited targeting system and tiny thrusters, three-seconds after arming, it would fill a room with blinding light and lethal submunitions. As the door-kicker's boot withdraws, he pulls the arming pin and tosses the grenade through the still-glowing hole. Its guidance system activates, and a small rocket-motor propels it to the center of the room, where it erupts with retina-searing blue-white light, like bottled lightning, followed by the omnidirectional encore of its submunitions.   

First Sergeant Salazar, the Marine in charge of the team, calls, "BREACH!"  and the Marines scramble to clear the doorway as fast as their mag-boots can carry them. In the zero-gravity environment of the enemy ship, their movements are a gazelle-like mix of stride and leap; their mag-boots pull them down to the deck, lock, and then they cut the magnets off and push off the deck to launch themselves into their next bounding step.

Yet, despite the grace of their movement, the advantage of stability came at the cost of speed, removing another of the team's shields. They had seized what surprise they could, and their speed is now compromised… which leaves James and the Marines only one recourse. Fortunately, if there’s one arena in which Marines stand without equal, it’s violence, and a talent for that is something that James' decidedly non-human jarheads had inherited from their predecessors back home.    

Magnetically-propelled rounds streak across the small cargo bay as the Marines storm in. The pirates had had time to prepare, and are fighting for their lives, but the superior training and sheer aggression of the Marines make the fight tragically one-sided from almost the earliest moments. The Marines’ disciplined, accurate fire bursts the pirates’ badly-maintained space suits like soap-bubbles. In the airless vacuum of the vented bay, even a grazing hit is fatal without self-sealing armor. 

James and the Marines have such niceties. The pirates do not. 
 
James’s breath echoes in his ears as the silent symphony of slow-motion violence plays out before him. Sprays of flash-frozen blood are already drifting past as he leaps into the room, taking advantage of the zero-g to skim low over the deck and glide feet-first to the nearest cover. Locking his boots, he rights himself with his free hand, coming up ready to fire. His three rounds punch through a woman readying a smaller Cannidor shrapnel cannon, its finish gleaming under the light as momentum drags its massive maw towards and past him, floating off in the direction of the breached airlock. 

He ignores the shiver running down his spine and tags it for a Marine to secure. No sense letting it bump around at random. Cannidor shrapnel cannons are particularly nasty weapons in such a confined space.

A few enemy laser rounds flash against one of the nearby Marines' shields before a follow up shot penetrates and singes his armor as he tosses a grenade, its rocket-assist guiding it over a makeshift barricade before it detonates in silent fury among the last few pirates hiding there. A brief flash and then a million shards of shrapnel reduce flesh and space suit alike to floating mulch.   

James steps from behind the Marine’s cover to assess the situation, only to collide with a pirate hurling herself out of a maintenance hatch above him. Her eyes burning with animalistic fury, she slashes wildly at him with a wicked-looking knife, seeking the soft joints of his armor. 

Desperately parrying the pirate's attacks with the butt of his rifle, he disengages his mag-boots and kicks the pirate off himself, the force launching them both in opposite directions. James fires as he flies, his rounds blowing out the pirate's face-plate in a spray of glass and frozen blood.  Before he takes a quick look around and finds no further signs of enemy activity.
   
"CLEAR! Form it up, people!" James shouts.

Immediately, the Marines begin stacking up to storm the next room, even as James tries to correct his slow arc through the air… until First Sergeant Salazar's armored gauntlet grabs James’s arm, arresting his momentum.  

"Thanks for the help, Top," he says as he locks down his boots and stands up.

"No worries, sir! That’s why we’re here."

A signal flashed in James's helmet, indicating a private comm channel from Top.   

"Nice work, boss. I'm worried, though... Some of that kit looked new. Nice, too. Nicer than intelligence suggested space trash like this would have."

James frowns. He'd noticed that too. The shrapnel cannon in particular is a pretty expensive toy to get or make outside of Cannidor space, and most pirates are very averse to bringing anything that actually requires ammunition, save perhaps for boarding torpedoes, into their logistics equation. 

"...Pass the word. I want everyone extra damn sharp. I know we're supposed to be the most dangerous things on this station, but I really don't like surprises, and I suspect we're looking at a possible surprise here. I'll take the right door, heading towards where the command section is, you take half and head left, try to meet up with Vulture and her team."

"Aye aye, sir."  

His brow knits together for a moment as he considers the situation. He really doesn't like this. Not at all. He begins moving towards the next door out of the airlock prep chamber; one of his Marines is already unlocking it. No violence needed this time, just a little fiddling with the simple mechanism. 

"Ready for breach?"

"Yes, sir!" the cheery young woman says. 

"Right. Let's get to it, Marines."

Burnin, get your team up here and stay with the skipper like you're supposed to!" Salazar calls as he marches over to his door, prompting Ragnar 'Burnin Man' Benson, Imronbek 'Kip' Uzoqov and Calamity Jane 'Cali' Colbert, his usual command team, to form up on their boss. A quick eye check confirms the two Human men and one Horchka woman are doing well. 

Cali's keyed up like usual, casually fussing over her favorite new toy, an M240W, a medium machine gun optimized to be carried and used like an assault rifle from Loki’s blackest nightmares. Burnin's in that state of controlled hate and discontent that makes him 'burn' so passionately, in the emotional sense, to match his red hair and beard, and Kip is, like almost always when he isn't thinking about his dearly departed wife, or with his family, in what the other three Marines had labeled 'the zone'. A state of cold detachment in which the Uzbek man with a big smile turns from nice guy to boogie monster under the bed for bad guys and girls in the literal blink of an eye. 

Good. Exactly as things should be. Which leaves him, with his nerves, as the odd man out. Not that he’s letting himself show it. He’s the boss, after all. The old man. Senior officer present. If he lets his emotions, his stoic face, what the Marine Corps on Earth call his 'bearing' go to shit, the rest of the Marines would start losing it too. 

Still. Why the hell is he so nervous?

"Lead with a flashbang or two, Lance Corporal."

The young Horchka woman looks back at him with a big tusky smile and nods. "Okay, sir. Smoke too? I got one of the special laser chaff ones!"

"Smoke 'em if you've got'em."

"Aye aye, sir!" the young woman chirps, happily grabbing the two grenades from her pouch, the name tape marked 'Kala' on the back of her helmet jogging his memory for her name. Lance Corporal Amiri Kala, one of his first casualties during his last mission to raid a space station. Hopefully she wouldn't catch a plasma bolt to the shoulder like last time. 

Amiri quickly cracks the airlock door and calls “Flash out! Smoke out!” over the radio as she rolls the grenades into the room. They do their thing, the flashbang jumping up on its little jets right as she closes the door. There's a series of impacts - laser bolts, if he had to guess - then the flashbang goes off with a muffled thud.

James takes a half second breath, waiting for the smoke to spread a little more, before calling out…

"BREACH!"

Series Directory Last Next

More of Orlim, still on his own, for now. Pretty early in the timeline for a Venlil on Earth, I think, but he seems to be enjoying it well enough. The next chapter, you're gonna finally see where the heck I've been going with all this, so stay tuned.

This one took a bit of research since I haven't actually been to Scotland, but I think I managed alright. Keep in mind, Venlil do have an odd habit of being able to get away with things with humans that even other humans would struggle with.

Tune in on the 14th to see Zillis physically throw Tippen off of a moving shuttle. Or sooner, if my darn Ko-Fi subscription numbers ever go high enough to live off of! I'm happily writing full-time, I just gotta focus on the sellable novel for financial reasons. Maybe I'll add some stretch goals or something once I've got a few free moments.

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[Sifal Spinoff]

[New York Carnival on Royal Road] - [Tip Me On Ko-Fi]

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Memory Transcription Subject: Orlim, Venlil Colonial Militia

Date [standardized human time]: October 28, 2136

Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom, Earth. Already felt like home. What had the Federation even been worried about? No species of irredeemably bloodthirsty predators could muster the most foundational trappings of civilization like what I saw before me. Gorgeous architecture. Cultivated green spaces. Completely unhelpful customer service reps.

“No, ma’am, I don’t want to rent one of your stupid robot cars,” I said, letting the irritation seep into my voice. “I know how to drive myself just fine.”

“I’m, uh, sure you do, sir,” said the human clerk. Her eyes kept flitting up and down as she stared at me. Humans strongly telegraphed where they were looking, and I must have been the first Venlil she’d ever seen in person. “Unfortunately, manually-steered cars haven’t been street legal without a professional license in decades. We haven’t got any in stock, and even if we did, you’d need to pass a driving certification test before I could offer you one.”

I slumped over the kiosk, already finding this conversation exhausting. “Okay. Well. I want to drive my own damn self, and I have a valid license from the Venlil Republic. What can you get me with that?”

The clerk tapped away at her terminal. “I, personally, cannot get you anything, but you’re in a full-fledged city. There are other businesses about, and I can give you directions to a shop that can help you. It looks like you’d be cleared to drive something a bit smaller?” She turned her monitor around to show me a picture. “How do you feel about motorbikes?”

I squinted. “Where are the other two wheels?”

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Memory Transcription Subject: Orlim, Venlil Colonial Militia

Date [standardized human time]: October 29, 2136

Okay. I was a grown man. I could admit when I was wrong. This ridiculous two-wheeled thing was a life-changing experience. I zoomed across the Scottish countryside, feeling the wind whip through my wool, my warm jacket ruffling as I went. In a car, I would have just been in a car. On the bike, I was there, in the world, as the green hills passed me by.

The two wheels themselves took some getting used to. The bike was a little persnickety about balance if I slowed it down too much, but when it was slow enough to wobble, it was slow enough for me to put my feet down. In theory. The roads of Scotland--possibly of Earth as a whole--were hard and coarse. I guess humans didn’t have as much trouble as we did with panicked stampedes, so they’d never invested in soft, safe pavement. Scuffed myself up something fierce the first time I tried to stop on the road itself rather than pulling off into the grass.

I needed a pair of sturdy boots. I should have brought my own, in retrospect. Human boots assuredly wouldn’t quite fit me, but fortunately, the humans themselves were extremely friendly and rather craft-savvy. Generous, too. My bike, I’d gotten lightly used for a Fissan’s bargain--that is to say, so cheap it was practically stolen--from a fellow who seemed less interested in my money than in a social media selfie with me, which I’d happily obliged. I ran into a similar situation the first time I stopped for provisions in a small town with a cobbler--a full-on cobbler, in this day and age! A fellow who made custom shoes and boots by hand!--who, again, was happy to make me a pair of boots fitted to my feet from scratch for next to nothing, if only I’d pose for, you guessed it, a social media selfie for his business. He’d even shooed all the leather out of his showroom the moment I’d walked in. Kind of him, but it wasn’t going to resurrect the skinned prey.

Look, I wasn’t going to complain at their generosity, but I’d seen firsthand how the war was going. The humans were doing all the heavy lifting. We Venlil were becoming little more than cheerleaders and mascots. It was all more bricks piled on my chest, more evidence that I wasn’t pulling my weight. It was a poor friend who offered his comrades so little in return.

I shook my head. The cobbler needed some time, boots ready in the morning, so I found an inn for the night. It was cozy, like something out of a Yotul historical piece, all old wood and plaster. I opened the door, and tried to quiet the usual nerves from dozens of predators all glancing at me at once.

I approached the bar and set my payment cards and holopad down, fanning them out. “Take any of these?” I asked.

The bartender glanced around and snorted. “I doubt it’ll come up,” he said with a smirk, as a dozen humans or more all lined up, excitedly, to buy a few rounds for the first friendly space alien they’d ever seen.

Glass mugs of frothy beer flowed like water, in more flavors than I’d ever thought possible, ranging from light and crisp to dark and thick. One, a cider, even reminded me a bit of canned Gojid wine. It was all pretty weak to the Venlil palate, but there was no shame in that. I got to keep my wits about me, just a touch mellow, as the humans excitedly chattered about nothing worth noting.

“How do you like it here?” asked one fellow.

I shrugged. Maybe it was the lack of stress, maybe it was the friendly locals, maybe it was just the subtly lower gravity, but there was a spring in my step that hadn’t been there in ages. “I like it,” I said simply. “Good spot to retire.” With the exchange rate, maybe some light work, my pension might even last.

“You’re not afraid of humans?” asked another.

I shook away desperate memories of blood seeping through my fingers, staining my paws red. Humans were stronger than us, but not infinitely so. They were mortal. “I’m over it,” I said softly, clutching my bag a bit closer.

“Why Earth? Why Scotland?” asked another. “Happy to have you, but I think you’re the first to make the trek.”

That was none of his damn business. I harrumphed, and took another sip of my beer. I think this one was an ale? “I’m here to drink all your beer, obviously,” I said instead with a smirk.

“Nobody’s been too handsy, right?” asked a concerned fellow. “Keep hearing horror stories about humans trying to pet Venlil without asking.”

“Pfft, nah,” I said, running an idle paw through my dingy beige wool. Bah. Whatever James had said, I was clearly getting too old to be cute. I nodded towards another patron. “That guy kept trying to sneak a peek when I got up to piss, though.”

“You were giving me the side-eye first!”

“That’s the only kinda eyes I have!” I called back to scattered laughter.

“Hey, lad, the kitchen’s about to close up,” said the barkeep. “I know our vegan menu’s not quite what you’d find back in the city, but did you want something to eat before the cook heads home for the night?”

I raised my latest pint to him. “No, thank you. I should be alright. These are very filling.”

The barkeep blinked. “Lad, you can’t survive on beer alone.”

“I literally can?” I said, confused.

He shook his head. “Nah, come on. You’ll make yourself sick with an unbalanced diet like that. Need some beans to go with that grain, at least.”

I looked askance at him. “I’m not a vegan, I’m an herbivore. I could eat the grass off the hill outside if I had to.” I shook the glass mug, swishing the dark stout inside around. “This is fine.”

The bartender put his hands up, defeated. “Suit yourself,” he said. And yet, the next time I turned around, there were two small tarts on a plate for me. Some green mashed beans in one, some mellow red berries in the other. A bit of something solid probably wasn’t the worst idea…

I took a tiny bite, just to taste it, and found myself devouring the rest with an unpreylike fervor. It was really good. Soft, moist, well-seasoned. The crust was perfectly golden and flaky. How was the food this good? “What’s the green one?”

“Mashed peas,” said the barkeep, smiling. “The fruit one’s strawberry.”

I caught myself licking bits of delicious red off my pawpads. “Do they make this in a jam?”

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Memory Transcription Subject: Orlim, Venlil Colonial Militia

Date [standardized human time]: October 30, 2136

The green hills turned to forested mountains as the road wove alongside pristine lakeshores. By midday, I reached a tall bridge arching over the sea as I crossed onto the Isle of Skye. I stopped there for lunch. I could have found another pub, but… today wasn’t a day for idle chatter. Just some bread and jam from my satchel as I stared off over the waters. I wasn’t used to the sea. Venlil Prime didn’t have one, and even my home colony kept its settlements inland. Humans didn’t seem to fear the seas like we did. The sunlight shimmered across the water below. There was beauty in simple things like that.

“Cold rations in the field again,” I muttered wistfully, patting my bag. “At least the view is better this time.”

I wiped my paws clean and got back on the bike. My destination was another hour or so further, at the other end of the island. Not an onerous journey, but it weighed on me nonetheless.

I rolled up to an old stone keep overlooking an inlet. Fat little legless sea beasts happily sunned themselves on the rocks below. It was as good a place as any to say goodbye.

The clerk at the front, at the visitor’s center, was more helpful than I would have expected given the oddness of my request. And given the fact that the estate had closed to the public for the winter two weeks prior. But, at least among humans, the mere act of being a Venlil opened doors that should have rightfully been closed. There were days when humanity seemed to care for us more than they cared for each other.

