[Arcona] House Galeres Fiction Updates

Welcome to House Galeres’ fiction thread! Below you’ll find updates relevant to House events and competitions.

Consul’s Office, the Citadel
Estle City, Selen

Kordath almost wished he’d been on the Serpentine Throne for this. The stone chair was uncomfortable as hell, and the room itself sometimes made him feel uneasy, but at least there was no desk. As it was, his was now covered in datapads and flimsiplast files. The culprit of this littering stood on the other side of his desk, an expression of very clear consternation on her usually genial features. Qyreia hadn’t looked this angrily at him since the early days of his Aedileship under her, when his tail had wandered somewhere it shouldn’t have. Given the paperwork, he wasn’t sure if this was going to be a better or worse experience.

“Wha’s all this then?” he asked, fingering through some of the folders. “When I’d heard ye were coming up, I thought it’d be more of a social call.”

“How long have you known about this?”

“Known what?”

“About the damn Collective coming up on our doorstep! Haven’t you read any of the recent intelligence reports?!”

Admittedly, the Ryn had been preoccupied with more personal matters of late. Between losing Uji Tameiki on Canto Bight and the ever-looming issues with Zujenia, he’d rather assumed his Proconsul was taking care of things. Terran was apparently not quite on the ball either.

He ruffled his hair in thoughtful frustration. “Dinnae we beat the Collective? Dusk Station an’ all that?”

“A lot of them made landfall. A lot.” As the Zeltron spoke, her Kaleesh Aedile — now almost more machine than flesh — watched quietly from the corner. It made the intrusion into his office all the more obnoxious, if unnerving. “I know you guys are preoccupied with the riots and stuff, but now we’ve got Collective on our goddamn doorstep.”

“What d’ye want?”

“I need the DDF; at least the ones here on the ground. I intend to remove the Collective troops as a threat. Up to them if they decide to surrender or not.”

“What about Spectre Cell? Can’t they do this without draggin’ the whole blasted military into this?”

“There’s at least six hundred enemy troops that we’re contending with, and they’ve been here for months now! A team of mercs and Force users, no matter how special of snowflakes they are, aren’t gonna be able to tackle that solo.”

“We need those soldiers to maintain order here in Estle City,” Terran said, finally breaking his silence just as the Zeltron merc’s vehemence was breaking his patience. “We’ve terrorists and insurgents already here to contend with.”

“And you done a bang-up job dealing with that, haven’t you? A plague and a famine, only one of which you’ve managed to solve, much less address. You fracking snots are so busy licking your wounds that you don’t know how to get forward momentum anymore. Atyiru karked us at the beginning, even when I had connections that’dve gotten us food and meds. Satsi did jack-all, and now you guys are sitting around with your thumbs up your choobies!”

“That’s enough, Qyreia.”

“Frack you, Terran! I’m offering to take care of a problem for you. The least you can do is give me the tools to make it happen. You think the insurgency is bad now? Wait til there’s a Collective battalion inside Estle. We hit them now, while we still have some initiative, and we can prevent things from getting worse. Hell, the locals might even start seeing us as competent again.”

That caught the Shadow Lord’s ear, his tail perking of its own accord. “How so?”

“We show them we are not weak and flaccid as they think now,” Rrogon said from his corner. “My Quaestor has already found a potential candidate within the local media that could help spread the word.”

The Clan leaders shared a glance at one another. Taking care of the infestation by the Collective remnants was one thing, and they’d already internally decided to support the hot-headed Arronen’s plan. Winning back some of the hearts and minds though? Everyone had seen the battle over Selen, either through some holonet broadcast or just by stepping out into the streets. Finishing off the failed invasion and having it televised could do wonders for the Citadel, to say nothing for the Selenian government as a whole. It’d give back some of the faith the people had lost.

“Arright Q,” Kordath said, rubbing his tired features, “you’ll get your troops. Promise me you’ll keep the collateral damage to a minimum though, yeah?”

Quaestor’s Office
Fort Blindshot, Selen

As if her Aedile wasn’t rough enough around the edges, having both of her “murder lizards” in her office simultaneously made the space feel exceptionally small. Her adjutant, a Selenian sergeant named Jelenko sat at her desk near the door, while a short-haired Selenian woman in durable-looking clothes sat casually on the desk’s corner. Rrogon stood by Qyreia’s side while Grot remained standing on the other side of the Quaestor’s desk, having foregone the offered seat.

“What business do you have for the Spectres?” his deep voice growled matter-of-factly, as though there could be no other reason for being called to the Zeltron’s office.

“You’ve been reading my reports, right?”

“Of course. That is part of my duties.”

“Then you know the remains of that failed invasion a few months back are coming out of the woodwork. Bigwigs finally decided to do something about it, and since we’ve got the right ties,” she nodded toward the DDF sergeant, “they asked us to handle it.”

To most of the assembled, the chuckle that escaped the Kaleesh warrior’s lips came off as a cough. Right. They asked us, Qyreia could almost hear him think.

“I’ll be forwarding your mission dossiers to you shortly to disseminate to the Battleteam.”

The Trandoshan grinned wickedly, then motioned to the one unknown entity in the room. “Who is she?”

“Mercy Braithe,” the Selenian said, stepping confidently around the massive reptilian. “I’ll be your public affairs liaison for this venture.”

Grot’s slitted eyes scrutinized the woman for a long moment. “I will not babysit a reporter,” he hissed.

“Good thing I’m not just any reporter,” she interjected before Qyreia could respond. “I did my two years with the DDF, and I’ve been doing hotbed reporting ever since. If anything, I’ll be babysitting you.”

“Okay kids,” Qyreia said through her suppressed laughter, “that’s enough. Grot, you think the Spectres are good to go after their last round of missions?”

He smirked, flashing his sharpened incisors. “They will be prepared for the hunt.”

“Good. ‘Cause there’s a lot riding on this. How we do here can affect us a lot more than we might even anticipate.”

South of Estle City
Selen, Dajorra

Small pits in the ground were still smoking from the ambush that had taken place almost an hour before. Dajorran Defense Force troops were scattered throughout the area, some in a perimeter while others scoured for any hidden Collective forces or equipment. Qyreia stepped out of the LAAT/i with her entourage — though to call it “hers” was something of an overstatement — dressed in DDF fatigues that were rather more pleasant than she’d expected. A little stuffy for the heat that wafted through the air, but she managed well enough. Mercy Braithe, the reporter that had so keenly if unknowingly come into Arcona’s employ, walked out from behind a column of smoke rising from a wrecked speeder.

“Miss Braithe. Good to see you’re all in one piece.”

“You as well… colonel?”

The Galerian Quaestor leaned close. “I had to wear something. Now,” she said, turning away from the group following her and guiding the reporter along, “tell me what’s been happening. I’ve gotten rather little from my own people.”

“You mean the big lizard guy?”

“Especially him. Owes me at least a couple reports, and then some.” She eyed Rrogon meandering through the battlefield, reminding herself that she had two murderlizards in her employ to worry about.

“DDF got wind of massed troops in the area thanks to some aerial recon; stragglers from the air raid you coordinated. From what I’m being told, it was a decent chunk, but it definitely wasn’t all of them.” They passed a small line of prisoners marching in the opposite direction accompanied by several guards. “I did manage to get a few good shots of one of your people during the fight.”

Braithe passed over her holocam, flipping through several dozen recordings and image captures before coming to one that most definitely had Satsi Tameiki brawling with some Collective troops. Well, seems some good might have come out of this after all. Flipping through the other files, she also saw the very obvious image of a certain Devaronian, though the image was blurry at best.

“You get anything better than this?”

“Some vid shots, yeah.” Her tone was less than motivating. “Listen, I know you were hoping for some big victory shots with your guys, but either they weren’t there or they didn’t bother to get me in the loop. What I got won’t be worth much to the general public. At best, you might get some holonet message board activity.”

Qyreia sighed, looking over the small patch of devastation. “And they’ll all be wondering why the Citadel didn’t manage to do more to help.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Just… I’d been hoping for a lot more.”

Consul’s Office, The Citadel
Estle City, Selen

“Something’s better than nothing, Q.”

Kordath’s tone was conciliatory. He’d gone over all the battle reports with the Zeltron. Grot, for his part, had done a fair job in the pre-deployment training and the air battle that had ensured air superiority in vicinity of Estle City; Satsi’s raids and headlong charges into enemy camps did manage to bolster some troops’ morale; and Maaz Sawyer was seen in the coordinated assault that took a small fortified outpost near Estle. Peeling back some of the logistical documents, it was not difficult to see the hand of the Shadow Lord in many of these same activities. As much as he avoided conflict, the Ryn had made a good account of himself in all this.