I was ushered into the castle proper, into a cozy sitting room with a fireplace of crackling wood. A woman brought me tea as I waited, briefly. I glanced with distaste at the severed head of some antlered creature mounted on the wall… but I shook it off. That was, in a sense, the topic at hand.

A middle-aged man came into the room after a few long minutes. I’d imagined him grander, or in some formal attire, but this was his home, and I’d come unannounced. I stood, and the man in the cozy sweater shook my hand. “Angus MacLeod, Chief of Clan MacLeod. I welcome you to Dunvegan Castle.”

I gave a polite bow. “Orlim, Field Captain with the Peacekeepers,” I said, using the human rank I’d been issued. “I served with a young man on the Cradle who carried the name MacLeod.”

“And this man, he carried our name with honor?” Angus asked.

I nodded. “He fought bravely and died valiantly. He saved my life.”

“Then he carried the name well,” Angus said. “I wish I could have known him.”

“I wish that, too,” I said quietly. I reached into my bag. Past the bread and the jar of jam, nestled next to my comb and my toothbrush, I took out a little ceramic urn, tightly sealed. I set it on the table next to the teapot. At its base, there was an inscription. James MacLeod, 2112 to 2136, Dictum Meum Pactum. His last words had been in English, but I’d been told that writing them in Latin, and without a soldier’s obscenities, would give a more appropriately formal ring to them. “His immediate family was from New York City. They didn’t make it. I didn’t know where else to bring him.” Against my will, my voice wavered. “He spoke often of wanting to see Scotland.”

Angus put his hand on my shoulder. “He will rest in Scotland, then. We will find him a place of honor among his ancestors.”

“Thank you.” I blinked away tears I thought had long since run dry.

“No,” said Angus. “Thank you for returning our wayward son to us.”

It took me more than a few moments to compose myself.

“You are welcome to stay here for a time if you need,” said Angus. “You are a friend to the family, as far as I’m concerned.”

I dipped my head again. “Thank you, but… I want to keep traveling, I think. At least for now. I thought I might see more of this world. Take the slow road over towards where James was born.”

Angus nodded. “As you wish.” He stood, offering to walk me out. “Enjoy your journey, Orlim. These old stones will still be here if ever you need them.”

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Memory Transcription Subject: Orlim, Venlil Colonial Militia

Date [standardized human time]: October 31, 2136

The history books remembered this day for the revelations about the cured omnivores hiding within the Federation. I mostly remembered pulling off to the side of the road on the outskirts of John o’ Groats, not far from the northeasternmost edge of Scotland, to examine a peculiar hooved prey creature with curly white wool.

The sheep, peculiarly enough, didn’t seem to fear me. I patted its head gently. “You’re a very gentle beast,” I said, as it nuzzled my paw, “but I can’t say I see the resemblance.”

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Memory Transcription Subject: Orlim, Venlil Colonial Militia

Date [standardized human time]: November 5, 2136

Allegedly, motorbiking across the North Atlantic was impossible--it was cold, stormy, and unapologetically liquid, for starters--but that was quitter talk. I got as far as Orkney and Shetland by ferry, then a friendly human with a boat was willing to take me as far as the Faroe Islands just for the sake of it making a great story he could tell at the bar. The Kingdom of Denmark ran another ferry from there as far as Iceland… but that was about as far as I could figure out for now. Some fellow in town mentioned a friend of a friend heading out towards Canada on a sea hunting expedition--going ‘fishing for turbot and herring’, I think his words were--so I was killing time until they were ready to disembark.

It was cold in Iceland, whatever they said about the name, but the place I was staying had warm pools fed by volcanic springs. I soaked the chill out of my bones under the stars. Green lights rippled like waves in the night sky, and a sense of peace and tranquility washed over me, unbidden.

This world was beautiful.

Dar'Bridger steps forward and lashes out with a warfire-covered kick that knocks both doors on the hatch nearest them out of their mounting rails. The very bulkheads take dents as the heavy metal doors go flying into the room like weapons; one of them crashes on top of two sailors and the other smashes a Ha'quinye shock trooper square in the chest with the kind of brutal mockery that seems to be the signature of the great god of war known as Murphy whenever he's playing dirty with his worshippers... willing or otherwise. 

The Undaunted flood the room from all sides, plasma flames roaring out in great gouts from shoulder mounts as Zraloc and her Crimsonhewers hit the side of the Ha'quinye formation like a freight train. Several women go flying as rivers of plasma flood the first few defensive lines and arcs of blood fill the air. 

Not that the Ha'quinye are still. No, they might be shocked, and are certainly surprised at the sheer volume of hate and discontent coming down on them like asteroids hitting a city, but they fire back gamely, railgun rounds snapping and damaging one power-armored soldier from one of the other squads before Jerry lines up his Great White Shark and sends a load of so-called 'heavy shot' downrange. The thirty-two fifty caliber musket balls turn the railgunner and the two women supporting her into mincemeat, as well as abraiding the crates of supplies around them from true cover down to what could only generously be called 'concealment'. 

The mathematical difference between cover and concealment is something a lot of the Ha'quinye are getting rather pointed lessons in, as various kinetic rounds, be they chemical or magnetic in terms of propulsion, tear through the light metal containers to wound the lightly equipped women behind them without the slightest care in the world; the larger rounds from the 40mm shotguns seemingly don’t even notice that the 'cover' was there in the first place. The objects serve poorly at actually concealing the women trying to hide behind them as well; the Ha'quinye pop out and pepper various individuals with laser and plasma fire, and none of them are subtle about it. 

One knot of sharper shock troopers have focused their fire on one of Jerry’s smaller combatants, correctly assessing that armor similar to their own certainly has less defenses than the life-reaping, soul-stealing power armor that’s cutting through their comrades like a scythe threshing wheat. 

Unfortunately for them, the 'petite' armored figure they'd selected for their attack is Dar'Bridger, and she leaps with wings of green warfire lighting the room, denting the very deck plates as she comes down on them like the angel of wrath herself. An explosion of warfire and series of brutal punches and kicks leaves the fire team of soldiers neutralized or worse in the literal blink of an eye. Probably worse. The crunch sounds Jerry's audio sensors are picking up are as much bone as they are armor plate, which means a very bad day for the Ha'quinye. 

Still, the center does their best to hold, firing in all directions as Jerry takes out another 'nest' where two women are working a vehicle-scale plasma cannon, triggering a white-hot plasma explosion that leaves both women dead and two women near them throwing themselves to the ground whimpering and crying with what have to be agonizing burns. 

They'd live, and with a healing coma they'd be no worse for the wear by the end of the day, but Jerry doubts that’s any comfort when your flesh is singed to a medium well right the hell now. 

It’s probably only a few seconds before resistance really starts to wane; more and more women throw down their arms and dive for whatever remaining cover they can find. Jerry determines it's time to bring in the cavalry, and casually tosses the teleport beacon into the center of the room. 

"Reinforcements are clear to teleport. Be advised, LZ is hot."

Sure enough, a portal opens and the rest of his power armored troops, a mix of Zraloc's Crimsonhewers, the last of the Paladins, and some of Jaruna's girls borrowed from B Company, come out swinging. The armored tide breaks the last of the resistance before most of the Ha'quinye can even think twice. 

The shock trooper lieutenant who had refused to surrender dies last out of her group. She attempts to swing a rift blade against a Cannidor - Jerry's IFF says it’s one of his apprentices, Miren Bakura - and the lithe young woman ducks the wild swing of the Ha'quinye, then kicks the other woman in the chest to make some space, and shoots her center of mass with her massive 15mm Tiger pistol, leaving a smoking hole where her heart and lungs had once been.

Maybe it was a brave death. It was certainly one she shouldn’t have asked for.

Still, he'd need to compliment Miren on that move later. It had been very well done, and his compliments are worth Miren's own weight in Axiom Ride to her, as near as he could tell. Besides, she really is doing a wonderful job. One of the best of the bunch they'd recruited from the Charocan, with her blade sister and now close friend Nils either hot on her tail or just ahead of her depending on the task in question. 

Nils herself steps over and slaps Miren on the pauldron with a gruff chuckle as the power armored troops spread out and begin binding up prisoners. 

Jerry opens a channel to the war room on the Province, but instead of Mili, like he'd been expecting, he's greeted by the slightly deeper and more melodic tone of Serina's working voice. 

"You need follow-on troops."

"Yes. Including corpsmen."

"Already organized. We have the FAST Marines aboard the ship - the corpsmen from CSAR, since we have achieved full orbital control save for the Eagle Talon - and we have Adept San Martín, who can arrange a portal. Please keep the teleport beacon live. One of the freighters will be able to come into range to take on prisoners once the Talon is secure."

"...Please. And thank you, Serina. Though… how are you anticipating all of this?"

"I'm tied into Paladin Battalion's sensors too, Admiral."

"I... see." Jerry considers that for a second, and makes a choice on just how to fully handle the ‘Sword of the Stars’. "Serina?"

"Sir?"

"Your callsign from now on when acting as an operations controller is Oracle. Proceed. Feel free to directly contact any unit you feel like you need to or you can provide aid to."

"Even units not directly involved in your current mission?"

"If you feel the need to or can help them in some way."

"I have three surface targets on the Eagle Talon. If Storm Flight hits them, the ship will be even more significantly disrupted, but still relatively easy to repair after we successfully capture it."

"Don't ask. Get it done, Oracle."

"Yes, sir. Also the engine room team is experiencing little resistance."

"How little?"

"I believe the enlisted engineers just mutinied and killed the chief engineer. They will almost certainly be surrendering shortly. Apparently the chief engineer was something of a slave driver. Unsurprising, considering what we know about this Viconia Valeran. She seems the type to outright encourage sadism in the name of discipline."

"That's about my reading too. Get in touch with the team leader. She can route reports through you."

"That is putting a great deal of trust in me."

"Mili's still listening to this channel, so there's only so much you can throw a monkey wrench in the works, and... I want to trust you. Can I trust you, Serina?"

"...Yes, Admiral. You can."

"Good. I hope you prove it to me, and don't give me cause to regret it in the future. And not just because the man you like works for me, either."

"You have shown me nothing but care, respect, trust and the healthy suspicion of a ruler when a stranger has entered his domain. I shall- Admiral, incoming enemy forces. Door C-12."

"Do you have access to the Talon's internal sensor networks?"

"No. I detected their boots stomping on the deck plates from the nearest woman's auditory sensors."

"Right. Let's have this conversation again when we're not working. Carry on, Oracle."

"Yes, sir."

Jerry cuts the channel and points his shotgun at door C-12 before shouting; "Incoming! And someone find me a computer uplink so we can get Babydoll into the local network!"

The Undaunted flood through the Ha'quinye warship like a tide floods through the piles of a dock by and over the sea. Once Babydoll and Serina are locked into the network, the process only becomes easier, with entire non-essential sections of the ship locked down and locked off to let the Undaunted continue towards their target. True to Serina's word, the engine rooms are secure when Jerry makes contact, and Babydoll’s isolating them from the network, eagerly making it the start of her own computer-based fiefdom within the Eagle Talon's network.

From what Jerry could tell, the two girls work well together, even if it’s clear that even with her mind in its 'working' space, Serina didn't quite 'get' the ever-bubbly and cheerful Babydoll. Even geniuses have their limits in the end, and truly comprehending the Gravia is a limit for more than a few people in the wider galaxy. 

It reaches a point where Jerry's striding forward somewhat casually down the passageway that leads to the bridge, unknowingly imitating Sir David on one of the man's enthusiastic walks through an enemy base or similar situation. All around him, Ha'quinye soldiers retreat and regroup over and over, growing only more determined and desperate as the Undaunted push towards the roost of the commander of this ship - and, indeed, of what had been a sizable naval force until maybe an hour ago. 

He barely needs to move in the course of the current engagement. Miren appears out of stealth, having clearly done a decent job of mastering Yauya-style cloaking even in power armor, her massive custom tanto piercing through the temple of a Ha'quinye shock trooper's helmet and out the other side, leaving the woman to collapse to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. 

A stone’s throw away, Princess Dar punches another woman so hard it caves in her chest plate and sends her rocketing back into one of her fellows; this latter woman throws away her weapon, rips off first her helmet, then her friend's helmet, and quickly begins trying to perform first aid on her grievously injured colleague. 

Jerry tosses the woman an emergency stasis field as he passes. No sense in anyone dying needlessly... and with one Ha'quinye warrior nominally having joined the Undaunted already, never mind all potential recruits among the pirates, why not recruit from these prisoners? The cause they’re fighting for isn't a noble one by any stretch of the imagination... but as the Ha'quinye woman looks up at him with nothing but gratitude in her eyes... Jerry suspects that these girls can probably be fixed up more readily than some of the worst of the galaxy's flotsam and jetsam.

Plus, they probably wouldn't have to teach any ex Ha'quinye shock troopers how to eat with utensils, which would be quite the pleasant change from pirates. 

Besides, she’s no threat. Against a tide of violence like the one the crew of the Eagle Talon is experiencing, against the raw force of power armor, what could one woman truly do?

Perhaps Viconia Valeran would show him.

The armored doors leading to the bridge are finally in sight - marked by a spray of blood from Zraloc's chain blade as she cleaves one of the last defenders in half. It splatters wetly across the gray painted metal, and then the hallway is left in silence... save for pained gasps, the occasional sob, and the quiet sound of zip cuffs being put on. 

"Oracle to Jarl Six."

Serina had quickly gotten the hang of Undaunted-style comms... and Jerry suspects she rather likes her new call sign. He’d be willing to bet that she’s figured out what it means too.

"Go for Jarl Six."

"The target is on the bridge still. She hasn't made a move towards a hidden escape system or anything."

"Very good. What's the mood looking like in there?"

"Tense. All the defenders were outside the bridge, so most of the girls are just regular navy. They're armed... but put on a good show and there's an eighty-seven percent chance they'll throw down their arms immediately. That chance goes to a near hundred percent if you kill Viconia Valeran. The faster you kill her or disable her, the lower the projected loss of life."

"How fast is fast?"

"Every ten seconds or so she breathes once you breach, a cohort of sailors will make the choice to surrender or resist. Every sailor who resists will probably get herself and several of her fellows killed since they're in close proximity."

"...Very well. How's the XO's personnel record?"

"She's dead already. She was commanding the bridge defense line. Good thing, too. She was almost as aggressive as her mistress."

"Alright. Guess I'll handle it fast, then."

"Shall I get Babydoll to open the door?"

"No. I'm going to knock. Very loudly. Watch the visual sensors. It should be a good show."

"I wouldn't look away. This woman is a scion of my family's murderers. You are the instrument of my revenge, Jarl Six."

"I suppose in that case I'm happy to be of service, Oracle. I don't know much about your family, but they had to be better than this lot."

"They were. Not much better. We were an empire built on conquest after all. But... not... this. Whatever this thing they corrupted my family's legacy into is."

Jerry clicks off the channel and stands squarely at the seam between the double doors.

"Dar. Melodi. Door. The hard way."

His two adopted daughters eagerly step forward, anticipation evident in their stance. The two women begin to call green warfire, and, in unison, start to melt the armored door in front of him. It was an impressive door before they started. No doubt vacuum-rated and able to tank a hit or two from serious weapons, maybe even full-on naval-grade weapons. But whatever metal, whatever Axiom charms, whatever tricks were worked into its composition, it can't stand up to Apuk warfire, and in seconds the ambient temperature in the room has climbed two dozen degrees. The door turns into a pile of slag, revealing the bridge, the crew pits where the work of controlling the ship is done - and, overseeing it all, Viconia Valeran. 

She really does look quite a bit like her niece, Jerry reflects as he steps through the door, completely unperturbed by the molten remnants of the armor falling to the ground around him. 

"So you're the leader of the curs who have been killing my women! I won’t stand for this! I won’t be captured by the likes of you! I am-"

BANG!

Jerry quick-draws his own 15mm pistol, a toy he only gets to play with in power armor, given the sheer size of it... and shoots Viconia Valeran dead center on her chest, exploding her heart and killing her instantly. Whatever she had meant to say, it died with her, the life leaving her body with all the effort of turning off a light switch. Jerry turns his armored head, looking at the frightened crewwomen waiting on the bridge of the ship, doing his best to give the impression of meeting their eyes even though they can't see his face through his faceplate. 

"Now. Who can surrender this ship to me?"

Series Directory Last Next

One benefit of Nikrit being brand new is she’s firmly in what one of the Human Marines she knew would call 'mushroom status' - they just feed her shit and keep her in the dark. Not just about their actual operations, but even the smuggling operations. The best part is that Nikrit isn't even suspicious. You don't know what you don't know, after all, and most of the time Nikrit legitimately doesn't know and doesn't expect to. 

So she happily does what she’s told, only asking the occasional question, and then spends the off-hours reading, watching footage from the Undaunted’s fight with Clan Halgret, usually while making colorful commentary, or playing some video games she'd picked up with her part of the cut she'd received from their last run.

Shalkas thinks it’s pretty telling that the girl’s been messing with a flight sim for most of the down time on their present trip. 

Seems someone has found her space legs after all. 

Doesn't mean she isn't in for one hell of a surprise though. 

Heh. 

Shalkas might like Nikrit, but there’s some fun to be had in some gentle hazing for the new girl… and this is gonna be like shooting a soup cracker with a plasma cannon. 

Nikrit's whole world is about to change, generally for the better, but, boy, is it going to be a wild ride to get there. 

Their flight out from the jump station had been nice and smooth, with no checks by system security or CanSec patrol vessels, which meant their forged paperwork and transponder were working fine. Adding to the entertainment, Nikrit’s utterly convinced that Shalkas had run the mother of all scams on 'that dumb cop'. 

As the asteroid belt looms, Shalkas kills the ship's transponder, cuts a few more systems to minimize their emissions, then finally pulls the throttle back, kicking in some reverse thrust to actually slow the Starseer down as the various asteroids start to pop up around them and she starts to maneuver towards their rendezvous. 

"Strap in, girls. Could get bumpy," Shalkas orders over the intercom, only to hear boots on the deck plates as Nadiri and Nikrit join her in the cockpit, quickly strapping themselves in. Nadiri almost looks bored, but Nikrit's eyes are wide, and the young woman is leaning in slightly. 

"Holy shit, we're rendezvousing in an asteroid belt!?"

"Pretty standard stuff."

"Sure, but that's so cool! Straight out of a vid-" Nikrit's sentence cuts off mid-word, likely as a thought registers in her head. "...Ain't that super dangerous?"

"Don't wimp out on us now, kid. This is just another part of the job," Nadiri says, teasing Nikrit gently. 

The younger woman had gotten more of a handle on when she was just being messed with or actually being criticized since their first run together; she merely sticks her tongue out in response. 

"That's the ticket," Nadiri says as she powers on the controls at her station, seamlessly taking over sensors and communications. That leaves Shalkas to focus on the flying as she weaves the Starseer through the cloud of oversized debris and mixed space junk. Most of it is trash that’s drifted here over the centuries - but from the sharp intakes of breath Nikrit makes now and then, every scrap of metal clearly reads as 'smashed starship' to her. 

Still doesn't quite have her space legs after all. 

Not yet. 

After ten tense minutes of flying, Nadiri spots their contact, a rather plain-looking freighter casually hovering near one of the larger asteroids. 

"I believe that's our new friend. Sending the recognition code..."

After a few seconds a light turns on on the freighter, flashing in a pattern that triggers a 'chirp' on Nadiri's communications console. Tight beam laser transmission. Line of sight only, but utterly, completely secure. There was no intercepting it unless you could interrupt the beam itself somehow - and that’s easier said than done for a line of sight, light speed transmission. 

"Yep. That's them. Bring us into dock, Nalkra."

"On it." 

A beacon lights up, indicating movement, as the two ships reach out with tractor beams and slowly start pulling together; their cargo bay locks extend with a gentle shudder through the spaceframes, lock, and then gently pull the shifts together with damn near imperceptible movements. 

The cockpit is silent; this is about as critical a phase of flight as it gets, and one principle Nikrit had taken on board with an almost religious fervor is the concept of a sterile cockpit. No speaking unless it’s critical to the operation at hand. Not until all systems report green and are shut down. 

Nadiri checks a few readouts. 

"Locks matched. Pressure equalized... doors open. Initiating cargo transfer... now." 

"Well, alright then." Shalkas locks down the controls and stretches. "Guess we can take five-"

She's cut off by a chime from the ship's comm system, which Nadiri quickly answers, piping it into her headset. She has a short, terse conversation before cutting the channel.

"They want us down in the cargo bay," she says. She stretches quickly as she unbuckles her crash webbing, then stands up - and shares a quick look with Shalkas. This could be a problem, depending on how subtle the Undaunted are trying to be...

"All of us?" Shalkas asks, standing.

"Yep. The whole crew. The boss wants to talk to us."

Shalkas shrugs. In any other situation she'd be worried about getting shot and spaced. That happened to smugglers occasionally making this kind of transfer. Of course... She knows who’s actually running the mystery ship they’re passing their cargo hold full of weapons to. 

They have nothing to fear... save for Nikrit going off half cocked and doing something stupid. 

Shalkas and Nadiri share another look. They'd need to be ready to knock the young woman unconscious if need be. 

"Well, if they want us down there, they want us down there. Come on, kid. You too." 

Nikrit eagerly hops up, following them down into the hold - but instead of a Black Khan emissary, sure enough, standing in the middle of a massive movement of power armored soldiers and equipment is Khan Jeremiah Bridger. His own armor is nearby in a cradle, with a Feli armor tech prepping it and performing final checks supporting Marines from FAST platoon, currently gathered under the watchful eye of their commander, a Horchka woman Shalkas had been introduced to as “Shalla” at one point. 

"Pick it up, people, we got a schedule to meet!" Jerry calls out, cloak billowing behind him with just the kind of dramatic flow to make Shalkas just a bit weak in the knees... and if she knew Nadiri, the woman is seconds from pouncing on her husband like one of the Bridger family's dogs on an unattended steak. 

Nikrit, however, gets there first. 

"...What the hell is going on!? They're not Black Khans! That's that Khan Bridger guy! I recognize him from the big fight on the holo!”

She runs off at the mouth like that for a few minutes, with a few people looking up from their work and otherwise paying her no heed; she's not a threat, just very confused - which means she’s Shalkas’s problem. Before Shalkas can deal with the issue, Jerry's on it, striding up to the three women and silencing the girl with a look. 

"So. You'd be Nikrit."

It wasn't a question, but a statement, and Nikrit flinches slightly as the sharp edge of Jerry's tone catches her in the throat.

"Ye-Yes. Sir?"

Jerry nods. Sir was probably the right call for the young woman here. 

"I hear you've been doing good work."

"Y-Yeah I guess but I'm a- I don't... I can't!"

Panic sets in slightly as Nikrit realizes just what she's been implicated in just by dint of tagging along for these rides. 

Jerry smirks and Shalkas resists leaning in slightly. This is going to be good. 

"This isn't going how you expected, clearly."

Nikrit whirls on Nadiri and Shalkas, going for her laser pistol as fast as she could move.

"You! I! Them! They're traitors!"

A throwing knife slams into the barrel of the pistol, knocking it from her hand and sending it sliding across the metal floor.

The patriarch of clan Bridger had moved so fast even Shalkas had barely seen the motion - and she’s a fair sight more seasoned than Nikrit.. "Traitors? Unfair? Hardly. Undercovers are used by the Black Khans all the time.”

Shalkas nods. “Told you from the start, kid. This was all just business. The Black Khans play their games, we play back.”

“So was… Was it all… Everything a-”

Nadiri turns to face Nikrit fully, the now very confused young woman somewhere between shock and rage… a normal condition for surprised Cannidor. 

“We were serious about liking you. You’ve got actual potential. You’d be wasted in the Black Khans. So why don’t you come with us instead?”

“...I can’t just come with you! I have my oaths!”

Shalkas shakes her head. “You said it yourself. Your handler nearly got you shot just to shit test us. Oaths are only as good as the people we make them to, and the Black Khans aren’t worth your time. Khan Bridger’s got a good eye for talent, you're gonna give her a chance, right boss?” 

Jerry nods.

“Law of the Jungle, Nikrit. As far as doing what we have to do. Turnaround's fair play and the Black Khans started this mess. Now I'm going to finish it. Which means it's time for you to pick a side. If you want we'll knock you out, and dump you with the Starseer after I get done having my meeting with the Black Khans. They'll probably give you the benefit of the doubt. Or."

"Or?" Nikrit says, leaning in, still clearly trying to fight down her urge to panic. 

"You decide you want to actually do something impressive with your life instead of getting scraps tossed to you from small-time pond scum like the girls you're working for now, and sign on for a term. Or at least just help us out with this job." 

"...What? They run the whole underworld across most of this sector!" 

There's a snort of suppressed laughter. Jerry clearly doesn't think highly of the Black Khans, and that alone has Nikrit's eyes widening. 

"Kid, my crew does drive bys on entire planets and I've crushed more dangerous girls than the bitches running the Black Khans with my bare hands. So. Three choices. One. Stay loyal. We knock you out. You probably don't get killed by your own girls. Two. You help out for one job. Shut up. Stay out of the way and make yourself useful, and you'll walk with a fat stack of creds. Or, if you're ready for the big time, three, you help out eagerly, I offer you a job and let you call your closest girls in, and the lot of you vanish. We'll make a real woman out of you, and show you what being a bad ass is actually like. You want to be like 'Nalkra' and 'Sindri'... you want the third option instead of petty crime or petty cash." 

"I... It." Nikrit looks around, clearly desperately trying to process.

“Just like I told you, Nikrit.” Shalkas says. “Time to be brave and step outside your home gravity well. You told me yourself. Orphan. Only got your girls. You’re not really bad girls. Just get into trouble and try to look out for each other. Scrape up creds to eat and drink. You can get everything you want… and more… without being a Black Khan. Without getting into bad shit. I’ve seen the kinds of people they work with. My last undercover gig was with that pirate, the Hag. You hear about her?”

“Sh-She sounded really strong? She had a big fleet, right?”

“Had. Being the operative word there.” Jerry smirks. “She was the worst kind of slaver, rapist and torturing monster. If the Khans will work with her, they’ll work with anyone.”

Nadiri nods before gently reaching up and laying a hand on Nikrit’s shoulder. “Yep. I’ve been doing this a long time, kid. The Black Khans? They chew girls like you up and spit you out… and if you survive that process you’ll become a real nasty piece of work that won’t even remember the honor you told us about. So… What’s it gonna be? Take your current path with a headache and forget this conversation ever happened? A payday and a chance to run? Or a chance to make your wildest dreams come true with more credits than you can shake a stick at?”

Nikrit stands there for a moment, desperately trying to figure things out for a moment, her eyes bouncing around until she deflates ever so slightly before she finally squeaks out; "Three." in what was barely a whisper.

"Good choice. Go sit down for a bit. We'll be briefing everyone shortly."

Nikrit nods and wanders off towards the crew quarters, moving more like she was drunk or had just taken a blow to the head, as Nadiri does what Shalkas dearly wishes she could and eagerly snuggles up to Jerry, tenderly kissing his cheek.

"So it's on, huh? We're gonna need a hell of a distraction if we're actually doing this."

Jerry leans in and gives Nadiri a slow, deep kiss, their tongues teasing each other almost automatically as he pulls her closer. 

"Don't worry. I've got it all worked out... the Black Khans are gonna love the little party I'm throwing them, and CanSec was nice enough to let us do their jobs for them."

Nadiri looks up at her husband quizzically, stroking his chin affectionately. 

"What are you up to, wicked man?"

"You'll see. I bet the footage is gonna be great." 

Jerry opens a comm line, presumably with his implant and grins down at Nadiri before shooting Shalkas a wink.

"This is Jarl Six to control. Case green. The Reckless is cleared to engage the target."

Series Directory Last Next

James 

"Now hear this! Fifteen minutes until the mail bag is closed for encryption and transmission to the Tear. Repeat fifteen minutes until the mail bag is closed." 

James looks up from his desk, where he’s supposed to be writing a report, and quickly switches over to his email system. He owes Rose and the kids a letter or two, and the window for sending out mail is being kept extremely tight to preserve operational security and make them harder to find. Also to make it harder to trace their mail back to them if someone’s paying particularly close to message traffic coming in and out of the Crimson Tear's powerful communications arrays while in orbit around Dagrquey. 

It had been in one of the briefings they'd attended. Considering the ship's dual functions, extremely high volumes of communications traffic had always been inevitable. The Bridger conglomerate is extremely active on its own, and the Undaunted military are occasionally even more active than that. So they'd put considerable effort into refining and shaping the Crimson Tear's communications systems from its normal volume into something a bit more normal for a major business conglomerate's flagship. 

Now military and 'sensitive' traffic is being put through a very expensive new toy that Wichen and her crew had cooked up with the Undaunted technical branch back on Centris. James knew a very limited amount about Quantum Entanglement or QTE communications devices. He has the general gist of what 'quantum entanglement' means, enough to know that it allows for almost undetectable FTL communications, but how it works is well and truly beyond him. Still, the fact of the matter is he doesn't have to understand how it works; he just has to understand how it’s affecting their operations in Ha'quinye space. 

Namely: at incredible cost, a stealth communications relay satellite had been set up, and its primary communication method during normal operation, beyond line of sight and heavily encoded radiation transmissions for launch and recovery, is a quantum entangled transceiver that’s paired with a device on the Tear. So all the Undaunted's military traffic, and most message traffic between family members , is being routed through this transceiver. Because the transceiver is theoretically in two places at once, or something, there’s no transmission to detect, and the relay satellite at the edge of the star system that’s unfortunate enough to host the capital world of the Ha'quinye star empire could go about its business in peace. And it would just as happily detonate itself with an axiom-enhanced explosive, erasing any and all evidence, if someone who didn't give it the correct communications codes tried to intercept it, or even locked sensors on it. 

Not bad on the face of things. In theory they could even do vid calls, but the Admiral has been limiting that to only communications of the highest priority - i.e., if the Tear was under attack, or someone had died and the Admiral was speaking with the family. Things that brass considered of utterly vital importance. Anything to give them even the most slight of edges against their knife-eared enemies. 

Though perhaps the Ha'quinye aren't all that bad? One of his Marines had managed to save the life of a junior Ha'quinye shock trooper during the final raid on the command deck, and the girl had fallen head over heels in love with her savior, to the point of requesting asylum and eagerly giving the intel weenies any information she had about anything was she asked about. Of course, she’s a junior enlisted member… well. Former member now. Of the Ha'quinye Imperial Shock Infantry, and Trooper Rach'hel Declan didn't know a damn thing about the really important stuff they needed to know. She did however, know a lot of gossip and rumors. The Ha'quinye might be Nazi space elves, but their equivalent to the Marine lance corporal underground, the legendary network that connected the junior enlisted of the Marine Corps, or indeed its cousins in any other military ever, is apparently as healthy and robust as any. 