It almost made the disappointing results embarrassing.

“We pushed ‘em back,” the Zeltron said as she tossed the datapad onto the table and kicked up her feet. “They’re not gone though. If they don’t disperse entirely, they’ll fortify their strongpoints and make removing them that much harder.”

“Know what the big takeaway I see is?” The merc looked at Kordath skeptically. “Estle City is safe. They were on our doorstep and now they’re not. And what’s more, we’ve identified some o’ their big bases.”

“Which the DIA and DDF will get all the credit for taking out.”

“Qybbles, will you shut yer yap and relax?!” The Force user paused and cleared his throat. “You did what you could. Next time we try this, we’ll just have to call in the Clan. Can’t ask it all of the Houses on their own.” That seemed to placate the Zeltron, if only partially. “How’s yer reporter friend angling this?”

“She said she’d try to spin it in a good light for us.” She sighed frustratedly. “Guess it’s like you said: something’s better than nothing. Doubt it’ll take much heat off us here, though.”

Selen, Arcona Citadel

Throne Room

The Juggernauts body ached like it always did just standing there doing nothing. It had been a few hours since he and Qyriea had been summoned to the emergency meeting concerning recent events.

Those few members of the Arcona summit that had remained on Selen and a scant collection of Arconae that decided to show up stood around the throne. Kordath went over the steady reports that had been coming in from Port Ol’val, and what the Ryn had said so far wasn’t good. Lucine had been taken out of commision from an assassination attempt, but was recovering. And Tali…

The Sith closed his eyes and muttered a silent, unheard prayer for her. He understood what she was going through. He knew that pain of losing a child and wished it on very few, let alone the Twi’lek. He quickly recovered as the Shadow Lord finished the latest report and silence filled the room, broken only by low muttering and quiet conversation.

Kordath was the first to break the quiet. “Right, it seems bad but ya all know they will pull through this," stated the Ryn grimly, his eyes moving to each person in the room.

“Any new information on the shooter?” asked Terran, his face a hard shell, showing no emotion.

“Nothing yet, it’s like the fracker disappeared into thin air,” hissed Qyriea. “We have people searching, and our more imbedded spies from the DIA all have their feelers out.” She finished before slowly moving forward.

“Qel-Droma will recover, but we also have the ongoing issues on the home front to worry about,” piped up Grot who stood next to the hulking Kaleesh. “Ever since the riots, and the Collective’s attacks, the city has been slowly dying. People are still starving and scared out there; we saw this firsthand when the Specters went to help in a local homeless soup kitchen.”

“He’s right, the people were scared to even come into the building with us in there and not even half of the projected numbers showed up to eat,” confirmed the Sith.

“What can we do?” asked Timeros, his cold gaze landing solely on the pair.

“I had an idea for that,” Skar interjected as he stepped up, passing his Quaestor. “The Collective has been hounding us for some time now. We have nearly driven them off our planet, but somehow those that remain have proven difficult to rout. On top of that, we still have no idea where and how they are amassing the supplies they need to harass us like this,” he paused briefly for a second to center his thoughts. “I think it’s time to harass them back,” the Kaleesh stated simply while looking over the Summit.

“Skar, that’s a great idea and all,” Zujenia spoke up, her silent presence broken. “But we still have no idea where they are based.”

Low mutterings filled the room as doubt began to stir around until it was silenced by Qyeira

“Hey, shut up and let Skar finish,” she spat looking annoyed and near ready for violence.

Not skipping a beat, Skar continued while the Summit waited. “If the Collective had a world they were based on, we would have found them by now. There aren’t that many planets in the system able to support such an effort without notice. Therefore I believe they must have a starport somewhere in the void that has, as of yet, gone unfound.”

Some nods of agreement followed this statement before he continued

“I believe that if we used the Nighthawk with its small size and speed to our advantage. We can find and use our new ships to locate and prey on the supply convoys going to and from that station. We can therefore resolve our supply problems and get the Collective off our back for some time while we rebuild and bolster our stocks, much like the raids on Meridian."

Some were filled with approval while other held a quiet scepticism.

“S’my kind o’ plan,” commented Kord, although there was a slight hesitation in his voice, But before he spoke Terran voiced his concerns. “Can we really afford to send a ship on what could possibly be a fool’s errand? Not to mention what happens if it gets captured.”

“It’s the only option we have at the moment, unless you got something better to offer!” Skar snapped as he looked the Kiffar dead in the eyes.

Nothing was said and the tension in the room only grew, until it was broken by the Kaleesh. “I will personally lead the mission myself to insure its success. I know the Nighthawk and its crew well. We will not fail in this,” he said, confidence filling his metallic voice.

“Do it,” the Ryn finally agreed.

Taking his cue to leave, the Sith spun on his heels before marching out of the throne room and meeting one of the military aids outside of it. “Send a message to the Nighthawk. Have them stand ready to leave orbit within the hour. We have a new mission,” Skar spoke firmly, striding past the young Human.

Quaestor’s Office
Fort Blindshot, Selen

“I bet Kord got a kick out of the last report,” Qyreia chuckled, reading over her latest manifesto.

Sergeant Jelenko, the Quaestor’s DDF adjutant, shrugged her shoulders. “Why’s that?”

Xenna, lingering in the corner, grinned micheviously. “Something about Satsi and a Krayt dragon?”

The Zeltron winked and finger-gunned at the Force user. “That’s the one. I’m sad that I missed it. The idea of a giant lizard flopping around on top of her is just… pfft, too funny. Ignoring all the injuries I had to call in, that is: her, Grot, and Alara.”

“And Skar walked away with a Krayt pearl.”

Jelenko looked up from her work. “You all did whatnow?”

“Then there was the shopping trip to Nar Shadda,” Xenna continued, ignoring the Selenian soldier. “Not much to speak of other than Satsi’s kid and Skar having fun, much to Satsi’s chagrin.”

“Who is this chick you keep mentioning?”

“Just one of the many mind-karked minions that I try to manage on a daily basis,” the red woman told Jelenko, drawing a chuckle from Xenna. “Lessee… We had that attempt at running a soup kitchen, learned waaay too much about Trandoshan religion, and generally helped out the downtrodden of Estle City.”

“And I got to conveniently complete an assassination contract.”

“You did whatnow?!”

Jelenko laughed. “Hahaha! Now you’re saying it!” She paused. “Wait, you did what?!”

“Sergeant, at ease before I have to break up a fight.” Qyreia eyed Xenna frustratedly. “We’ll talk more about your ‘extracurriculars’ later. I’ve still gotta type this damn thing, and you kids have kept busy. Really busy.”

Quaestor’s report…
Recipient: Kordath Bleu

Mission: capture Major Kim Torahl. Result: eventual success. The majority of Spectre Cell infiltrated the town through a sewer system, but Satsi and Alara failed to directly infiltrate the Collective headquarters. Despite their best efforts, Torahl was eventually captured.

Several drinking events ensued following this in an effort of “team building”, really resulting more in members of Geleres learning far too much about each other (read: truth-or-dare), to include: Grot trying to comprehend interspecies intercourse, something that Skar and Zuj still won’t tell me about, and lots and lots of drunken makeouts.

Mission: tackle one of the local gangs in the heart of Estle City. Result: catastrophic success, continued issues with Tameiki’s frackwads. Seriously Kord, why do you let her have her own karking gang? Anyways, Alara’s friend Jae’lle won the day by blowing up the damn ganger hideout (or most of it, anyway). The DDF secured the area, mostly, with some skirmishes of Satsi’s frackwads (can I trademark that name?). More truth-or-dare afterward, which means more makeouts between the minions, including my new apprentice showing off his abdominals to the ladies.

Mission: investigate the murder of Kandem Balsyche. Result: failure. Alara and Scarlett allegedly used the Force to mind-rape a cat followed by assaulting a police officer. Grot, as their Battleteam Leader, was bloody useless in controlling his people or, you know, leading them. They damn near started another fight in the police precint. Diy, Zuji’s friend, was at least somewhat useful, but she was also the cat mind-raper, so I’m not sure how I feel either way.

Most recently, during the raids on Collective logistics, the House’s transport went down on the way to the rally point. Grot lost a leg, but apparently it can grow back, so… yeah, no worries? Everyone else is alright. Currently awaiting our credits, because you started this little competition against Qel-Droma.