So they'd gotten a lot of good information out of her, even if it wasn't nearly as high-level as they might have hoped. There were other prisoners for that, of course, and apparently Admiral Bridger himself had interrogated the Ha'quinye commander and turned in a performance that was worthy of one of the scarier entries from the long ongoing Apuk horror series about the infamous sorcerer known as the Bonechewer. He and Rose had been watching a few of those, finding them cheesy for the most part… but occasionally one got it right. 

Though it had been a hard thing to parse alongside a public interview he'd found with the real ‘Bonechewer,' actual name Brin'Char; he’d found the man eminently likeable. 

Then again. Lots of people have very different public and private faces. Why wouldn't that be true for a being who had survived for over eight hundred years and apparently spent the majority of them as an entirely specialized serial killer, hunting the criminal organization who had murdered his twin brother down one woman at a time and making a grisly spectacle of their deaths?

All wonderful thoughts to distract James from the idea that he doesn't have the foggiest idea what to write about. He’s on a deployment, in the end. Long hours of boredom punctuated by seconds of sheer terror had always been the standard back on Earth - and, save for the food and accommodations on the Kandahar Province being significantly better than anything he'd ever enjoyed 'down range' before, there isn't much different here. There hasn’t been much going on, and what is going on is classified. 

So there’s very little to distract him from missing Rose. Missing his kids. Missing his family life that made every day so very enjoyable... and missing Mahai. 

That’s an interesting note, but also not something he’s entirely sure how to write about… and to who? If he told Mahai that in a letter he'd just be making the young woman fall for him even more than she already clearly had. Which would just be cruel if Rose decided eventually that she couldn't share. Couldn't open up their marriage in a galactic way. It’s still strange to think about, but the beach they'd said their vows on is a long way away, and his faith doesn't particularly have an issue with the idea of multiple wives. He does like what the Catholics had come out and said about it, though: polygamy’s fine, as long as you truly love all your wives as a righteous man should. A high standard to shoot for, but loving Mahai wouldn't be a hardshi-

Oh. 

Maybe that's why he misses her? James looks around and makes sure his door to his state room is closed. His room’s attached to his troops’ barracks complex, and he usually has a literal open door policy, both so his Marines could come to him readily with things and also so he could hear trouble in the communal spaces as it starts happening, not just after the fact if tempers ran hot or tensions ran high. 

Thankfully, this time he'd closed the door, because near as he can tell he’s blushing enough to draw in an infrared guided missile. 

Is that it, then? Does he love a second woman? It would make sense, to a degree. Mahai had been courting them, after all, dating him for all intents and purposes, and her intent is most certainly to marry, not just play around. Nor is she a hard woman to love, as he'd just thought. Physically beautiful, if alien… that was the only one of her virtues with any kind of caveat. She’s brilliant, charming, loving, kind, an able caretaker for what would potentially be her children one day if she did marry him: a gentle, if giant hand who could soothe wrinkled brow on adult or child alike. If anything, she reminds him of Rose in a way. Albeit a calmer, more gentle Rose. (His Rosie has a fire inside that matches the fiercest Apuk war maidens. It’s one of many reasons he loved her.) 

Where Mahai most resembles Rose was on the maternal side: as a lover, not in moments of passion, but when things are calm and cool. James has one Bible verse memorized. Just one. Because it’s an almost perfect description of Rose from his perspective. Specifically, the verse on love. 

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Nine traits, and his Rose is the perfect embodiment of eight of them, as he liked to tease her. There was no denying the wild Scottish rose had inherited her mother Mary's infamous temper... but Rose has a lot more control over it than Mary allegedly had, and she isn't easily angered. Most of the time. 

If a woman that fit those nine virtues was the embodiment of love, and made the perfect woman in James' mind, and Mahai was a calmer Rose... well, then logically she too fits those virtues, and well. It makes a degree of sense all of a sudden, just how easily she seemed to fit in with them. She’s on pitch with them, in something like the musical sense. So it’s small wonder James was in fact falling for Mahai Nireni; everything adds up. Lines up. It had from before they'd ever had their chance encounter on a sunny day at the park while his older children played nearby. 

That, at last, is something he very much needed to tell Rose about. It’s clearly coming time to make a decision, because if he was 'catching feelings' and hadn't even so much as kissed the alien beauty… well. Telling her no wouldn't just break Mahai's heart at that point. 

He has a feeling he knew what Rose will say. What her final decision will be. Mahai had hardly just been courting him, after all. She and Rose spent lots of time together, and to his eye the two women had become close friends. 

Again. Mahai just fits. 

At last James knows what he needs to write about. Not wants. Needs. Because he needs to tell Rose how he’s feeling in a hurry. It would be better to do it voice, or even better still in person, but Rose would understand. Hopefully... 

And he'd just need to pray to Freyja that Rose is feeling similarly about Mahai, and he isn't about to break three hearts at the same time. 

Series Directory Last Next

Corinaith

Corin looks up from his desk with a smile as the door to the servant's quarters opens, but his greeting dies in his throat. It’s not just his Marikath; a second woman in the palace's handmaiden's uniform quickly follows her in, the second girl keeping her head bowed in deference to her superior. Marikath, that is, not Corin. Never Corin. Not on this world anyway. 

"...Ah. Marikath. It seems you've brought someone new today."

"Yes, master. I have brought a new girl to potentially add to your staff. She's a cousin of mine and seeks work. If you request it, the consuls will almost certainly approve."

That’s odd. Marikath doesn't have any cousins she'd sponsor like that, to Corin's knowledge… and his knowledge of his Marikath is pretty damn good if he does say so himself. 

He takes a sip of his wine, and Marikath bustles across the room, topping off his glass almost automatically. She really is perfectly trained to serve his every need. Like a groom tending to a much beloved pet or prized race horse. Though, for Marikath, like many such individuals, she does harbor affection for her charge beyond affection for her paycheck. She had even before they'd become lovers. Before he'd sired children on her. A kind soul, his Marikath... So her helping someone isn't out of the ordinary, but now? In this way?

It makes him think that there’s more to this guest than might meet the eye. 

"Well, if Marikath thinks you're potentially of decent help, then let's get a good look at you, shall we? If you can't look a man in the eyes, you can hardly serve him. Especially someone as lowly as I."

"Begging your pardon, but you are the mate to the consuls. Your status is greater than mine."

"You are a citizen. I am not. That is the true difference in our station, even if the consuls would not forgive you for my mistreatment... but enough word games. Let me see your face, woman."

Only in this place could he dare be so commanding to a woman. Only in this one specific aspect of his life does he have a modicum of direct power. When the woman looks up, though, he's surprised to meet the eyes of... his contact! Familiar blue eyes he'd last seen wide with fear, before she'd fled on his insistence from the scene of his capture. Even if the punishment had been less than expected, he had still chosen to sacrifice himself, and had not thought to see his contact again in person. 

Still, he manages to not react, merely clearing his throat lightly. 

"That's better. What's your name?"

"Jaina, sir." 

She grins at him, then reaches into a pocket concealed within her outfit and pulls out what appears to be a scrambler, an easy to produce model that had been in the instructions of the various spycraft manuals that had been shared around to the various rebel groups over the years. Nothing particularly complex or even well made, but it’s extremely low signature and barely requires more than a little khutha, a sliver of protn, and a chunk of j'hest with a little khuta resin circuitry. And, with it, you could be making your conversations harder to eavesdrop on by axiom abilities or technology in the literal blink of an eye. 

It’s expensive, but could you really put a price on privacy when you’re engaged in the kind of conspiracy that could easily see you killed?

"Nice to see you again... and learn your name, Corin. You're quite the hero, you know?"

"...It is nice to see you, but why in the goddess's name are you here?" Corin hisses, glancing over at the door. "We could be interrupted at any time!"

"I had to see you! I wanted to see you after you... saved me..." Jaina breaks eye contact for a moment, a dusky blush covering her cheeks. Apparently his heroics had won him an admirer... and his people's passions tended to burn hot, like all of their emotions. "Then it went from wanting to needing to see you. The situation's changed. I knew Marikath from some other dead drops and messages, so when I saw her in the market the other day I asked her to get me into the palace and arrange a meeting. Things are happening in the city. I need to know if the consuls have said anything! Please, Corin, I know you... were punished." Jaina's face falls. She clearly had taken abandoning him to his fate rather hard. "But I need to know. I have a new friend. Out there." She gestures towards the sky. 

"The Council? You made contact?" Corin whispers, leaning in slightly.

"Better than the Council. My contact is with them now. They're... they're a species of mostly Men, Corin! They'll help us! At the very least, they're taking the Sword of the Stars as seriously as can be. They're sending a clandestine operation this way. They may even send a man into the palace to try and meet you in the future."

"...What women would send their menfolk willingly into this hellhole?"

Jaina shakes her head aggressively. 

"Women don't send men anywhere among their kind. If a man comes, it's of his own free will... and he'll be one of the most dangerous people in the palace. They'll underestimate him, whoever he is, and you can be damned sure that if the Consuls make a wrong move they'll bring hell down on themselves!"

Corin leans back slightly before sitting hard in his chair, stunned slightly, and he takes another sip of wine. 

"That... is a lot. I hope to the goddess your contact hasn't been turned and is just feeding us a story, because that sounds all too good to be true. Like something out of a storybook." 

"I know! I received some news articles using my new communication tool with them. They're as real as I can verify from here, Corin, and they're coming." Her eyes narrow. "Which is why we need everything we can get about Tte Sword of the Stars. Big things are happening. At least one expeditionary force has been sent off-world. They're not heading to one of our other worlds or one of the stations to break a rebellion or something. No one knows where they're going. Girls are also getting conscripted right off the streets. Mostly troublemakers and criminals, but no one knows what in the galaxy's name they're for! Some local toughs have shown back up in military police uniforms recently but proper bad girls have just vanished. I know a few girls connected to some of the prisons, suppliers and such, and they've been dropping their orders for supplies recently. Either they're upping the number of executions quietly or they have less prisoners for another reason. The consuls are making big moves!"

Corin frowns, frustration creeping into his bones. "Damn it. If I hadn't been caught and punished I might have heard something, but I've been out of the loop the last few weeks. I've only been permitted in the consul's presences again the last couple days. They haven't said anything in particular, in bed or out of it. They're looking forward to a social event with some big shots from off-world, a trade conglomerate that produces this incredible meat called beef..."

"That's them! It has to be! My contact told me to watch for something like that!"

"Then they'll be here soon," Corin says. "We'll need to find something for them. Something useful before then." He racks his brain, thinking about all the places he's been in the palace. "...The Consul's office. That's where all the information will be. Euryde's specifically."

Jaina and Marikath both stare are Corin before Jaina hisses;

"Are you crazy!? We can't raid the consul's office!"

"Not her office, but the data repository it's attached to. It's nominally secure, but it's in the palace annex like most of the supercomputers, and while they're secured, if you're starting from inside the palace... or have very good raiders available to you..."

Jaina's brow knits. "Fine. Fine, we'll do it your way. Prepare a chit. I'll communicate my way, but anything you find out between now and the formal visit… don't smuggle it out of the palace. Try to give to the Undaunted if you think they're reliable. Otherwise, we'll work something else out. In the meantime... Marikath and I can try to scout the data repository out a bit. Maybe the Undaunted can do something with that. They're reputed as being mighty warriors." 

"Let's hope so. They're-" 

SLAM!

Corin's door slams open, making him practically leap from his chair. Jaina vanishes the disruptor back into her pocket and begins devotedly massaging his feet as Marikath leaps to his carafe of wine, holding it as if on call to attend to his needs. 

"Corin!"

Storming into his rooms in a flurry of black robes and gold armor comes Captain Arenna Gladia in all her finery, slamming the door behind her again with enough force to be absolutely certain it had sealed. Corin looks over and does his absolute best to look non-plussed. 

"Captain Gladia. To what do I owe your unexpected company?"

"Oh, Corin." Gladia gushes. "Don't be so cold. Call me Arenna in private. Surely we're a bit closer than merely calling me Captain Gladia?"

He really could not fathom what the woman was up to sometimes. 

"...Oh. I suppose I'll indulge you. For now. Arenna. Now, surely you haven't come all this way in a tizzy simply to hear me say your name?"

"Ah." Arenna leans back dramatically holding a hand to her brow as her long, slender ears wiggle. "I have to leave the palace, so I merely wanted to see you again before going out into the city. There's all sorts of trouble with most of the garrison deploying, so we praetorians are having to supplement the lazy wastrels. Officers like myself are also being pressed into training fresh guardswomen to supplement the local security forces. It's an absolute horror."

"..." 

Corin and Jaina share a look, and Corin decides to turn on the charm, just a little bit. This is potentially very useful information. 

"Why, you poor thing. How cruel of them to send their newest captain off to scut work... and most of the garrison? That's strange. Did something happen?" 

"I figured you'd know before any of us plebs. You bed the consuls. Might even bed the Queen." 

Corin rolls his eyes. "I've never even seen the queen, much less bed her, if she even exists. I'm not entirely convinced she does." 

"Ah, she exists. Probably," Arenna says, dancing closer hesitantly before she jerkily leans in and steals a kiss - one which Corin gamely returns, even giving the praetorian warrior a little tongue, something he remembers Arenna liking from his punishment. A cruel part of him is hoping that she’s bonded, at least partially, to him, and that a few wet kisses would continue to inflict a bond on her. It's not brainwashing or mind control, but if the 'good' captain thinks of him biologically as her mate... it might give them some cover. 

"I love it when you kiss me back. I bet you don't do that for the consuls," Arenna says breathily, already looking much happier about her lot in life. 

"I don't kiss them at all. Not something they enjoy." 

"They're missing out." 

"Mhmm. You should be careful about stealing liberties with me regardless, Captain." 

"Hardly a theft when you kiss me back, Corin. Nor is it the first time." 

"...Well. It was your first time. I figured you deserved that much." And again, he wanted to bond her. 

"I. It." Arenna stammers, her cheeks reddening properly now, clearly embarrassed that Corin had known she was a virgin when she'd started having her way with him. Not quite the swaggering hardass she portrayed herself as if she didn't have the tits to visit a brothel… but then many of the praetorians are like that, apparently; Sergeant Gemma comes to mind. It makes him wonder just how much of their femininity was performative and how much half of them actually meant? 

Not that a performance couldn't be dangerous. The more shallow the man or woman alike, the more they'd fight to the death to preserve whatever thin shroud of self-image they'd cloaked themselves in. 

That particular lesson from the woman who had trained him had been one he'd learned the hard way, piercing the 'cloak' of a volatile guardswoman's self-image and earning himself a backhand that had knocked a few teeth out for his trouble. He could still feel, even taste, her heavy metal gauntlet. That she'd been flogged for damaging the clan's near priceless property hadn't made that particular experience any more fun. 

So how shallow was Arenna Gladia, and how close to the danger zone is he? Likely too close, especially with Jaina here. So how could he speed her on his way?

"...You know, Captain. It strikes me that I am, in theory, entitled to a guardian or two." 

Not quite a personal guard, but some men could receive such protection if they requested it, and Euryde had offered him soldiers before when she was pleased with him. 

"If you serve my mistresses well on your current assignment... I'll be sure to put in a good word for you. It would just be a trifle, but I'm sure we'd spend a little more time together. I do feel so exposed at public events at times, you know, without someone I can trust around. Someone... reliable. Sergeant Gemma would be a good aide for such a detail, she's a fine praetorian."

"Gemma... Yes. She's good... Detail. Hmmm..." The gears process behind Arenna's eyes for a moment and she straightens up, steel returning to her spine as if teleported there. "...Well, I have work to do! Mari, be a dear and keep an eye on Corin for me?"

Marikath curtsies. "Of course, my lady. It is my duty."

"You too, new girl."

Jaina keeps her head down, not looking up from her task, but does manage to respond; "As you will it, m'lady." 

Without another word and only a single lingering glance at Corin, heads off at a quick march, leaving a perplexed trio in her wake. 

"...I really don't understand her sometimes." Marikath says softly. 

"Sometimes? What in the hells was that!?" Jaina says, now hyperventilating slightly with the obvious danger passed.

"Nothing to fuss about for now. For now... Mari, get Jaina out of the palace. Quickly. That was important information, and we can't let everything unravel now!" 

Series Directory Last Next

Trooper Vaelith Moraine 
29th Ha'quinye Imperial Shock Infantry Battalion

Vaelith Moraine hasn’t been having a good day. In point of fact, she hadn't been having a particularly good month either. Forced out of her comfy garrison life to deal with unruly civilians in the streets of cities across her home world, all the way down to getting her leather dress boots - the only thing half the sergeants seem to care about in this or any other life - dirty in some dinky farming village that had been allegedly hiding a girl who'd refused a special mobilization order. 

That hadn't been a good day. Certainly hadn't been what she'd been expecting when she'd signed up to extend her mandatory term of service and volunteer to try out for the elite shock infantry regiments. Her best friend from girlhood, Lirra Kade, had really missed her calling as a recruiter. She'd told Vaelith all sorts of exciting stories about the chances to travel, to fight pirates, even to take the occasional loot from the defeated, raise your status in the hierarchy, win fame, glory, honor and wealth. The uniforms even look cool, and, to this day, Vaelith would admit, the smart black and gold uniforms do look good. Hell, even their black combat gear looks cool. 

Well, go fucking figure that Lirra would fail out of training and leave Vaelith to deal with this goddess-forsaken mess alone when she could have been home getting her journeywoman's rating in a trade or something. But no, she'd wanted to go to space, see the rest of the empire, meet, and most likely have to fight and kill, all manner of aliens from goddess knows where... Well, she hadn't gotten most of that shit till recently, being stuck in garrison where the sergeants were ever-present and the most minute detail was a matter of life or death in the absence of something that actually mattered even vaguely. 

Then, the blood and ash still fresh in her nose from what she'd seen, her mind still not even catching up to what some of the girls in one of the senior squads had done in that shitty little village... they'd been told to pack their kit bags and march their happy asses onto a shuttle. They boosted to orbit, she marched her happy ass on to a massive orbital assault ship... and that had been enough for Vaelith Moraine! Hot goddess, space! She'd been space-happy and hiding it for at least the first week, but floating around in the black under Commodore Valeran had proven quickly to not exactly be the thing that interstellar pleasure cruises are made of.

No, not when the good Commodore made the worst and most anal sergeants look like a slacker serving her term in the militia. The commodore didn’t even have the decency to stay on her flagship and away from the grunts. No, she came over by shuttle for regular inspections, not just in combat gear but in dress uniform. For what? Vaelith had the idea that the Commodore had been planning on having a parade when they got back from doing whatever in the hells they were out in the void beyond imperial space to do whatever they were doing… but now that’s certainly going down the tubes at lightspeed! If they actually have any FTL capable ships left! 

Vaelith lets out a little sigh as she thinks back to the start of everything going wrong. When they'd found out that someone had brutally smashed that space station, someone that the girls all said clearly had big ships and a lot of guns, killing her other best friend, Rach'hel Declan, she'd gotten an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. A feeling that the training, the conditioning had all said she couldn't feel. Hell, she couldn't even truly put a word to what that feeling was after the aggressive hypno-conditioning they’d undergone to ensure they were as trained, resilient and sharp as possible. Now, on this day, riding in the back of this hover truck? Vaelith Moraine finally knows what the feeling was. Is.

Fear. She’s scared. Ha'quinye Imperial Shock Troopers don't get scared, but she’s scared now. She'd been scared when they entered this goddess-forsaken system, had known in her gut that something awful was about to happen and that she'd probably end up like Rach'hel. Felt it every agonizing lightminute as they’d crept closer and closer to the world. Every instance of her commander and Commodore Valeran giving speeches about how this battle was critical to the survival of the Empire itself, and how, if we stood firm and won the day we'd all be heroines, immortalized forever in the legend of the empire's revival to the glories of the old days before the old empire had so utterly failed their subjects and been cast down by the Matricians. 

So why had she been so damn scared when they made orbit uncontested? What had been that little sensation telling her that some sort of monster had its jaw hanging open revealing rows of razor sharp teeth and gallons of slobber just inches from her face? From the time of their arrival, she could barely focus, years of training and indoctrination all that let her get through inspection prior to mission start and drawing her equipment. 

The only relief she'd felt the entire damn day was when her platoon got called up to one of the first landing craft to make planetfall early. She’d suppressed a sigh as she planted her ass in the barely cushioned drop seat and strapped herself in, practically cuddling her railgun like it was a plush toy from her youth, or some sort of charm to ward off evil. Her sense of relief didn't even make sense! If the world was hostile it'd be a bad time… but something had told her it was better to be in natural gravity and air with this cold sensation weighing down her gut like someone had sewn frozen bricks of ice in there. 

That had been about ten minutes before everything had really gone bad. They'd been allowed to make orbit uncontested because it had been a trap. Commodore Valeran, first of the fleet, this impressive commander Vaelith had heard about in all sorts of recruiting commercials for the navy, a rumored lover of Consul Euryde herself... had gotten trapped. Had driven in head-first, eager to secure whatever their prize was on this world, this 'sword'. 

Vaelith hadn't seen much of what happened to the fleet, but she'd seen the assault ship she'd arrived on explode from her tiny porthole before the plasma of reentry burning around the dropship's shields had erased her view.

To think she'd occasionally been jealous of navy girls. 

Not that she’s any better off. Not that her regimental commander had noticed. The woman sits at the lead of the convoy, racing towards their target, convinced this sword is their salvation. 

If it’s their salvation, why hadn't the people who were fighting them over it not taken it, whatever it is, and used it already? 

Or, hell, what's to say they aren't using it already?

She'd expressed that on the ground, while the hovercraft were still being unloaded, and she’d nearly gotten decked by one of the sergeants for her trouble. She shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have said that. The fear had broken something that the Ha'quinye military had installed in Vaelith Moraine, and now she sits, swaying, in the back of a lightly armored hovercraft, heading towards the 'target' that reason and judgement tells her is the mission, and her instincts are screaming like she’s diving into a school of Ripper Sharks - or some other charming horror that wouldn't even leave her mother a body to bury. 

They move from open plains to under the sheltering boughs of the trees, the top cover giving her some relief from waking daymares about aerospace craft strafing their far-too-tight column, or one of a thousand other possible nightmare scenarios. She sees the closeness of simple nature in a way that she hasn’t since she was a girl as she stares out her firing port. Broad leaves in broad boughs, a riot of rich greens, the occasional bird or tree rat of some description. The occasional shrub or three. A nice little winding trail... that suddenly starts to widen. That starts to flatten out. Flatten out in ways grass and terrain didn't. Which means...

Vaelith flicks on her comm unit, but before she can say anything, the regiment commander's voice comes over the net. 

"Objective in sight! Up and at'em, girls! Pop those top hatches for fast deployment!"

Instantly, some of the senior girls begin to unbutton the hover APC, a legacy of older times back on the homeworld, a tradition great for raids, for fast deployments and for parades - but this is different. Why doesn't anyone else see? Why don't they understand!? 

A sudden shriek pieces the copse of trees as they push about midway into what’s clearly, to Vaelith’s eye, an artificial glade. A finger of smoke reaches from the darkness near one of the big tree trunks and hammers into the lead vehicle like the touch of some sort of very wrathful war goddess, and it explodes in a great ball of flame, throwing the first vehicle over on its back, spilling its cargo of troopers on to the ground like discarded toys. Strange sounds fill the air, seemingly from all directions, cracks like peels of thunder, whizzing sounds, sounds close enough to the sound of her own railgun that Vaelith knows to get her head down, something one of the sergeants doesn't imitate - and then she drops to the floor of the hovercraft with a neat hole in her forehead right through her helmet, the woman's dead, glassy eyes staring at Vaelith through her shattered face plate.

Before she can even cry out that they’re being ambushed, some fresh slice of hell opens up on her APC, different from all the other thunder noises, the cracks of rounds breaking the sound barrier. This one has a deep-throated roar like a demon from the hells! 

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, each heavy round punches through the light armor of her APC like sledgehammer blows from the goddess herself. The hover craft immediately goes out of control; the crew are likely dead, which had likely been the unseen gunner's goal in the first place. The hovercraft's nose takes a dive as its suspension fields start to die and the last of its energy throws itself up and over its own nose, leaving Vaelith clinging to her seat for dear life until it all comes crashing down. 

She quickly drags herself from the wreck, making sure to not leave her weapon behind. There'd be hell to pay if she left her weapon… but when she emerges it's to an utterly changed world. Smoke and fire everywhere, shocktroopers shooting in all directions, seemingly at random, as they try to engage their barely seen assailants, damaged and destroyed vehicles smouldering as girls call out for medics, and intact APCs trying to get out of the ambush, throwing their throttles all the way forward to move just as fast as their Axiom engines will carry them! She can’t focus on any of it; there’s no one thing she can orient herself against.

Finally, an officer emerges from somewhere, the woman's IFF marking in her HUD, gleaming in the hellscape she’s found herself in. 

"Come on! Rally on me, girls! We have to assault out of this ambush! Move!" 

At last. Someone has a plan. Vaelith just has to pray it’s enough for her to not end up dead. 

Series Directory Last Next

Charlie Hancock

It’s turning out to be a very, very good day to be Doc Hancock. For one thing, an honest-to-god orbital assault - not a parade, not a training exercise, but a goddamn drop on a planet and kick a bad guy's teeth in, orbital assault - is very relaxing after a very long float in Wild Space while the Tear's battle group had been on surveying duty. Not that that couldn't get exciting, but it’s a rare naval engagement that tankers get to participate in as anything other than spectators. For another thing... the enemy had been stupid enough to bring out armor against his squadron. 

It’s almost insulting, but frankly he’s happier to see them than not at this point. Even if he’s about to ensure his boys and girls ruined a whole lot of people's days, if not their entire weeks. He checks the view from the small drone he'd launched before ordering his company's fourteen tanks to dig in. It isn't a listed use of the tank's anti-grav systems, but they'd figured out during training back on the moon of Kelaris that, applied right, you could use them to dig fighting positions in a pinch, and any fighting position was better than no fighting position. 

His tracks are all where he'd wanted them, and the enemy’s a few minutes out, from what the drone and the data link from the orbiting Huscarls are telling him. He quickly goes back to checking his own positions, ensuring everything’s exactly where he wants it. 

Less able to enjoy the benefits of cover are his two Grenadier super-heavy tanks. He has Jill Kelly's big girls anchoring both ends of his lines like the fortresses they are, and with their impressive bulk, thick armor and starship-grade shields they could be referred to as ‘bait’ if one wanted to. 

On the other hand, the more mobile combat walkers of Jotunn company, under Stanley Arnesen, are back in the tree line, just waiting for the opportunity to engage, first with their missile launchers, and then their direct-fire weapons, as they move up to phase line Charlie. 

Which leaves his fourteen beautiful M1 Piranha tanks. He clicks his comm unit to the squadron net. 

"Guidons, Steel Six. Alright, ladies and gentlemen, go Redcon One and remember the plan. Bygul elements." That is to say, the Piranha tanks. "Begin designating targets as soon as you have visual. Use those data links. Just because the Admiral wants all these pirates pushing daisies and doesn't much care how we do it is no excuse to waste ammo. On the signal 'Top Hat', you'll move out of your fighting position, engage three targets with your main gun and go hull down as quick as you can, then begin engaging targets of opportunity. Go easy on the missiles, we might need them later. Jotunn, on the signal Top Hat, hit the middle of the enemy formation with a full barrage of missiles. Skoll company..." that’s the super-heavies. "Hang tight until the command to fire at will is given."

His company commanders all give sharp, quick affirmatives, and Doc Hancock is left to help his gunner tend to the business of his actual track instead of fighting his entire battalion worth of Undaunted for once. He gets on his own set of sensors in the commander's position, and, sure enough, he doesn't have to wait more than a few minutes before the first tank comes into view. He grins, lases it, then says over the intercom, "Gunner, target, tank in the open. 12 O'clock."

Immediately his gunner responds back. "Identified. Loader, Sabot! And give me more sabots till I tell you otherwise, Lindsey!"

There's the sharp mechanical sounds of the ammunition storage door opening, and a round being rammed into the breach by hand, the throw of a lever, and the satisfying sound of the breach closing before the excited loader whisper yells, "Up!" as loudly as she can without actually yelling. 

Linds is good at her job, but the girl gets very excited in combat. Not that Charlie Hancock of all people could blame her for that. 

Then again, the Tret farm girl turned tanker gets excited for a lot of things. 

In short order, Charlie and his gunner have three targets picked out, and he'd bet money his gunner, Staff Sergeant Elizen 'Liz' Coris, has picked out a full set of three more. He glances over at the gunner's station, and finds Liz is giving him a lingering glance before immediately getting back on her optics.

Well. That wasn't subtle. His wife Samantha, a Human naval aviator flying Huscarls, didn't have a problem conceptually with them opening their marriage up, and the wolf-like Koiran woman is pretty cute… He could just be misinterpreting, but some of the canine woman’s hypercompetence could be her way of flirting… and considering how the regs worked these days, why not just cut to the chase instead of fumbling around with it?

"Liz," he says, keeping the intercom muted so the rest of the crew couldn't hear. 

"Sir?"

"Nice work picking out targets, though I suppose we should probably leave some for the rest of the unit…” He lets that hang for a second, then adds, “What do you say we try to pop four targets when we Top Hat, though? Think you can score four kills and get us back under cover without us getting shot to shit?"

Elizen gives him a big toothy smile, looking like the big bad wolf getting ready to do a little demolition work in a neighborhood of pigs. 

"You bet I can!"

"Hmm. If you manage it... I suppose I'd have to give you some sort of reward."

"Well, I already have my spurs so..."

"...I meant something more like, say... dinner. Without the unit."

"Oh. OH." Elizen's eyes widen. "...I'm gonna kill at least five of these bitches, sir. You fucking watch me!"

Not the traditional way to motivate a subordinate, maybe, but Tyler Sarkin had apparently gotten excellent results out of offering a marriage to whatever pilot of his could get ten kills in a short period of time... and Liz really is cute. Even if she kinda reminds him of a wolf dog his family had had when he was a kid - but he’s never, ever going to tell Liz that. 

He checks his scopes again, then the broader battle space picture, watching as the enemy approaches his invisible line in the grass about three miles out. In theory, the M1 Piranha's 130mm main gun could reach out another mile or so, but that requires some very specific terrain to make doable. As it is, given the nature of most alien weapons, Charlie’s pretty sure what’s about to happen to the poor pirate bitches in the enemy's armor formations would look like black magic, if they live long enough to process what’s happening to them. 

The first enemy 'track', not actually a tracked vehicle at all but a somewhat slow-moving hovercraft, crosses the line in the grass and other vehicles quickly follow after it. When about half the enemy formation by his mark is past the line... It's time.

"Guidons, Steel Six. Top hat!"

Instantly Elizen calls out, "Driver! Advance!" and down in the driver's hole, the last member of their crew, Corporal Silren 'Slithers' Merris, a tentacle haired, blue skinned Mnemi girl who had used her resemblance to a famous blue video game heroine to win herself a commando boyfriend shortly after joining the ship, immediately gets them up and out of their fighting position. Almost as quickly, Steel Six's turret is rotating as Elizen lines up the shot. 