Sincerely, Q

38 ABY

Command Center

Fort Blindshot

The meeting was going nowhere as generals and majors squabbled about minor incursions on the homefront and the never-ending list of supplies lost in the effort to rebuild Eldar. It was mind-numbing madness to the Kaleesh as he stood by, passively listening to the sheer mountain of reports laid before him and the rest of the chain of command.

His attention was brought back when one unruly captain, who looked just as fed up with this meeting as he was, spoke up.

“Why don’t we just abandon Eldar? The amount of men and resources we have put into it have gained us nothing but backward peasants and pirates too stubborn to just leave!” he all but whined to the rest of the gathered officers around the holo display.

The Sith could feel his blood begin to boil at the remark. He could hear the voice of Qyreia in the back of his mind, yelling at him to, in her own words, “karking fix it.” With that he stood up, raising his voice to be heard over the rest of the men and women now arguing.

“Enough!” called the Sith, his robotic tone silencing all other voices in the room. “There will be no such action taken. We abandoned Eldar before and we abandoned our people who we left behind on it— never again! The more we stand around bickering over logistics and minor infractions the harder our job becomes to actually make something out of this planet once again.”

Several hear-hear’s rose within the room as several voiced their support of the Kaleesh while many others stayed silent on the matter. “We have been idle for far too long on this matter. It’s time we stop and actually move forward with our plans. The Repopulation drive and rebuilding efforts must be made our top priority, with no expense spared on troop deployment or supply aid” the Juggernaut said, crossing his arms and making clear this was to be the end of the conversation.

“But what of the pirates?” asked a major next to the Kaleesh, her hardened gaze boring into the younger Sith. “So long as they remain active, we will keep losing supplies and men to them and they are only growing bolder the longer we stay.”

“Our agents have located their main base. It appears they have set up in one of our old abandoned bunkers; orbital scans show the base has been fully brought back online. A full-on orbital strike is out of the question until those defences can be taken offline. Specter Cell will be tasked with finding the codes to shut them down and when they are in hand we will hit them with the full might of our combined forces,” Skar said, his gaze cold and certain as nods and agreement began to permeate the chamber.

“Then we are in agreement. Meeting dismissed.”

Eldar

Toronaga’s Fortress

I don’t think I have this whole ‘strategy’ thing down quite yet, Sera thought to herself, humming quietly as she inspected the battlemap one more time. It was quite late in the evening… or was it morning? The Zabrak had lost track, as engrossed as she was in studying the predicament that lay before them. The other various officers and Specter Cell members had quietly filtered out hours before, leaving her alone to ponder. The Zabrak had never really put much thought into what went into a battle before. Fighting on the front lines had always seemed so simple. Dangerous, of course. Never easy. But, gazing at the map before her really put things into perspective.

Things were not all quiet on the Eldar front.

The southern coast of the continent had been heavily infested with pirates. The one large band that they had been quarreling with — the one that they now knew to be called Torol’s Gears — was only one operation among dozens. The verdant forests were rife with smuggler’s dens, hidden landing pads and wayward strongholds, many filled to the brim with pirates, slavers, and back-water killers. Following Specter Cell’s initial incursion, Galerian ground forces had invaded in strength, slamming down hard on every pocket of resistance that they encountered. The trick was to hit the pirate bands quick, to catch them off guard and pin them down before they could run. Let them get away, and they would only spread out across the planet… or worse, find other targets in Dajorra. Not exactly the best idea.

That was why seizing this damned stronghold was so important. It housed everything: weaponry, supplies, comms systems. Cut it off, and the resistance here would wither away.

That, and it used to be ours, Sera reminded herself, lips twisting. Arcona had once operated two sprawling fortresses underneath Eldar’s surface. One, Kurs’Kranak, had been Galeres’ home and central base of operations… until it had been overrun at the height of the Death Walker pandemic. Its sister on the Keadean continent, Kurs’Pirun -the Sea Fort- hadn’t fared much better. Communications from the facility had cut off near the very beginning of the outbreak, before Galerian operations on the planet had even been abandoned. Apparently, in the years since, a band of pirates had moved in and started their own operations.

Ancestors. She was getting ahead of herself again. Thinking like that, it was so easy to forget everything else that she had to do. They didn’t even have the codes that they needed yet. Administrator overrides that had once been the Consul’s purview, they had been altered by Torol, the crew’s supposed leader. He might have sounded like an uneducated, idiotic ingrate, but he certainly knew his tech. If the defenses were left online, any team that moved against the bunker would find themselves prey to Kurs’Pirun’s automated defenses… which, if it was truly identical to Kurs’Kranak, would be extensive, and incredibly lethal. Problem was, they had yet to discover who might have the code aside from Torol, or where it might be found. They couldn’t bomb the place, either, as her team had found an abundance of evidence to suggest that the pirates within had captives… innocents taken from villages just like Toronaga’s

Of course, there were the other things, too. The ‘team’ that she had at her disposal… wasn’t really much of a team yet. So far, two out of the three outings that she had organized between them had ended in near-violent screaming matches. There was the old man who had gotten so smashed that he’d been literally licking liquor out of the dirt while being physically restrained, the tank-grown, hornless Zabrak who was only really about seven years old, Xenna in all of her strange Sithiness, and…

“Ya know it’s pretty karkin’ bad to be stayin’ up this late, Horns,” called a wicked voice from behind her, the tread of heavy boots crossing the floor, accompanied by the acrid scent of cigarra smoke. Sera just sighed in response.

“Yeah. It’s… a little bit past my bedtime, I think. Ruka’ll be pissed when he finds out,” the Zabrak responded half-sarcastically, rubbing her eyes and yawning as she turned to face her visitor.

Satsi smiled.

“Aww. Need somebody to tuck you in, Horns? Bet you fifty creds I could get you right to sleep… if you don’t mind wakin’ up a little sore in the morning. Just a little bit,” she stated, her voice dropping into a deep, sultry undertone. Again, Sera just sighed. The woman had changed since Sera had last seen her, her hair now dyed a vibrant auburn. Even her eyes had been altered, now flashing a dark green.

She was also spattered with blood. Red blood, blue blood, green blood. Some of it might have even been her own. A little bit.

“…I’m gonna guess you found that thing I asked you for?”

Satsi nodded, sparkling white teeth showing in a savage grin. “Yep. Gotcha a name, a face. Coordinates, too. Not sure how fresh they are, but I’ve got ‘em,” she supplied, dropping a datapad onto the map-table in front of Sera.

A Trandoshan stared back at her, a particularly unfriendly look on his face, and a gnarly scattergun held on his shoulder. Sera whistled, looking over the data. “Well… he’s a charmer, isn’t he? ‘Scalebeard?’ Where’d he come up with that one?”

Didn’t matter. They had him. Grinning, Sera forwarded the information to the rest of Spectre Cell, and thereon to the remainder of Galeres’ agents, alongside a single sentence.

The hunt is on.

38 ABY
Eldar

Scalebeard’s fortress burned in the distance, filling the night sky with a ruddy glow. Other than that, there wasn’t a light in the sky; Eldar had been granted a rare, moonless night. It provided the perfect cover for the second assault being launched. While Qyreia and the Major organized Arconan special forces for that attack, with Ruka at her back, Spectre Cell would strike the location that had been pinged as Scalebeard’s secretive hidey-hole; a darkened cave, set back into the woods. Through her macrobinoculars, Sera had seen only a light guard of a half-dozen or so pirates, well-armed and armored. They were the elite of the Trandoshan’s men, his personal guard, the only ones that he would trust to defend his share of booty. Of varying races, they were brutal, hard-bitten, and nearly fearless.

Nearly.

The Zabrak was the first to ignite her saber. Like a beam of burnished sunlight, it burst to life in the darkness, illuminating the silhouette of her plated armor. To her left, two blades burst into life, the bloody light washing over Xenna’s dark, functional gown. At her right, another crimson saber hissed into being, running from a violet hilt clutched within Aay’han’s pale hand. Behind them, more blades pierced the darkness and more forms emerged from the shadow. Tybalt’s bulky, beautifully-furred form, wreathed in pale blue and silver light,was backed by Tyga and Zorrander, with their blades of amber and emerald. The Force ran through them all; a warmth within their hearts, and unity of mind and action, guided by Sera’s gentle battle meditation, a chant rising under her breath.

Death came to the pirates with a hiss of lightning, and a multicolored wreath of crystalline light.

The last pirate died with a gargle and a puff of smoke as his eyes burned out within his skull, cobalt lightning searing over his flesh. Muscles spasming one last time, his mouth wrenched open in a soundless scream before Xenna’s lightning was extinguished. The redheaded Sith gave a slight smile as she stepped over his corpse, taking up a position behind the Zabrak that stood ahead of her.

Sera wasn’t sure exactly what she had expected to find in Scalebeard’s horde. Her general knowledge of the galaxy was limited; thusly, her expectations were as well. Piles of gold, electrum, and jewels perhaps, or a set of Beskar plate. Maybe he collected exotic animals, or droids, or liquor? That would absolutely have made her day.

The Zabrak found none of those things within the dank, shadowed pit that she and the other members of the Battleteam had assaulted. Instead of glistening, glittering treasure, she was confronted by weapons, and a veritable mountain of narcotics. Bundles of Crude, shattered crates of Deathsticks and Glitterstim, bricks of orange Spice stacked side by side with smaller blocks of a bright pink powder marked only with an ornate, violet eye. Beside the small hill of sundry drugs sat another pile, dark and nondescript. It seemed filled with miscellaneous objects, twisted and broken.

She stepped forward, frowning as she leaned down, examining them more closely. Tensely, she picked one scrapped object up between her fingers, and a thrill of ice ran through her, her hearts skipping within her chest.

It was a collar, forged from sloppily-cut durasteel, with a crudely-cut attachment bolted to the side. It was rusted red with blood. Slowly, her gaze travelled downward. There were… hundreds of them, of all type and make, from stolen Imperial shock collars to simple bands of spiked, studded leather. Some had names carved into them. Others had prices.

The galaxy was supposed to be a good place, that brought good things to good people. Sera had to believe that… but, Ancestors, sometimes it grew so hard to keep the faith…

A buzz sounded on her wrist link, rousing the Zabrak from her nervous reverie. A moment later, a comforting voice broke through, the deep baritone grumble of Major Tehyn Sherrick broken up only slightly by static and the low crackle of flames in the background. ”Senth, check in. Everything solid up there?”

“Yep-yep. We’re all good on our end; treasure’s a bust. Nothing here but guns, drugs, and…” she paused, her voice trailing off as she looked down at the collar in her hand. Exhaling quietly, she clipped it to her belt. “Karked up sithspit, Major. You bag our prey?”

”Affirm. Picked him up after Darkwing buzzed the nest, and your green friend went off and grabbed and kept the bastards from running off with a few slaves. Get here soon enough, you might even make it here before he wakes up from his beauty sleep.”

Sera’s thumb ran over the cold metal of the collar… and she gave a small smile. “Right. Be there in a few.”

Sera stepped back into the interrogation room just as a spray of teeth and blood splattered against the plexiglass window. Diy stood behind her, fingering her blasters with an uncomfortable look on her face. Growling, Ruka stepped back, shaking drops of blood and broken scales from his knuckles. Scalebeard just chuckled, a low, gurgling rumble rising from his tattered dewlap. Giving the Mirialan a broken grin, the Trandoshan spat out a shattered fang, leaning back into the chair that he was tied to.

“Iz tha’ all ya go’, boy? I’ve ha’ slaves hit me harder than tha’,” he slurred through his swollen jaw, beady black eyes rolling in his skull. Ruka growled right back, violet eyes flaring with a sick yellow light. Blue-white lightning crackled in his left hand, arcing into the reptile’s flesh. Scales popped at the heat, smoke curling upwards, and he screamed… a scream that turned into another gurgling laugh. “Y’know, when I gave the shocks ‘o the girls, they scream an’ scream. Anythin’ ‘o make it end… buh, tha’ ain’ half bad.”

”Pinse chingaso,” the Mirialan spat, raising his hand for another blow, his knuckles clenched so hard that Sera could hear them pop. A red hand on his shoulder stopped him, however, pulling him back.

“Alright, listen here, Trannie,” she started brusquely, stepping up close. “You’ve got a rather karking simple problem ahead of you. Either you answer our questions, or we’ll filet your frakkin’ choobies, one cut at a time, twist ‘em off, and fry ‘em for your next lunch. That sound fun? Listen close: what’s the code for your bunker’s Sithspit defenses, and how many motherfrakkin’ captives are you keeping down there? Two questions, and you get to keep your balls. Easy.”

“Why shoul’ I answer anything you wanna ask me? You bastards killed my brothar, already; I’m on my way ou’. Migh’ as well piss you frakkers off a ‘lil before I go,” he spat back, cocking his head. His swollen eyes took on a leering, ugly look as he hissed. “Do I ge’ a las’ meal reques’? I’ve tasted plenny of screamin’ pinkies before, bu’ you look like somethin’ special.”

Qyreia wasn’t able to hold Ruka back before he decked the tied up Trandoshan once again, the reptilian laughter ending in a wet crack, before starting right back up again. Behind the both of them, Sera just sighed, her fingers twitching towards her own dagger in anger. They had been at this for a full day and night, for nothing. Scalebeard had seen AAF interrogators, Toronaga’s Seeker, and had been visited by just about every Arconan agent on Eldar. Xenna had given him lightning, Aay had given him her saber, Zodac and Tybalt had beaten him bloody. He’d laughed them all off in turn. They needed something more serious, something… better. A professional.

“Ru, Q… we’re done here,” Sera interjected before they launched into the questions again. Both of them turned, already beginning to protest, but the Zabrak waved them off, smiling faintly. She’d taken no part in the interrogation. Sithspit just wasn’t honorable, even if it was deserved… which it was. Instead, she’d decided to bypass it as a whole. Who needed torture when you had the Force and a psychometric Kiffar at your side?

Leaning close, Sera gave the Trandoshan a toothy grin, once again restraining the urge to follow Ruka’s example and kick his cold-blooded balls up into the back of his throat. Instead, she shut her eyes, focusing, reaching out with the Force. Her smile died as she touched Scalebeard’s mind. The darkness there was impenetrable, rife with cruelty, anger, hate. And fear.

Sera had never found pleasure in striking such terror into someone’s heart before. Now, she did. Blue eyes icey, she nodded to her friends, standing straight. “Ru, help me hold this bastard. Diy… work your magic.”

The Mirialan nodded gruffly, reaching out and seizing the bastard by his dewlap, jerking him back in his chair. Sera took his shoulders, her Force-amplified strength keeping him from bucking as Diy stepped forward. Orange skin shining under the harsh light of the interrogation room, she gave Scalebeard a grin, idly toying with one long braided strand of dark green hair.

“So, Snekky… heard you might need a softer touch,” the Kiffar purred, stepping right up against him. Smiling, she reached out, gently touching the ragged glove covering his hand. Her grin faded a second later as she sifted through his memory, very quickly turning into a snarl. “Oh, you bastard,” she growled, pulling back. Her hand flew to Whyell at her hip, and she was only kept from blowing the Trandoshan’s brains out by Sera’s intercepting grip.

“Did you get the code?” she asked, voice quiet.

“Yeah, I got the kriffin’ code. Ghost Talk. Easy. I also saw the rest of Snekky’s been gettin’ up to,” she stated angrily. “Lemme kill him.”

Sera hesitated for a moment, her brow furrowing. She could see the sudden fear in the Trandoshan’s eyes, feel it in his heart. A thrill of pity coursed through her. It wasn’t honorable…

She felt her hand brush a ring of metal clipped to her belt. The slave’s collar. In a flash, Sera’s gaze hardened… and she went for her saber.

Scalebeard’s head rolled across the floor a moment later. A quick death was all the honor that he deserved.

The woods outside of Kurs’Pirun seemed empty. Serene. This part of Eldar had just begun to enter into its spring season, and the thick vegetation was springing to new life. Insects buzzed over tree tops that one could practically see growing before their eyes, clouds of pollen and fluffy white seed-pods coursing in the wind. It was so quiet, so sedate, that one might have even noticed the disturbing silence. No bird calls could be heard. No woodland creatures could be seen. Nothing.

That was because every treetop was already occupied. The Eldar Rangers had moved in for the time being. They were rugged Selenians and Humans, and experienced soldiers to a man. The sharpshooters were carefully perched, and deftly camouflaged, covering the bunker’s entrance with overlapping fields of fire. The ugly shantytown that had once filled the clearing around the bunker had been levelled on the first day, while fieldworks were dug in and their crude bivouac was transformed into a temporary forward operating base. Supported by local Keadean forces, freshly outfitted with arms and armor provided by Fort Blindshot’s armory, the bunker was now deep into a siege so well covered and camouflaged that it was practically invisible.