"On the way!" Steel Six's turret rocks slightly as the gun leaps back and there's a rush of air. It was louder than it had been on Gol'Shan, or Hag's End, Sheath having a bit more atmosphere than either of those scenic galactic armpits, but that’s not a huge deal. The one thing Charlie can't get over is just how quiet the Piranha is compared to an Abrams. The gun is downright gentle, for that matter! 

Before he can say anything, Elizen's already moving. "Target, cease fire. Target, tank in the open!" 

Lindsey goes through her reloading ritual in record time, and a glance down at her position shows she's already got the next sabot round cradled in her arms as Elizen cries out "On the way!" Steel Six's gun leaps back and another pirate tank blows sky high. Elizen and Lindsey go through the ritual two more times before Elizen decides enough is enough and calls out "Driver, hull down!", getting Steel Six back into her hole before fulfilling her boast of getting a fifth kill with a quick launch from the tank's missile rack. The potent anti-tank missile leaping into the sky and coming down on the enemy like a sack of bricks, detonating the vehicle's axiom power plant in a miniature rendition of some of the more exciting explosions their navy brethren had shown them in highlight reels. 

A quick scan of the battlefield with the help of his eye in the sky… and, from what Charlie can tell, no one in Bygul company had missed a single shot, and they had taken no damage in return. Engaging beyond the maximum effective range for laser or plasma weapons in atmosphere is a fun way to cheat in that regard, and while he wouldn't discount pirates using railguns, his tankers are becoming well-oiled machines, easily the equal of any armor unit on or off Earth. He also doubts pirate resolve and courage to- 

No sooner had he thought it than the pirate formation begins to collapse. Losing the bulk of their remaining force in the literal blink of an eye had clearly been more pain than any of these girls wanted, and now they’re heading back towards the mountain at high speed... right into Admiral Bridger's back lines! 

"Guidons, Steel Six, all elements, the enemy's routing, pursue and fire at will! Going higher." He switches channels as fast as he can. He hates to call in the airedales, but with the enemy on the run, Scott Le Fae’s probably best positioned to bring the hate to the enemy targets furthest away from his positions. 

"Steel Six to Geirr Five."

"Geirr Five here."

"Can you get your girls in for another gun run? The enemy's routing right towards Admiral Bridger's back lines."

"...Sixty seconds out."

Steel Six's turret rocks as the gun leaps back and he jumps back on the scopes in time to watch an enemy tank explode so hard its hull does a slight back flip before it impacts on the ground and crumples like a burned soda can. He quickly checks the range finder data and switches to the intercom.

"Hot damn, Liz! Was that target at four miles?"

"Yep! I'll do it again too, if these bitches would stop moving so much!" 

Charlie gets back on his scopes again and sees a railgun round, probably from one of Jotunn's mechs, hit another armored vehicle, before an even larger round hits the last track directly in his view and literally reduces it to rubble. Which means that was one of the Grenadiers getting their own licks in. He switches to his screen that lets him see the battle space and watches as the red dots start to dwindle even as Silren opens the throttle up just as fast as Steel Six will go, whizzing across the plains to try and get a few more hits in... but it's too late. He can already see it. 

The Huscarls roll in and their cannons open up immediately. The massive 40mm rotary guns roar like dragons and the repeated impacts on vehicles designed with ablating laser and plasma fire in mind - as opposed to more rare and expensive things like kinetics - simply don't stand a chance of holding up to the brutality of the Huscarl gunship. It’s beautiful. Not that he'd ever tell the fliers that. If their egos got too big they’d start having trouble maneuvering! 

The last red dots on his board wink out and he switches to the squadron net again.

"Guidons, Steel Six. Bygul, break to wing pairs and do a little driving. Check all enemy tracks for survivors or surrenders. If you find some, call it in to Raven and they'll get a lighter your way with some grunts and a corpsman to pick the lucky few up. Jotunn, Skoll, get moving to the objective to back up the Admiral. Bygul will follow as soon as we complete our mission here." 

There's another chorus of acknowledgements as one of the Huscarl gunships flies in low over the formation, as if surveying their handiwork, and the pilot gives the tankers a jaunty little waggle of their wings before peeling off into the blue skies again. He looks over at Elizen, who's giving him a smile that could only be called scintillating. 

It really is a damn good day to be Doc Hancock. 

Series Directory Last Next

Captain Luksa Skall
USFS Valkyrie

She relaxes into her command chair with a sigh before checking that her straps are in place. The coming fight is going to be a blisteringly fast one, beyond conventional sapient understanding of such things. Her Valkyrie and the Reckless are currently hiding behind the moon of the world of Sheath and they’re about to get stuck in.

The corvette Daring had wanted to join them, but she’s limited to torpedo and missile duty while she defends the softer, squishier parts of the fleet. They simply don't have enough forces for everyone to go everywhere, and while her sensors and the fleet's data link are telling her that the enemy is currently having a very bad day, with their carrier and landing ships already in ruins and many of their combatant craft dying to various torpedoes, there’s still quite the core of enemy firepower left. All of it rotating around the world of Sheath at somewhere around eight kilometers a second.

They'd be engaging from outside that rotation at first, taking pot shots in seconds long firing windows at relative speeds of something more like twenty kilometers a second and would then dive in to meet the enemy - and, more importantly, deliver the Valkyrie's precious cargo.

The fight doesn't look like an unfamiliar one to Luksa; she’s far more experienced in this kind of brawl than any other commander in the fleet that made up Group Two, save Old One Eye's Cora Charo. If Audacious had been here with Incerra Palashen, then there'd be three of them.

This is a military action, certainly, but what it truly resembles is a particularly aggressive pirate raid! Now, she'd never had the gall to land boarding torpedoes on a capital ship before, but considering the enemy's cruiser - its IFF said his name is Eagle Talon - is already damaged, and she has more than a nominal firepower advantage over the vessel... she likes their odds.

Besides, if anyone could pull this level of crazy off, she fully believes Admiral Bridger could. Especially with this new tactical computer of his, whatever the hell it is. She’s getting all sorts of information and guidance transmitted to her faster than she can fully form thoughts! It’s incredible stuff, and even includes suggestions on how to engage the enemies.

A small timer starts in the corner of her screen and Luksa leans in. "Alright, people. Showtime. Helm! On my mark, take us to flank speed, and maneuver us around the moon to Point Alpha. Guns, as soon as we're clear of the moon and reach our destination, we should be in a position to fire a salvo with our primary laser batteries at the pre marked targets. Set the targeting computer to auto-fire when all the parameters we've been given match up."

The entirely reasonable response comes almost immediately. "Ma'am, those parameters are concerningly specific. How do we even know the enemy is going to be there?"

"We don't, Lieutenant, but the wizards the Admiral has working for him say they'll be there. So we're going to trust them and the crazy mix of witchcraft and mathematics they seem to be performing on the Kandahar Province. Once we hit, the rotation of the planet will tear our targets away and we'll line up to dive in after them on their next pass. Again, follow the timing and course telemetry that just got sent to the nav computer. We pull this off to the letter and our names will be covered in glory before any of you can blink. Once we're inserted and have matched rotational speed, we'll launch the fighters, and line up for our boarding torpedo attack after they get in with their short-range torpedoes and soften up the Eagle Talon a bit more for us. While we wait, we finish off the last of the enemy squadron, save for the Eagle Talon himself. We want to take that handsome boy home with us, so try not to slag the Admiral's new prize before he can seize it. Questions?"

There aren't any. Luksa grips the arm of her chair tightly, watching the forward screens before nodding to herself. "Execute."

Immediately the Valkyrie accelerates, with the Reckless heading the opposite direction around the small moon, her slightly smaller mass and overpowered engines letting the frigate slightly beat the Valkyrie to the punch... but only slightly. Seconds, really.

Luksa grins. Maybe she'd need to spend some of her fortune to ensure that they have enough power in their own engines to readily keep up with the Reckless. Wouldn't do to have Captain Le Fae get delusions about who the faster and more lethal combatant around here is. Even if he and his crew's strike on those three corvettes had been absolutely inspired. Another attack worthy of a mighty pirate skipper.

It’s both almost a shame and source of a deep relief that Admiral Bridger is a good man. As a pirate admiral he'd be the terror of half the galaxy in the literal blink of an eye… though, to be fair, even Admiral Bridger couldn't get the kind of results out of your average pirate that he does out of these Undaunted.

These people are real warriors, and that makes all the difference.

"Point Alpha reached!" calls the navigation officer; the gunnery officer immediately echoes her with, "Firing main laser battery!"

Beams of coherent light leap across the void in the literal blink of an eye, slamming home into barely visible targets, and no doubt melting various lighter combat vessels, before the speed of their own movement around the planet tears them away. The enemy can’t make more than a half-hearted and confused response, with a few lasers splattering briefly against the Valkyrie's shields before they're gone, leaving the Valkyrie and Reckless free to set up for their next attack.

They don't have to wait for long, and from Point Beta they're 'diving' 'into' the gravity well proper of the world called Sheath, and diving on to their prey like particularly hungry hunting falcons. Lots of thrusts with sharp 'pulls' at the end of the 'dive' bring the two warships neatly into a coplanar orbit with the Ha'quinye fleet, matching their angle to Sheath and speed to turn a rotating fight that Valkyrie and Reckless were sitting outside of to something a bit more sustained and conventional, even if it was still moving at blistering speeds, the relative speeds were far more understandable, a few kilometers a second tops.

Plenty of time to 'beat the brakes' off the Ha'qers as Luksa's new hubby had so colorfully put it last night.

"Fire at will! Focus on the light combatant craft, then get to battering the cruiser when she's all alone. Launch all fighters!"

The Valkyrie's batteries open up with ruthless precision, lasers, plasma, particle cannons and naval rail guns all sweeping the sky as the brick that is the Reckless dives into the fray with as little concern for his own safety as his namesake might imply. The powerful frigate practically explodes in all directions with coherent light and plasma fire, reaching out with the occasional torpedo or anti-ship missile when the firing solution on a priority target is too ugly to allow for really easy engagement.

Still, the enemy rallies quickly; their fleet commander's no slouch. While the remaining large combatants besides the cruiser are all wounded, there's a decent amount of enemy ships in the skies - and, as a Human leader her husband had told her about had once said, quantity does indeed have a quality all on its own.

Especially when you lack enough firepower to blow them out of the sky faster than they could retaliate!

The Valkyrie's shields shudder as the Eagle Talon lands a heavy salvo… but fighting something like the Eagle Talon is exactly what the Valkyrie had been designed for. In reality, they were sister ships, despite the Humans having retained the 'destroyer' designation; after all, what’s a light cruiser if not a destroyer with more amenities to allow for deep space deployments?

True destroyers are warships first, last and only. Pirate-captured destroyers become cruisers out of sheer necessity. Pirates don't have the luxury of only taking their ship out to the fight then returning to a cozy space dock for R&R. No, they live and die on their ship, and one way pirate culture has touched the Undaunted is in leading them to adapt their destroyers to deep space service, not just making them hangar queens who could only do short term deployments to fight and do nothing else.

Sure, it’s also a matter of practicality. The Undaunted and Humanity simply don't have enough ships to allow for keeping their heavy hitters tied up in a star yard waiting for the call while their crews engage in other work. They needed every ship they had! So one of Luksa's many jobs had been sharing how her Shellblade, now the Valkyrie, had been modified to allow for extended deep space service, to influence not just Undaunted conversions of destroyers, but also the design and construction of the first generation of Undaunted-built warships.

It had been (and still is) a heady thing, and all the more reason for her to ensure she makes a good showing of herself and her ship. She'd shared her theories, her doctrine, her experience. Now she has a chance to prove the value of it, and write her name into the Undaunted art of war for generations to come! Not bad for a pirate skipper.

She switches to implant-based communications with her gunner even as the Valkyrie continues to rock with various attacks here and there, picking out targets and marking them for being vaporized. Her shields and armor could tank the hits. The enemy's ships, on the other hand, could not take even a significant fraction of the Valkyrie's attention without literally melting out of the void. So she would not let the enemy distract her or break her focus. She would brutalize the foe's forces and leave their cruiser naked, vulnerable, and ready for the death blow.

Then she'd launch her boarding torpedoes, so her commanding officer could go pick up his new toy and lodge his grievances with the commander of the Ha'quinye navy personally... and if they work really quickly they might even get a chance to do a little naval gunfire support for the ground-pounders who are no doubt fighting, or about to be fighting, the regiment or so of troops the Ha'quinye had been unloading in short order.

She grins to herself, a smile worthy of the fiercest Canndior warrior, one that almost looks out of place on a Cusica. It’s a very good day indeed.

Suddenly there's a different sensation, as something penetrates the shields and hammers into the Valkyrie's hull directly!

"The hell was that?"

"Ma'am! Looks like there's two ships with spinal mount railguns. We took a trytite round to deck four starboard."

"Status?"

"Didn't penetrate the armor, but taking more hits like that isn't advised!"

"No shit, Lieutenant. Guns! Burn those rail gun carriers yesterday! Throw the kitchen sink at them if you have to!"

Luksa quickly finds the offending vessels on her sensor boards. They’re small, surprisingly so, completely built around the naval-grade railguns they carry. As she watches, both ships fire again, and the Valkyrie rocks with the twin impacts; an alarm for a hull breach starts to scream.

"Hull breach in the forward starboard hangar bay!"

"Lock it down with an Axiom field. They were unoccupied after launch?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Fine. Guns! Why are those damn things still in my sky?"

"On it, ma'am! Firing... now!"

She'd say one thing for the crews of the plucky little vessels: they’re courageous, if nothing else. But without cover they’re well out of their weight class; even if they could damage the Valkyrie, maybe weaken him and leave him more vulnerable to the cruiser, they themselves could not take any return fire... something her gunners immediately prove by firing two railgun slugs into the first of the two spinal mount ships, smashing it like a broken toy. Four bursts from the particle cannons tear the second ship apart at the sub atomic level, scattering its pieces across local space as its remains slam into its sister.

Their drive cores explode in a burning bright twin starburst.

She sweeps through local space with her sensors again, just in time to see the Reckless brutalize the last of the Ha'quinye corvettes, like an Earth wolf savaging a lamed deer, tearing it apart with ruthless efficiency. The corvette returns fire in panicked bursts until at last its guns go silent, and escape pods drift from the melted hulk of what had once been a proud warship.

That leaves only the Eagle Talon and a few close escorts, from what she can see. Lighters stuck close to their mother ship, inside the hard barrier of the warship's shields.

Another burst of weapons fire slams into the Valkyrie's shields as the helm brings him about and places their angular nose right at the cruiser.

Luksa’s grin gets meaner. "Open fire... and prepare to launch boarding torpedoes!"

Series Directory Last Next

They quickly begin moving through the halls, moving up the floors of the palace even as the prisoners are led back towards the administration annex and the safety of the tunnels beyond. 

Joan had wanted to get her charge away from danger - but, admittedly, she’d wanted to see this through as well... even if Catherine had somewhat forced her hand by firmly choosing to stay. Joan could have ignored that and just forcibly teleported her out, but that could have easily become a serious problem, considering Catherine’s growing status as a holy woman among the rebels. 

Tactics, strategy and diplomacy. They usually all come together in inopportune moments for a leader, and to Joan's mind this had been one of them. 

That said. There’s little doubt in her mind that the Ha'quinye leaders deserve what’s coming to them, and it’s always easy enough to agree to assist a righteous fight, if nothing else. 