The neat ring of durasteel, set into the earth, that served as Kurs’Pirun’s entrance was still. On the first few days, the pirates within had sent ragged expeditions out through the twisted hole that had been blasted into it. After the first couple groups had been massacred by sniper fire, no one else had emerged but Qyreia had still watched and hoped. Chewing disconsolately on the ration bar that she’d grabbed for morning chow, the Zeltron squinted through the glass of her NT-42, nudging Corporal Kalb at even intervals to make sure he was still awake.

She was hoping to knock out at least one more sentry before the call came. All around the camp, things were starting to ramp up. Battle lines were deploying. The Galerian troops and the Keadean auxiliaries were forming up behind the earthworks.

A more ruthless commander would have set down for the long haul and starved the bastards out. Or, even better, just glassed the spot from orbit. Not their commander, however… especially not with Sera Kaern behind him. Not when there were Keadeans still captive within that bunker.

There was something coming on the horizon. Now that they had the codes, the attack had to come, here and now. No more waiting. It was time for Eldar to finally be reclaimed.

Eldar

Golden sunlight filtered through the wreath of the Eldarian canopy, falling upon a thick, pallid early morning fog. Forest birds called, swooping through the low branches on silent, barely fluttering wings, searching for an early meal. It had rained quite heavily the night before. Storms came fitfully to the southern foot of the Aifreannean continent, heralding the arrival of the dry winter months. They appeared out of cloudless skies, drenching the jungles with rain and hail, before disappearing as quickly as they had come, often with the rise of the morning sun.

Sera had risen while the final, weeping tears of the storm passed overhead, long before the sun was up. Leaving Diy to catch a few more winks on the odd pad…bed…thing behind her, the Zabrak prowled silently through Spectre Cell’s temporary lodgings within Toronaga’s keep. She managed not to wake the others as she stepped by their quarters. They’d been put through their paces the day before, training hard. Xenna and Tyga had run through sabers, the former of them quite aggressive in her teaching style. Zodac and Diy had put together a blasters course, and a joint team of Eldar Rangers and Keadeans had taken them through an extensive, exhausting bushcraft seminar. A productive day. Somehow, it had still managed to feel like…a break.

It had been a month since they had assaulted Kurs’Pirun, driven the pirates out. In that month, they had been called to war on Arx. None of them had come out of either event perfectly unscathed.

Empty bunks in the troops’ quarters. Scars, where there had been none before. Questions that very often seemed to have no answers at all.

Slowly, carefully, Sera donned her armor. Each piece was oiled, polished, prepared. The white cloak that she was just beginning to fasten around her shoulders was pristine. Normally she wasn’t one to stand on ceremony, but…

A small knock sounded at the door. A soft voice in Keadean. Then, another, gruffer. Calling her. Crossing over, Sera slid the paper-thin door open to reveal a weary-looking soldier, probably freshly called off of the night watch. He practically towered over the puny, wizened Keadean woman at his side. Pira, a servant of sorts, and as sweet as a Pommwomm bloom.

The trooper stated his business: Toronaga wanted her. It was time to retrieve the prisoner. Sera nodded and sent him off to bed, fingers still fussing with her cloak’s tie. That was, until a pair of soft, immensely wrinkled fingers stopped her, reaching out to tie the knot for her. Pira gave an approving little hmmph, patting the Zabrak’s cheek. Then, she turned, and slowly hobbled back into the hall.

No. Not one to stand on ceremony. But, Keadean society called for one to dress their best for an execution. Toronaga and his people had waited patiently. Now, it was time to see their full debt paid.

Toranaga, it seemed, wasn’t requesting her presence for the actual retrieval of the prisoner. Rather, the Zabrak was guided outside to the clear plot of hard-packed dirt that served as the central plaza of the small fortified portion of the village. It looked even smaller packed as it was with so many people, all formed in a square around an even smaller space where a single post was driven into the soil. The head of the assembly, it seemed, would be the very porch she was stepping from.

Sera was ushered over to the left, where a row of seats reserved for Spectre Cell and other Galerians waited. Indeed, most of the simple chairs were already filled by the very Spectres she had been reminiscing over, as well as Qyreia and Stres’tron’garmis, both adorned in their respective AAF uniforms, and Ruka Tenbriss Ya-ir nearby.

Opposite the Arconans were a half dozen other seats, unoccupied. Save for a gap at the center of the general krill-shaped assemblage, everything else was standing room only. Arconan Armed Forces personnel, largely comprised of the House’s discretionary troops’ senior officers and enlisted folk, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Keadeans. Some she recognised as members of the village. Others she was less familiar with. Judging by the more stylized, if prohibitively formal clothing some of them wore, they weren’t among the peasantry of the feudal castes that still seemed to dominate Keadean society, even in this nigh post-apocalyptic realm.

Her eyes narrowed curiously before her attention was broken by Diy’s appearance, seemingly still waking up as she made her way to their designated area. Amiable was the best way to describe the Kiffar’s expression, her usual boisterousness muted by the overwhelming formality.

“When d’you think it’s starting?” the faux-Zelosian whispered.

“Soon,” they heard their red-skinned mercenary whisper so soberly that she nearly sounded angry.

With a motion from the Battle Team Leader, Diy made her way to an open seat. Appropriately timed, as the other hushed whispers likewise fell silent in a wave from back to front. Several of the Arconans craned their heads to see the small, quiet parade of people.

At its head walked Toranaga himself, wearing his own robes of similar make to that of the special guests. Following behind him was a small procession of other Keadeans, varying in social status, but all immediately recognizable to those that, before the war, had decimated the last slaver stronghold. They were the survivors that had been carried from the pit; the ones that Torol had planned to slaughter in the final moments of the assault simply to spite the Arconans and their incessant interruptions to his and his allies’ operations on Eldar. They were here to bear special witness, across from their saviors, to the justice about to be meted out.

Pira was there to usher the witnesses to their seats while Toranaga took his appointed place at the head of the assembly, alone on his dais. As soon as they were seated, the local lord belted out several harsh tones in their native tongue and motioned with his hand.

A semi-cadenced step followed as six guards, Keadeans armed with recently-imported blasters courtesy of Galeres, escorted their prisoner forward.

Torol hardly looked well. He was dirty, likely from living in a caged hole in the ground for the past month, and his wounds were still ruddy from the minimal care afforded him. Clearly the conditions had done nothing to aid the Human’s healing process. Given how his skin seemed to almost hang from his frame, he hadn’t gotten much exercise either. Or food. He was only being kept alive, after all.

At his heel was Toranaga’s lieutenant, the Keadean warrior that had come into the bunker to retrieve his wife. It wasn’t hard to guess that his words dictated the prisoner be bound to the post. As the guards executed the task, stretching the prisoner’s arms above his head facing the local liege, the lieutenant took a seat near Toranaga.

As the Arconans would soon find, this was a bilingual execution.

“You are all herre to bearr witness to the execution of the pirrate and slaverr known as Torrol,” the Keadean lord began with his usual growled reshes. “Attending me is Sugiyarra, for the purpose of common understanding.”

“Onnarra isht nogherraxh konh axhsekia taxh kosexhia yo’taxheir Torohl.” Sugiyarra bowed his head to the assembly, no doubt amending the introduction to be more linguistically fitting.

“Forr the crrimes of pirracy, murrderr, rrape, kidnapping, and trraficking of sentients — of which he has been found guilty on all counts — he is sentenced to death by jinzo’anaaxherrei.”

As the Sugiyarra translated, Sera and several other of the Arconans looked to each other on the uninterpreted method dictated.

“It means ‘kidney punch’,” Qyreia said quietly, just beneath the reptilian voice of Toranaga’s representative.

Strong nodded, adding his own voice in an uncharacteristically hushed tone, his baritone easily reaching his neighbors. “We inquired beforehand. If you have weak stomachs, now would be a good time to excuse yourselves.”

“…harmed by his hand and the families of those taken,” Toranaga finished, listing the official witnesses of the execution in accordance with Keadean law, his lieutenant now translating almost simultaneously.

Then all went quiet, all eyes turning to the accused.

“Time for your last words,” the Arconans heard whispered from among the crowd behind them.

“Is thet all? Kark, mate, ya didn’ even get me good bits.” He looked over at the assembly of non-Keadeans while the reptilians hissed and growled amongst themselves, the semblance of decorum barely held in check. “This is wot a good ol’ DDF deserter looks like. Enjoy tha view, ya gits! Left me ‘ere long enough to decide I’d rather ‘ave me fun with them fracks wot came ‘ere ta turn a profit on dis place ya abandoned! And enjoy tha ghosts ya left be’ind, ya sots. Me an’ me’s boys was ‘ardly tha worst thing ta run inta out there.”

“Sugiyarra. Ankash hajihx’tehst.”

The Keadean at Toranaga’s side offered a curt, formal bow before standing and approaching Torol.

The Human wheezed a panicked laugh. “Wait! I aints done yet! No last meal or nuthin?!”

“Kankash danarrash’tehst!”

At Toranaga’s command, two of the guards vaulted forth from their positions with cord and a rag, stuffing it into his mouth and tying the gag in place, leaving him to mutely howl at his captors. By the time Sugiyarra reached him, a thin knife brandished ceremoniously in his hand, the rage had melted into what they could only assume was fear.

The first scream came when, true to the name, the knife was plunged just below the bottommost rib on one side, the tip twisted forward, then withdrawn, leaving him seeping blood from the narrow gash.

They gave him a minute, twisting and groaning against the pain and his bindings, before the Keadean lieutenant circled around Torol and did the same on his opposite side.

Each time they waited a little longer, letting the pain linger.

Each time they moved up a rib, never so deep as to cause immediately fatal harm, even when they wrenched the tip of the blade from back to front to tear up his insides.

Each time, someone flinched. Someone blinked or winced or reached out for someone else’s hand, while the Keadeans all looked on in abject, stoic silence.

It was brutally methodical, stretching out for almost half an hour before he simply went into shock. At that point, a nod from Toranaga signalled the executioner to finish the deed. Sugiyarra once again circled the dilapidated Human and, positioning the knife at the base of his neck, swiftly severed the convicted’s spinal cord. And like that, it was over, the pomp and ceremony barely maintained as they cut the binds on the pirate’s corpse and had him borne away to an ignominious hole in the woods beyond the village’s rice paddies.

So many people thanked the Arconans and the AAF troops. Some of the Keadeans smiled, some bowed, some rattled on in the language that none of these guests truly knew. Ruka tried in vain, but couldn’t keep up, and no one had had the foresight to bring a translator datapad with them. But they were thanked, in a hundred different words and ways, while in the background Toranaga conferred with the other finely-dressed guests of the Eldarian variety. For the time being at least, it seemed like there would be a semblance of peace, a long-awaited break.

Fort Blindshot, Selen

“…a break?” Sera questioned. Her voice was small, unbelieving. After the last few months, it seemed like a joke.

“A break!” Junazee confirmed. “Don’t question it, Summit’s paying. Sounds like a relief, right?” the Miraluka asked half-absently, smoothing over the front of her robes with a smile. Sera blinked, blue eyes trailing to the Kaleesh sat at Juna’s side.

Skar gave a shrug of his own, cybernetic shoulders rising and falling with a mechanical whir. “Some resort. Weak, fickle, frivolous foolishness. But, I would call it earned, at least,” he growled in a synthetic monotone, eyes narrowing.

“…huh” Sera murmured, her brow furrowing. A month, rushing about on Eldar, coordinating combat operations, storming the damned fort. The war on Arx. The execution, more work, Karran. So much, all at once. Now… this? “I thought that you called me in for new orders?”

“The break is your order. Or… most of it,” Junazee started, her blindfolded face softening.

“You’re getting new… advisors,” Skar continued gruffly, running a robotic hand over his war mask. “Old blood, to assist the AEF and the Keadeans in the building efforts, and to reforge our ties with the planet.”

Old blood.

Sera sensed something nearby, hovering on the outside of her consciousness in the Force. Two presences. One was bright. Powerful…but not all there. The other was more complex. Dark, for sure, but manifold. Older than the other. Who could…

The door to the room slid open, and a white and brown blur ripped through the air. Sera had just enough time to gasp before Atyriu slammed into her, arms weaving around her shoulders in a hug that went just a little bit beyond the natural bounds of strength. The Zabrak squeaked. The Miraluka hummed happily in turn, ears twitching.

“Serryberry! Just so wonderful to see you here, dearest. Skarbles! Juna! Don’t you try and get out of this…”

The former Consul peeled herself away, stepping around the desk to accost the Quaestor and Aedile with her usual, blinding exuberance. Sera was left gasping. And smiling, of course. That was until she remembered the second presence, as another newcomer trailed through the door. The man was tall, pale, and painfully thin, almost to the point of being cadaverous. Dark black eyes bore into her face as she met his gaze.

For all her will, she couldn’t help but flinch.

“Orv Dessrx,” he stated curtly, like a coroner providing the time of death. “I do hope we can skip the pleasantries. Much to be caught up on.”

Those black eyes narrowed. Sera gave a hitching chuckle, pointy teeth baring in a nervous smile. “Uh. Sera. Sera—"

“Kaern,” he finished, dextrous fingers clasping at his sides. Orv examined for a moment more. Then, he gave a slight hmph. “You’ll do. Come-come. Paperwork to be done. You didn’t think this little break would be all fun, did you?”

Dry, dead leaves crackled underfoot as the trio cut their way through the thick underbrush. Avian life flitted quietly overhead, marking the morning with snatches of peaceful, restive song. An odd, four-tailed rodent scampered down the path, its young trailing behind it, seeking their den.

Autumn had come to Tairiku, Eldar’s southern continent. Cold winds rushed over the dry basin of the Sabaku desert, brushing over the dunes and howling as they met the forests beyond. Thick, gnarled boughs that had once been heavy with green just a few months prior drooped, their leaves exploding into vibrant shades of gold, violet, and a deep, bloody crimson. They drifted in the breeze, settling in great, damp mounds over the forest path, glittering with a thin layer of frost, and hidden by low wisps of fog.

A brisk, chilly morning. Perfect for the activities that Spectre Cell was normally getting up to…but not today. Today they were trying out a new method.

Diy found the cold…well, odd. Selen’s climate was extremely temperate, the difference between its summer and winter seasons hardly noticeable. Sure, Malfrost had gone on at great length about planetary positioning and rotation, whatever the frack the Coriolis effect was, currents of wind and water and other bits of mother nature’s lush and lusty form, and Atyriu had added onto his diatribe with an entire hour of talk about harvests and farming, but…well, she hadn’t really been paying attention. To her, the seasons remained as mysterious as the Force, and the stars frangin’ knew that she had never understood a damned lick of that, as much as Zuj and Tatts and all the rest of them had tried to explain it to her.

The Kiffar sighed, a slight frown settling on her face. Thinking of Sera…or Zujenia…or anyone that had been involved with the temple incursion, people that she was supposed to protect, had a tendency to sour her mood.

Considering her current companions, that didn’t go over well.

“Diybiy,” Atyiru chided in a playful singsong. Ivoshar padded solidly along at her side, his dark, russet coat blending with the fallen leaves. His watchful, golden-eyed gaze was locked on his heavily pregnant master, ever watchful. She really should not have been out in the wilderness in her state, even as bundled up as she was, but the Miraluka plodded on all the same. Very, very little could have kept her away from their current mission…or from trying to cheer Diy up. “Must I say it again? Turn that frown upside down, dear. Just look around you. I’m sure it’s the most beautiful morning.”

“…you can feel her frowning?” Malfrost cut in curiously, one eyebrow rising. A datapad seemed to just appear in his hand as he continued, tapping away at a new batch of notes. “A Miraluka can detect some level of emotion, yes, their innate senses amplified by the Force…but can that extend to physical gestures? A biochemical signal associated with a frown, or a smile, body mnemonics…”

He rambled on, his words trailing into academic insights that may as well have been a foreign language. Atyiru beamed at him, jumping in after a moment with her own happy, musical babble. Ahead of them, Diy gave a small sigh…and stopped in her tracks.

Ahead of her, the trees thinned into a small clearing, filled with a sparse smattering of thatched, plank and board huts, their roofs thickly padded with leaves. Voices carried over the air, the hissing, sibilant tones of the Keadean tongue. So intricate, so difficult to grasp. In some of the outlying villages, communication had been the main road block. It was difficult to get anyone to trust you when you could hardly speak a sentence of their language.