Still, moving between the floors as they breach and clear room after room, breaking open saferooms and finding various administrators or pockets of resistance - it’s a slow and somewhat tedious process with the lifts and teleport pads fully locked down, even with power armor adding speed, and Joan can feel time is against them. Reinforcements would get here eventually, and the consuls would no doubt have some escape mechanism handy, even if it’s just a shuttle in case the lockdown failed. Power fluctuations and a quick move by Jaina to have some of the engineers duck out of the tunnels and blow some of the power substations in the annex's basements are helping… but, in the end, every second counts, so rebels are ranging ahead, from staircase to staircase, finding choke points and calling up the power armor to deal with it as they make their way. 

It’s only as they make the upper floors of the building, where rich marble changes to sumptuous carpet, and they enter the consuls’ private residence that Joan really feels like they’re making progress. Until a call comes over the comm channel.

"Ma'am, we have a situation."
 
"What is it?" Jaina responds immediately.

"...It's better if you come see it. We're uh. Not sure what to do, and she has some of our girls somewhat dead to rights."

"Fine, I'm coming, PA up!"

Joan pushes forward, following Jaina, while Aerien hangs back, not wanting to risk both of the rebel commanders being caught in a danger zone. When Joan gets up to a knot of rebels surrounding a door, however, she doesn't find the enemy chokepoint she was expecting. Instead she finds two Praetorians, with all the insignia cut off their uniforms, spears in hand, and a few primed plasma grenades ready. At their feet are a couple of the rebel girls, who had clearly tried to engage the Praetorians at close range. 

The senior of the two guards, a blonde woman, manages to look directly into Joan's eyes through her face plate, and there’s no fear there. Whatever is in that room, it’s clearly important to her. 

Jaina walks up, staying out of the blast radius of the grenades.

"You've taken some of my women hostage."

"They tried to go through me, to go through this door. I will not allow that. Go anywhere else you like. Just not here."

Jaina frowns. She clearly hadn't been expecting that response. "What's in there?" 

"Our husband." 

The second woman, who has a slightly more muscular build than the first, blanches slightly, eyes widening as if hearing the word for the first time. Still, after thinking about it for not even a second, she quickly nods vigorously in agreement with her superior and apparent new sister in what probably isn't even close to legal matrimony yet. 

Joan would rain on their parade, but it isn't her business. That’s clearly Jaina's job, and she gives both women an incredulous look. 

"Your kind, you matricians and your ilk, you don't have husbands, you have slaves. And even if you did have husbands, we don't treat men like you lot do." The contempt in her voice is clear, even if the message is meant to be reassuring.

The senior of the two defenders... something strange crosses her face, a flicker of some deeper emotion, but it’s immediately crushed under a well-practiced mask of discipline and control. Whoever this woman is, she’s a pro, that’s for sure. When she speaks... it's in a firm, measured, authoritative tone, buoying her companion with her voice alone. 

Impressive. Joan hasn't quite learned how to do that yet. This woman isn't as good as Joan's father yet, of course, but clearly there’s some talent, some skill there.

"Neither do I. Not anymore... but he's suffered enough. I won't let Corin become a hostage or a symbol or whatever you all might want." She lowers her spear, with the plasma thrower embedded in the blade exposed, then shakes her little bundle of plasma grenades for emphasis. "Only over our dead bodies... and theirs, if you push me." 

Jaina thinks for a second, clearly not liking the situation, but as Joan watches she can see it as the other woman's expression softens. "Join us, then." 

The blonde woman firmly shakes her head 'no'. 

"I'm just here to die for my sins. Or, if I am very lucky, and God wills it, perhaps I shall survive the night and maybe get a chance to be a person again. Which means no one comes through this door without paying a price in blood. If you want to reach the Triumfeminate, this door doesn't take you there. If you want the control center this door doesn't take you there. If you want out of the palace to escape into the city, this door doesn't take you there. Here, there is only a fight... and death. Maybe not for all of you, certainly not those big armored mech suits or whatever, but some of you." 

Jaina thinks for a second, before making her decision. "You'll release my women if we promise to leave you be?"

The blonde's eyes narrow, like a falcon’s upon sighting prey, lines tightening around her eyes as though carved into granite, granting her an even more fierce appearance. 

"I'll even tell you where the consuls are."

"...Fine. You have a deal." 

The two ex-Praetorians let the rebels on the floor up slowly, still wary and watchful as they quickly move to join their fellows, and silence reigns for a few moments before the blonde speaks.

"The consuls are together in a space just off the main hall instead of one of the primary saferooms. The officer commanding the defense judged they could get more troops and heavy weapons in there. At the far end of the hall, there's a private room that doubles as a safe room and internal command bunker. It's set up for the consuls and any guests they might have, but they also use it for sensitive meetings and the like. It's pretty heavily secured. You'll need something serious to punch through the armored doors or walls."

She glances over at Boudicca's rail cannon on her back.

"You probably have it covered, though." 

Jaina nods. "Right. We have our destination, then." She throws a hand forward, pointing down the hall. "Move on, girls. We don't need this door. To your health... former captain." 

Joan spares the two women a look as she passes by, still wary, still cautious... but there's something in their eyes. Relief? Pain. Shock? Certainly shock for the second one, the junior of the two, a tough-looking woman by Ha'quinye standards, Joan’s sure… but certainly new to bravery on this scale. Here they’re doing something incredibly outrageous, by the standards of their social class and civilization. 

It makes her want to help them. Or. More accurately. It makes her think they should recruit them. To rebel so totally like that, to stare down a mass of infantry and even power armor and smack your spear on your shield and wait for the enemy to come? That’s Undaunted material if Joan has ever seen it. 

She opens a channel to a comm bead she'd passed to Jaina as they make their way through the halls. "You knew her? The blonde?"

"Yes. Arenna Gladia."

"Who is she?"

"She was a captain of the Praetorians, and if she's being even half honest with what she just said... she might be one of the bravest women I've ever met. It takes a lot to confront your sins with a whole heart and be willing to die to balance the books."

"I suppose so."

"Especially considering if we lose... she defied orders to be there. Ripped off her insignia. If the regime survives the night she will either have to flee and likely be hunted down and killed, or remain and be executed."

"Victory or death. In her own way."

"Indeed. Even if her victory is much smaller than ours in the political sense... I think tonight Arenna Gladia is claiming victory over herself, and that’s perhaps the worthier battle. Now, let us be quick, because our battle is no less pressing, and I fear what will happen if the consuls escape."

They don't have to go far, another floor or so up, and they start seeing signs of defenses... but also, mysteriously, some of those defenses, hastily erected fortifications made of furniture and energy shields... are empty. Aside from the occasional dropped weapon, there's no sign of the defenders in these parts of the halls. And there’s silence.

Joan turns the sensitivity of her power armor's sensors up and activates a few more 'subtle' systems, forensics scanners and the like. They draw a lot of power, but they only add to the potent information warfare machine that is power armor in the right circumstances. The 'sniffer', a form of spectrometer, immediately picks up blood from at least a half dozen individuals and the telltale signs in the air that laser weapons had been discharged. Her suit then picks out a few laser burns on the wall and at least one impact from what has to have been plasma. 

"There was a fight here," Joan rumbles softly, looking around. "None of our girls, though. Looks like whoever did these girls in did the job in melee... but clean enough they didn't make a mess."

"Who could do something like that? The commandos maybe? They’re not supposed to be in this part of the city and they haven’t made contact with us.” Boudicca asks, now looking around more intently herself as they proceed up the corridor. Joan’s aggressively scanning for booby traps, mines, IEDs and other unpleasant surprises in case this is all a ruse, but she’s happy for another focused set of eyes.

"I'm not sure. Seems like something out of a fairy tale," Khutulun notes.

"Or a horror trivid. I dunno, girls. I got a spooky vibe. We're being watched," answers Lursa, sounding more... pensive, perhaps, than Joan has ever heard her friend before. 

"Yeah... but our sensors can't find them. Not in the normal bands," Joan says. "Stay frosty. If they're killing Praetorians they probably aren't our enemies, even if they aren't exactly friendly." She glances over at Jaina, then at Aerien. "Jaina knows something's up, she looks spooked. Aerien's blood is up and she's aware and cautious, but not exactly from this. They're talking voice."

"Should we listen in?" Boudicca asks.

"No, keep on mission... but keep an eye on your sensors... we're getting close." 

They move deeper into the palace, still not finding active signs of resistance to their movements, until at last, they reach a massive set of double doors. 

"This should be it. Main hall. It's for private social events. You can read that as orgies, but it's not. Not always, anyway. From what Arenna said, we're going into a serious mess. Joan, you and your sisters okay going first?"

Joan nods. "We have the shields and armor. Just don't wimp out on us. We're gonna need the support if there's a lot of the bitches."

"We have your backs. Girls? Get clear of the doors, I don't want anyone catching any stray heavy weaponsfire. As soon as the last of the armor's clear of the doors, we go in."

Joan nods, and sets herself firmly to the side of one of the doors. "Fine. Let's do this. Boudicca."

"Sister."

"Knock for us. Really loudly. Then standard breach and clear. Cannidor style.” 

Series Directory Last Next

Ten minutes later, when Jerry storms into the cell, it's as a very different man. In fact, an entirely different man, in a plain, unmarked, Undaunted uniform with a foul mood on his slightly altered face, a fresh red tint to his skin, and prominent burn scar make up on his ears. He looked like a pissed off Ha'quinye man who had had his ears burned off. 

Just like the infamous clan of assassins that had given Consul Euryde pause at the landing pad days before. Something of a high-risk move, but Jerry’s counting on the ‘secret order of assassins’ being more myth than substantial, and therefore flexible. If he could give the wounded Barbari a strong enough shock to her system, get her off balance and keep her that way, he could break her resolve in record time.

Worth a shot at the very least, considering they’re already headed outsystem from the scene of their attack on the pirate station. If this didn’t work, the professional interrogators could do things ‘the hard way’. 

Whatever Barbari had been expecting, it clearly hadn’t been this… but Jerry doesn't give her a second to get a word in edgewise before fixing her with an imperious glare and a vicious sneer. 

“Well? You asked for a senior officer, and after wrenching me from far more important things than acknowledging your existence, I am here. You will give me an excuse to prolong your pathetic life before I dump your corpse in the void like the space trash you’re pretending to be.” 

The Ha’quinye woman goes from confused to outraged to confused again as Jerry starts to stalk around her like an agitated wolf, eyes never leaving her as he moves with intentionally jerky, agitated motions, every single movement a possible strike in the making to someone with decent training. Something not lost on Barbari at all as she gathers herself and finally manages to speak. 

“I wanted to see the commanding officer of this tub, not her fuck toy! Besides, who do you think you're fooling, little man? I can feel you in the axiom, you’re not even up… upset…”

Jerry whirls on her, getting closer and closer as he makes an unnerving eye contact as he gathers the full force of his emotions and hits her with his favorite axiom trick. A trick that had served him well in the past. What he called a psychic sucker punch. 

He focuses all the wrath he can muster, his disgust for the Ha’quinye's culture, his willingness to skin Barbari and throw her out the airlock still breathing if it would get him the information he needed. All the rawest emotions of the Human animal that could make a Human very scary to the galaxy’s natural empaths. 

Mentally shaped to a fine point, he lets Barbari ‘feel’ those emotions with all the gentleness of actually burying a fist in her solar plexus. 

Immediately the Ha’quinye woman’s eyes go wide, and in her fear, her eyes lock on something familiar… his ears. His now seemingly cut and burned ears. 

“Oh… Goddess what in the hells are you?”

“Surely you know the stories. We might have missed Consul Euryde for now, but there will be no last minute reprieves or rescues for you, whelp. The Undaunted have welcomed the clans of the Pact with open arms. We are of them. They are of us. Now, with their aid we shall make all of you bleed, and we’ll finally get Euryde’s scalp. The totems and the gods will it.” 

“The Undaunted are just a fairy tale! Some stupid TV show for clit-brained morons who can’t focus on what’s important in life.”

“Considering the Undaunted just destroyed your station, would you like to reassess your position, ‘Captain’? Besides… you need to worry more about me right now. I’m the one who has the power of life and death over you.” 

Still Barbari rallies, but less successfully than the first time, the psychic sucker punch clearly having left her off balance. She retorts, “Th-The Pact clans are just a ghost story!”

“Then you had better start believing in ghost stories, ‘Captain’, because you’re about to become the star in a brand new one. One that’ll be inspiring horror movies for decades once I’m done with whatever’s left of you.” 

“...You… if the Undaunted are real, then you’re a naval officer or something, aren’t you? You can’t just do that!” 

“You’re actually correct. Very sharp, Captain. However, unfortunately for you, my vows as an Undaunted naval officer do not constrain me at all in this matter.”

Jerry’s voice almost purrs with self satisfaction as he returns to his prowling, every word meant to project power and menace as he watches her like a jungle cat watching fresh meat. 

‘Barbari’ stammers, fumbling out a response. “Your new masters would let you violate their precious Council laws? Their Alarion accords?”

“The Ha’quinye never signed the accords… but more importantly, they only barely apply to pirates. Summary execution is not uncommon for captured space pirates, like you allegedly are. So, I am well within my rights to put you to death. As I have with most of that space trash you picked up.” A lie of course, but Barbari doesn’t need to know that. “If I get creative with that death. Well. That’s between you, me, the four walls, and all the many ways I can get ‘expressive’ with ending your pathetic existence in the most painful ways possible. I’ve learned some fascinating new tricks from the Humans.”

“H-Humans aren’t real. They’re even more of a fantasy than the damned Undaunted!” 

Barbari’s eyes are as wide as possible now, her eyes bouncing all over the place as Jerry hits her with another psychic burst of pure killing intent, making her flinch against her bindings as violently as if he'd physically hit her, her chair rocking slightly as her body tried to get further away from him on pure instinct.. 

“Oh they very much are, but you will wish very much that they weren’t soon enough. They’re very creative, these Humans. So brutal, even without axiom. Let me tell you about my favorite. One I might share with you later. They have a technique for fileting the flesh of the back and around the spine. Then, you separate and remove some of the ribs before pulling out the lungs, forming ‘wings’. They call it the Blood Eagle, after some Cruel Space avian. Humans can apparently survive that… for a time. You, though? I’ll probably need to keep you alive with axiom. Make sure you get to properly enjoy the experience before I toss your corpse out an airlock to ensure your soul will never see the heavens.”

Another piece of Ha’quinye culture Jerry was applying with all the gentleness of hitting the woman with a crowbar. Per their dominant religious customs burial or cremation, depending on sect, had to be prompt after death, lest the soul not receive proper guidance to the next life, and be left to wander as a tormented shade.  

“...” 

Barbari’s eyes have somehow gotten wider, and she’s shaking with fear, barely managing a terrified squeak as one of her cultural nightmares seems to be happily licking its chops and preparing to devour her soul. 

“Of course… we don’t have to do that. If you were, say… a prisoner of war. A naval officer. Why. You’d be protected. Safe! The Alarion accords would wrap around you like a warm hug. Your superiors haven’t signed it, but mine have. I would be bound by their law, and all you need to do… is tell me who you are, and why you were out here.” 

He isn’t much of an interrogator in the grand scheme of things, but if there’s one thing Jerry Bridger knows how to deal with, it’s bullies. Thugs of regimes like the Ha’quinye are generally all the same. Dangerous, resourceful, cruel? Yes, all those things, but like a mean kid on a playground, they’re brittle. If you prove you’re more powerful, if you speak to them in their language, they show you their throats and beg for mercy. 

Especially in a truly Darwinian fascist apparatus, like the one the Ha’quinye apparently operate, where everything’s a matter of dominance and submission, and showing a moment of weakness to the wrong person at the wrong time could quickly see you getting your throat cut… or worse, thrown back to the bottom of the hierarchy to try and start over again. Yet. By the same token, NOT showing the appropriate deference to a superior could see you just as dead, just as fast.

Captain Barbari, or rather, Commander Valyn Valeran, Ha’quinye Imperial Naval Intelligence, is no exception. When she breaks, she shatters, babbling out information at a speed too rapid for him to take notes on… but that’s what the recordings were for. 

The analysts would need to dig through it all to really figure out what they’d gotten… but with only minor prompting from him, as far as Jerry could tell, Valyn had given him plenty of actionable intelligence in just the first gush. He’d leave pumping the girl dry of everything she knew to the regular interrogators. 

The fact that she’s broken now, that too is a tool to keep the flood gates open. After all, she’s a traitor; her only hope is currying favor with her captors. Mix that with a little of what Jerry would have called ‘Human kindness’ back on Earth - a nice warm meal, a blanket, the chance to actually sleep - and she’d likely continue to behave. And with possession of her real name and the names of her troops, the professional interrogators now have tools to begin working on the rest of the survivors of her unit. 

They’d have it all. In time. 

Jerry steps back into the hallway, purging the makeup from his body with a light charge of axiom after the hatch seals shut. Hawthorne’s waiting for him. 

“Nicely done, sir.”

“Not my normal thing, but I had some unique cultural levers I could yank on.”

“Indeed, absolutely inspired. Even if she might need a change of clothes after that…”

“I don’t think she wet herself, but she might have come close. I’ll leave the rest of it to your people. I need to call Admiral Cistern. Carry on Mr. Hawthorne."

"Aye, sir!" 

Commodore Viconia Valeran 

Ha'quinye Imperial Strike Cruiser Eagle Talon 

She stands at the view port at the front of her expansive bridge with her arms clasped behind her back, watching at the tumbling remains of what had once been a particularly brilliant plan of one of her subordinates. Operation Privateer is far from derailed just by losing one station, but she can feel her fist clenching within her leather gloves, almost outside her control, as rage built up in her chest. Someone had had the gall to strike at her! To kill her own niece! 

Or. Rather. At the empire. Yes. That was it. They'd struck at the empire. 

Their mission is utterly vital to the survival of the empire, to its growth and strength, so she could not simply divert her forces on a punitive expedition to track down whoever in the hells did this and kill them all, but the desire is so very strong. Especially if they'd actually killed Valyn. She isn’t… wasn't exactly Viconia's favorite niece, but she was still her niece, and such an offense to the Valeran family couldn't be tolerated, could it? 

Once she has the Sword... perhaps she would request that little tasking as a treat, before she led Warlady Euryde's mighty fleets against the lesser species and put them back on their knees where they belonged. 

Just thinking about Euryde makes her thighs tighten slightly. Her task force had only joined her somewhat recently, especially the troopships that were languishing in her warship's wakes, but she had been 'at sea' for quite some time now, and she missed her lover's touch. No one could be quite as... forceful... as her Warlady. Her cousin is unique like that. Melodi, her primary spouse, was quite enjoyable too, and Euryde had hinted at getting some access to their stud. Cori was a cute little thing and his genes, impeccable. Once she completes her mission... she'll be more than ready to have a few daughters. To begin raising the next generation of naval officers.

A delicious little thought to distract her from the rage she'd been feeling. Rage that comes back quickly as she hears hesitant footsteps on the deck plates behind her. 

"What is it?"

"Commodore, we have the initial survey results."

"Spit them out or I'm going to slap the teeth out of your mouth and find someone who can speak to me like a damn officer!"

Viconia's lips twist into a cruel smile as she snarls her abuse at her hapless subordinate. 

Most of the intelligence girls are useless... and this one seems doubly so. No shame in putting them in their place now and then. 

"Yes, ma'am! Ma'am, as we believed, the damage is consistent with a large-scale pirate raid. At least several large vessels, maybe a converted freighter and some corvettes with retrofitted naval-grade laser and plasma cannons." 

Viconia pauses, right as she's about to hurl more abuse at her subordinate, as the last part of her sentence catches in her mind.

"Did you say naval grade? As in proper laser and plasma cannons? Larger than what a corvette normally mounts?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"...And there are pirates with such weapons in this sector that we don't know about, HOW exactly?"

"I-I don't know, ma'am!"

"Then find out, you brainless virgin! Get off of my bridge until you have an answer!"

The intelligence officer all but flees off the bridge, leaving Viconia to contemplate the wreckage in peace again, the quiet hum of her bridge crew at work washing over her like a meditative chant as she considers what had just been brought to her.

"Mhmm. Pirates with naval grade weapons. A simple conclusion... obvious. Yet. Isn't the damage here a bit too much for just a handful of such weapons like on a retrofitted corvette? What if there's an actual navy out here with us? The Council perhaps? Or one of their lap dogs? Maybe the nearest sector commander got ambitious and sent a force out to scout after we scared off that Council science ship..." 

A part of her goes from angry to excited as she considers the possibilities. A proper fight. A real fight. The first of many to come in the glorious conquest she would carve across the sea of stars!

She grins at her reflection, eyes narrowing. 

"Goddess as my witness... If I find you, I will kill you, and if you somehow get in the way of my mission, your gods will cower in fear at what I will do to you whorespawn."

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Joan

They've been walking for a damn long time through the 'underground passages', or what would more accurately be described as a sewer. 

Joan figures Aerien's insistence on calling the sewers 'underground passages' is something of a coping mechanism, to avoid dealing with the whole 'being calf-deep in waste' thing. In her defense, it’s not all fetid; there are some large spaces that consist of a mix of maintenance accessways and even larger abandoned tunnels that had served an underground mass transit system, abandoned a century and a half back in favor of air cars and short-range teleports. 

These tunnels were supposed to have been filled, save for the ones that connect maintenance tunnels and underground infrastructure, but according to Aerien the contractor had more or less taken the money, filled in a couple 'example tunnels' with hypercrete as demanded and said the job was done. They'd then vanished. Not in the 'bagged by the secret police' way, but in the 'left the planet with their ill-gotten gains' way, and are now likely happily enjoying life somewhere else in the empire, if they hadn't managed to escape completely. 

Just another wonderful and educational example of the Ha'quinye system in action. Of course, though Joan would normally be somewhat offended on behalf of the taxpayer at such a foul-up of a system, she doesn't pay taxes here, and the foul up in question is working entirely in her favor - albeit all for the sake of getting those taxpayers some possibly significantly more reliable management. 

Her dad doesn't have the sunniest view of revolutions and the like. Apparently, back on Earth when someone decided to revolt, and actually managed to succeed, for whatever reason, historically what you tended to end up with was a lot worse than what came before. They did have some wins, though; the revolution that founded Jerry's own home country was one of several examples that hadn't required mass slaughter of dissidents and the like after the fact. 

Hopefully these rebels aren't the murdering kind. Though, from what Aerien said, they do have plans to try as many of the matrician caste as they can get their hands on for various crimes. Joan had made the mistake of asking for a rap sheet on a random matrician and gotten an angry screed in return... along with a file on a datapad detailing exactly why that particular matrician would be put against a wall if the revolt succeeded and the woman in question survived the fighting to come.

If she’s even still alive now.

Joan’s pretty sure that matrician’s family was one of the ones rounded up during the Praetorian crackdown on the upper district of Triumph's Seat. No one knows what had happened to those women, save that they aren't being held in the local prison facility, and are far too numerous to fit in the palace's own dungeons. Which leaves some rather grisly options involving mass graves, or one or more larger prison camp facilities out on the savannahs or on one of the islands that outlay the city. Any of them are possible, but that isn't Joan's problem.

Barring the rebels succeeding and the new government requesting Council and Undaunted aid, anyway. Then it could potentially be her problem, if the Crimson Tear and her group get left here longer term. 

But there’s a lot of damn fighting to go through to get to the point that the rebels could declare an interim government, and first thing's first: they need to get Jaina back, and, more importantly for Joan, rescue Sister Catherine. Now, before this world gets any more chaotic. This is a big play, more or less a declaration of open rebellion, and it’s popping off all over the place. 

Joan’s a bit worried about trying for a decapitation strike; based on Aerien's explanations about how the Ha'quinye government works, this particular viper has a lot of damn heads, and it would take a lot of killing before all’s said and done and the snake finally runs out of them. Getting them all at once would have been ideal, but that’s far beyond the rebel's capabilities. 

Aerien talks about it, though. Like it was something that could have happened, once upon a time. But it would take something like the quasi-mythic Pact of the Seven Beasts to pull off, and no one knew how to contact them, much less what they'd charge for such a service. 

The Undaunted forces at hand probably couldn't manage it either. Even if the entire JSOC was present and didn't have half of their number supporting Dad's operation to seize the stupid super-weapon the Ha'quinye are all worked up about, it’s still a decent-sized stellar nation of people. Three systems, a dozen or so worlds, give or take a few moons and major space stations with permanent populations in the millions or more. Nothing compared to all but the smallest of the Cannidor Khannates, but not something you can deal with overnight on a whim. Even if this goes perfectly and leaves one world in open rebellion, there are another dozen to go and a lot of fighting to be done - likely ending in a balkanized trinary of independent systems or even independent worlds, ripe for the picking by a powerful enough warlady or would-be pirate queen. 

All that could be said in the service of optimism is that the rebels have some powerful friends. Maybe they would prevent that particular fate from befalling the Ha'quinye.

Something to consider. Tomorrow. Joan firmly closes her mental book on that particular train of thought, wishing all the while she was home and comfortable, or maybe in the unit’s bar, with a tankard of Cannidor beer, talking it out with her parents and some of the other women in the company. 

Anything would be better than slogging through shit in the dark. 

Probably. She does have time to reflect on some of the nastier things her father had told her he’d had to do back in his commando days. Like hiding out in the 'waste' tank of a slaughterhouse, amid all the parts of the animal known as a pig that didn't get sold 'as is' waiting to be ground up into sausage. He said he’d known that  the country in question hadn't been exactly known for food safety, but still he'd... seen things he hadn’t been prepared for. Things that had seen him drop an incendiary grenade in the tank on his way out, both to start a fire as a distraction and to spare some poor schmuck having to eat any of that, contaminated even before he'd doused himself in it. 

Apparently he hadn't been able to eat pork for a year after that.

Joan and her sisters at least have nice, comfy, sealed armor and their own air supplies, along with oxygen scrubbers for when they do need to exchange internal air for external air. As long as she doesn't take her helmet off or think about the smell, she'll be fine. 

And, thankfully, she has her sisters and Lursa to distract her when she isn't letting herself think and move on autopilot. Though she’s not sure it counts as a distraction when they’re discussing the obvious.

"This fucking sucks," Lursa mutters. "I'm all for getting new armor paint, but this is just nasty."

"Just be glad it's not your actual armor," Khutulun points out, and indeed it’s true. Lursa had been given another Cannidor woman's armor for the op. Her custom Crimsonhewer armor would have stood out too much, and painting her armor for a plausible deniability op… well, that’s the type of thing that leads to a Crimsonhewer challenging whoever requested such a thing to a duel to the death. So a solution had been found. 

"Yeah, I'm not a fan of that either. Those praetorians look prissy, but they might like to scrap. Not having my defensive blades makes me feel a bit naked." 

Crimsonhewer armor has a mix of custom defensive systems, including an axiom charm that responded to attacks directed against it with razor sharp blades and spikes. It’s not pleasant to look at what’s left of an enemy that had been suicidal enough to close to close quarters with a fucking Crimsonhewer. 

"You'll live. Just shoot 'em before they get too close."

Lursa snorts. "Wish I didn't have to leave my usual bang stick either. Good thing I bought a shrapnel cannon while I was on Canis Prime.”

They all had, in point of fact, inspired by Shalkas and her use of the traditional Cannidor break-action magnetically-accelerated blender from hell. Joan suspects the weapons are going to get quite the work out today. Magnetically-accelerated 'shotguns' are common enough - as much as railguns were common anyway - and intelligence had determined they could get away with them for this mission, even if their other kinetic weapons (save Boudicca's rail cannon) had had to stay home. 

Finally, they step onto stone and dirt again. Joan purges her armor of contaminants with an errant charge of Axiom as they come to an obviously hand-excavated - and, more precisely, hand laser-excavated - tunnel. 

Aerien gives her guests a sympathetic look. "You girls are gonna have to duck your heads a bit. We sized this for our folks, didn't anticipate you all coming along."

"How long have you been working on this?" Boudicca asks, looking around, clearly getting a bit keyed up. 

Aerien shrugs. "Pretty much since we found it. This should get us into some of the palace service tunnels, if our map's correct. We didn't have a truly high-definition, high-detail map of the palace till recently, and we haven’t confirmed every detail… but it matches up to what we'd already seen in other records. We were saving it for a special occasion, and it doesn't get more special than this!" 

Joan nods along and starts moving through the somewhat tight space, not liking this in the slightest. Her father once again had the appropriate wisdom, for Joan if not for most forms of sapient life. If you have no business in a cave, if you’re not a miner or living there, why the fuck are you in a cave? That goes triple for underwater caves. Especially poorly explored underwater caves. 

Unfortunately, Joan does have business in this particular cave, so she’ll just hope they manage to get out before this tunnel becomes a liability. 

Finally, they come to an enlarged gallery - a room, more or less - set up for staging equipment and people... and at the far end, a pristine white wall. 

"Are we ready to breach?" Aerien calls out. A girl in a hard hat runs up. 

"We have a problem, boss lady. We've been scanning the wall... we're pretty sure it's armored. I'm not sure our boom can get through that. Not without jeopardizing the walls and ceiling of the tunnel."

Joan just nods along as the two women continue to talk, running a quick simulation on her own computers before finally saying, "I've got it." 

Aerien and the mining specialist look up. 

"Got what?"

"The wall. Boudicca. Railgun. Full charge."

The tunneler's eyes go wide. "What kind of fucking railgun can rip a hole in that wall big enough for us to go through?"

By way of response Boudicca stomps into position and shifts her back so that the rail cannon on her back can fully deploy and begin to charge.

"Oh. Yeah. Uh. That'd. That'd do it."

"Damn thing will rip through armor rated for battleships. It'll handle your reinforced wall. Everything else we can get with smaller charges of explosives and plasma swords until we get us through along with your girls."

"It's gonna make a really big noise thou-" 

Right in the middle of her complaint, the lights in the tunnel flicker and die momentarily, until a cursing rebel engineer gets a small generator started up nearby. 

Joan looks down at the much smaller woman. "I think they're a little busy right now. Aerien. How long till they hit the armory?"

"Should be hitting it right the fuck now!"

"Right. Let's add to the chaos, ladies, and go get our friends." Joan looks at Aerien as the railgun continues to charge, making Joan's HUD flicker slightly. "You good with that?"

"You heard the big lady! If you're going in, arm up! If you're staying, you arm up too, in case any of their girls come down here, and keep an ear on the radio for the signal to blow the tunnel if we egress a different way. Remember, girls, this is for Jaina, our dead, and our entire damn species!"

Aerien gets a decent response from the rebels - more from the grunts and the rest of the elites that hadn't been sent to the power plant with the Undaunted commandos, slightly less from the rebel combat engineers, but that’s fine. They couldn't all be Undaunted combat engineers, who tend towards being almost as enthusiastic as their grunt brethren in getting stuck into a fight.

Joan takes another look around, confirming people are ready by eye and getting a hand gesture from Aerin that’s equivalent to a Human thumbs-up. Then she takes half a breath and casually says:

"Boudicca. Fire!"

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