And trust, in this matter, was key. Today, Spectre Cell wasn’t on the warpath. Far from it. For several weeks now, their team and the Eldar Rangers that supported them, were focused on building. Helping. Healing. Today, Atyiru came armed with medicine to share with the village’s elders, and the touch of the Force to salve what she could. Malfrost came with knowledge: agricultural, irrigation techniques, useful bits and pieces that he had picked up through his wide-ranging studies. And Diy…Diy was here to protect them, until the full support squadron from the Heavy Battalion arrived. Just in case.

In the back of her mind, a low, grief-stricken screech echoed…and a part of her wondered if she could protect anything at all.

Deskwork. So much deskwork.

It would never be Sera’s forte; one didn’t need to be a master empath to see that. The tasks were endless; relaying communiques between Blindshot and the Rangers; setting up requisitions for the village; and the endless paperwork that seemed to accompany even the most mundane tasks for the team. Ordinarily, she might have been persuaded to slack on it, in favor of field work. But, do that, and Orv would appear in the corner with dark, judgemental eyes and a snide remark in tow. There was that…and the fact that, for all that deskwork bored her out of her mind, it provided a welcome distraction.

Screeches underneath a jungle canopy. Inky black forms darting through the woods, dripping blood and drooling froth from cavernous jaws. Ruka falling. Diy standing before her, a bolt of light tearing through the dark. Screams…and ruined corpses of those that they had been too late to save.

A rustle sounded, the paper door of her quarters within Toronaga’s fortress sliding open. Pira, the head of the household’s staff, stepped through first. She was a tiny, ancient woman, her scaled flesh bunching into folds at her throat and the corners of her slitted eyes. Still, she smiled sweetly, mutely nodding as another, much taller form stepped into the room.

The warrior’s name was Sugiyarra. The young, lithely muscled Keadean was clad in traditional black and green lacquered armor, a trio of short, curved blades hanging at his side. He was a skilled warrior, a lieutenant to Toronaga…and his executioner. But, he was also their closest contact, apparently assigned to directly coordinate with Galerian forces, and the lead Keadean on a special project that Sera had been organizing for some time. For the team, for the Rangers, and for the Keadeans as well. Impressive work, considering…well.

“Uh…good…morning? Xherrnesch,” the Zabrak started, wincing as she butchered the language. That had been an attempt at ‘hello.’ “Ankash…irranein…rratankash?” she continued, lips pursing tight. That time, she had tried to say, “What do you need?”

The Keadean held up a four-clawed hand before she butchered his language any farther, a pained twinge crossing his face. Then, he gave a slight nod, thin, reptilian lips opening. “I gatherrr…who you ask,” he stated, the Rs trailing into dry hisses. “They…arrre rrready.”

The Zabrak nodded, a genuine grin crossing her face as she stood from her seat and moved to the door. Once again, however, Sugiyarra raised hand, giving a terse shake of his head. Quick and quiet, he crossed behind her, a clawed hand finding a latch on the papered wall. With a wooden rattle, he pulled open a window that she hadn’t realized existed.

Curious, she crossed to his side and found herself looking out over the Fortress’ rocky courtyard. A hundred odd people were gathered there, locked in a loose, square formation, six feet between every man and woman. They were a mixed bag of Selenians, new recruits to the Eldar Rangers and the support battalion, alongside a slightly smaller group of Keadeans. Warriors from the fortress, and a few hunters and huntresses from the outlying villages, from high and low castes. Five women stood at their fore. The captives that they had rescued from Torol’s fortress…Sugiyarra’s wife among them.

Jax, Kobign, two officers from the Rangers, and the remaining members of Spectre Cell stood before them all. Zodac had been assigned to marksmanship, Grot to survivalism and tracking, Xenna and Tyga to their respective martial arts. A full training cadre…if they managed not to kill anyone, at least. As Sera watched, Jax stepped forward, his voice booming and his single hand rising to the air as he delivered the first order. Sugiyarra translated soon after, joining Jax with a shout.

“Trainees…ATTENTION!”

“Xenzuzeish! Ohk’hsui!”

The Zabrak could do little to restrain the grin that slid across her face at the sound. For the first time in weeks, she was sure that they were doing something right.

On approach to Aifreann
Eldar, Dajorra System

The wide blue ocean between the Keadeans’ continent of Tairiku and the Sardinians’ home territory of Aifreann seemed almost endless. It gave a sense of peace in its vast blankness of detail, especially in light of recent events. A skirmish in the north; raiders fighting battles that reeked of fanaticism and genocide; and new faces that some saw as allies, and others saw as a threat. Now as the flight of four LAAT/i gunships tore westward through the sky in vee-formation, the Galerians were faced with the mystery of what they would face among the formerly forgotten race of Eldar’s inhabitants.

Forgotten, maybe, but definitely not extinct.

Fingering the break in her armor, Sera glanced around at the others. Most of them — those who joined anyway — were all still relatively fresh from their escapade. Wounds were healed with equal application of bacta and the Force, and their bellies were full with Keadean hospitality, but a muted unease worked through many of them. Diy was a nice beacon of positivity and comfort for the Zabrak who was finding more and more trouble coming to terms with this seemingly dark universe that didn’t seem to get much brighter. Their Quaestor flipped through files on her datapad, eyes dancing over the text as she tried to digest everything she could about the Sardinians on the short flight, only occasionally looking away to answer a question or bounce ideas around about tactics or diplomacy. Ruka hovered nearby, nothing if not dutiful to the Zeltron; even more so in recent weeks and months. Xenna was similarly located, reclining in the troop seats that offered only limited comfort. Kaled and Ryuu occupied their own corner, both observing the goings-on in their own manner.

It was all so normal, and yet there was very clearly an element of the unknown in their faces. Their one gunship had been augmented to the four, plus a contingent of troops from the DDF’s 7th “Eldar” Regiment. The Galerians were better off: more guns, more friends, and more understanding. Yet none of those present had ever been to Aifreann or met with its leaders. Were it not for the scant few bodies and body parts remaining after the fight alongside Ryo’urinaga, they wouldn’t even have known they were Sardinians, or what a Sardinian looked like.

Now, as the Aifreann coast came into view, the imminence of this latest mission suddenly felt a lot more real. At their altitude, there were dark shapes against the waterline that were clearly docks and boathouses. Fishing villages intermittently lined the coast, giving way to fields and market towns that increased in density the further inland the gunships flew. Even without seeing the details of their faces, the ships’ occupants could tell that the many farmers in the fields were turning their heads up to the quartet of military vehicles.

<<Three minutes to touchdown. Colonel Arronen, Commander Kaern, standby for drop off.>>

Qyreia looked up from her datapad to the horned Aedile and offered a conciliatory smile. They were both feeling the same things; the same unease. At least they were in it together.

The Galerians took to their feet piecemeal while the troop doors opened and they were met by a pleasantly cool wind. Beneath them, nestled in the foothills of a mountain range, was the supposed capital of the Sardinians, Clupeida. It was small even by Selenian standards, with architecture that befitted their clear reliance on agriculture over other industry: short buildings dotted with market squares, with only the vestiges of manufacturing facilities visible on the fringes. Preeminent among all the buildings though was what could only be described as a temple. Given the dossier’s information on the Sardinians, it was likely also the seat of their government and the Kasha, their spiritual leader.

The LAATs made for what looked like a spaceport, long out of use given how it was devoid of any starships or even speedercraft. What scant Sardinians were hovering around the vacant pads scattered like roaches in the light once the gunships started to land. A fast-moving procession seemed to be shadowing their movement from the ground, albeit slower and hindered by the pedestrian throngs, disappearing behind the starport’s buildings as they dropped altitude. As soon as they were on the ground, the troops poured out like so many practiced drills.

“Get us a perimeter. Three-sixty degrees,” the captain in charge of the detachment barked out. “Gunships cover your sectors of fire. Weapons on hold unless told otherwise.”

After a few curious glances, the Galerians generally coalesced into a group, separated by meters based on each’s curiosity. They didn’t have long to wait though, as the previously noted procession marched through a set of large double doors across from the lead gunship. Flanked by a dozen guards were several figures replete in fine woven robes, a bleached but natural off-white embellished with scant lines of various natural hues. All of them had the same olive and brown skin tones of the raiders’ bodies, along with thick brown hair that framed their faces in subtle curls.

“Greetings, outsiders,” their apparent leader said, outstretching his hands in a peaceful gesture that also seemed to put their guards more at ease. “I am Ilchard, and I welcome you to our lands.” He glanced at the gunships. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had visitors. Since before the plague.”

“Pretty up front,” Diy noted with quiet appreciation behind the House’s leaders.

Sera looked to the Quaestor and noted her muted dumbfounded expression as she stared at this Ilchard character. She elbowed the Zeltron gently and she seemed to come to her senses. “Hm… Right. I’m Qy- er, Colonel Arronen with the Dajorra Defense Force.” She nodded to Sera. “Commander Kaern, my second. We’re here on behalf of the Dajorra Confederacy.” She cleared her throat, looking at the guards and their slugthrowers. “Are you the Kasha?”

Ilchard smiled and briefly chuckled quietly to himself, as if he half-expected the question. “No. I’m one of his servants; his Varna.” He motioned to the others behind him, a collection of men and women of varying ages. “These are my servants in his service, called Pujar. We have been sent here to welcome you…” His eyes veered off to the side, where Xenna was curiously perusing the appearances and equipment of the Sardinians at uncomfortably-close proximity. “…and to discover the reasons for your sudden appearance.”

“Selen has largely recovered from the plague and resulting famine,” Sera chimed in, puffing up her chest at the opportunity to be part of the proceedings. “We’ve only recently been able to return to Eldar, and spent the last year getting rid of a slaver operation that was oppressing the Keadeans on the other side of the planet.”

“Interesting.” Ilchard looked between them, eyes resting on the Zeltron. “And now you come to us after rescuing the Shogunate?”

“That, and the raids being conducted by your people,” Qyreia said flatly, still seemingly bothered by his appearance; something that had Ruka step up behind her for support. “Perhaps not your government, but definitely Sardinian.”

The news perturbed Ilchard’s calm expression, but he still managed to smile politely. “Surely not one of the faithful. But if it is reuniting the planet in the wake of disaster,” he said with some hesitance, “then I am sure the Kasha would be happy to hear more.”

He motioned toward the gate, turned, and stepped away with his entourage following close behind. The Galerian Aedile looked at the red woman for confirmation.

“Go ahead, Sera. We’ll take a platoon with us and leave the rest here for security.”

The Zabrak sighed thoughtfully. “Something’s not right here.”

“I get the feeling it’s only gonna get weirder,” Qyreia replied, motioning her along. “Go on. I’ll be right behind ya.”

Still fighting the subtle unease in her gut, Sera motioned for the others to follow, telling them to be polite but professional. Not that the locals likely took credits, but if they wanted to sell some food to the soldiers or Galerians, they were welcome to do so as long as they didn’t pass off anything sensitive like weapons or munitions. Ruka stayed behind momentarily to check on the Zeltron.

“Are you alright, crovja? You were looking at this priest guy pretty hard.”

She shook her head. “He just looks like someone I used to… cohabitate with.”

“Fair enough,” the Mirialan said quietly, assuming now was not the time to dig deeper. “Let’s go before we lose them, ay?”

Elsewhere…

Orange. There was always that yellow or orange glow in the tunnels. They made the old baked-clay bricks that formed the tight arches stand out all the more with their sharp shadows. The people that moved through them only made the shadows dance. That and make the air stuffy with their breath and sweat. There was, of course, the main tube that once siphoned water from the tiny little aquifer. Offshoot tunnels dug through the bricks and into the hard clay served as temporary barracks, storage, hospitals, and arsenals.

Plenty of arsenals. Their weapons had to come from somewhere.

This far north, hidden away practically under the mountains, they would hardly be noticed if at all. The same could be said for the dozens of other similar outposts scattered across Aifreann. The resistance to their ancestral oppressors; held under vassalage as servants to the Scarlet Empire and successor Shogunate. Now they held the cards. They held the power. And they had won, time and time again.

Much was thanks to the poor souls that fled their oppression; the handful of survivors that were neither Keadean nor Sardinian, but had sworn their escape from the reptilians.

They brought word of dangerous allies among them. Of a favored host that might soon descend on the People of the One. But they also brought other news. Better news. News of a shattered Shogunate and depleted populations; of dwindling supplies and scattered, undefended settlements. Of a chance for righting the wrongs of the past, and doing what could not be completed during the Scion Wars.

The latest batch of recruits filed and weaved through the morass of equipment in the dried up aquifer where the leaders of their cell conferred over maps with one of the quietly famous escapees. Off to one side were stacks of slugthrowers and blasters: some from the disused garrisons of the church’s guards, others imported by the newcomers from Tairiku. Across the room, behind very blatant delineating barriers, were their explosives, concocted from livestock manure and industrial chemicals that wouldn’t be missed in the slightest. It worked just as well in a grenade body as it did for a dead-man switch mechanism in case of a failed mission. Little enough should be left to be identified if one of the larger containers went off. It kept their secret, and kept their people on the surface separated from the fight for long-sought retribution.

And they would have it. With enough victories to claim, what was to say the Kasha himself would not join?

Sufre, Aifreann Continent
Eldar

The broad expanse of plains that Sufre inhabited seemed unseasonably warm for its proximity to the mountains, as well as the recent coming of spring for the northern hemisphere. Though, perhaps the latter seemed more potent for the Galerians’ recent venture to the northern climes of the Keadean territories across the ocean. In any case, things were hot among the olive-skinned peoples that called themselves Sardinians.

And the delegation, seated before the hitherto enigmatic Kasha, maintained a steady dampness of sweat in the non-climate controlled room.

On the bright side, almost literally, the room was well lit compared to the austere dimness they’d expected. A handful of floor- and overhead-lighting was abundantly augmented by large windows set into the high walls of the room — part of the ecclesiastic complex’s administrative tower — that were stained to subtly display what might have been scenes of Sardinian life or of dogmatic symbols. It was difficult to tell from the discussion table.

The long rectangular furniture set the Galerians on one narrow end, with the Quaestor flanked on her right by Sera, and her left by Diyrian. Standing behind them were the others that had remained close to the Galerian base of operations: Xenna, Diy, Ruka, and even his husband Cora, who had travelled in hopes of assisting with the diplomatic side of things. Despite the cordially warm welcome, they quickly discovered that the Sardinians were of a patriarchal disposition, and at times during the initial discussions, the Varna — including Ilchard, whose entourage had greeted them at the spaceport — had deferred to speaking to the males of the party, occasionally outright ignoring the females.

Qyreia quashed that idea almost immediately. While Cora’s diplomatic upbringing cautioned against such oversight of Sardinian culture, the Zeltron pointedly reminded him and their hosts that both she and Sera were in charge, and they would be addressed as such.

Perhaps that was why the Zabrak, her armor at least repaired since their rushed travel to Aifreann, was sweating less than the others. That or her origins from a hot and dry desert. The Force helped a little too.

It made paying attention to the conversation a little easier.

“…serious allegations you bring to us,” the Kasha said in a hushed tone that still carried clearly across the room, either through a trick of acoustics or years of honing his pulpit voice.

The elderly Sardinian was bereft of hair on his wrinkled head, though he maintained a full beard that fell to his chest, most of the dark brown faded to white or yellow, save for a few strands. His appearance was somewhere between frail and nominally fit, with thin limbs and body that still maintained steady posture despite his advanced age, allowing him to move about unassisted by his underlings.

“And yet your priest,” as Qyreia referred to the Pujar in the Basic equivalent, “is still in our custody after assaulting one of our own, under your own roof.”

Diy shifted in the background, her posture showing an air of pride at the mention. They’d been offered quarters within the ecclesiatic compound as a sign of goodwill, and while the Kiffar was enjoying an evening on one of the many balconies, one of the priests snuck up on her and attempted to kidnap her, if not kill her. A few swift kicks and a wallop from her pistol grip had freed her, and she wasted no time in delivering the assailant to Sera, who likewise brought the situation to Qyreia’s attention.

In short order, the Quaestor ordered him detained by their AAF troops, and all Arconan forces were to quarter themselves in their ad hoc base at the starport. Relations from there had become… tense.

“We are aware of his transgression,” the Kasha replied, though whether or not he was referring to the church council or using the ‘royal we’ — being himself and the Sardinian deity to which he was canonically connected — was difficult to tell. “We also wish that you had left his security to us rather than… your methods.”

“You mean how we informed the public that one of your Pujar attacked us?” Sera intoned.

Qyreia tilted her gaze to the Zabrak. “And how we walked him over to our little ‘embassy’ through the streets, cuffed.” While Sera seemed to appreciate the added note, Cora did his best to hide his frustrated sigh from his vantage behind them.

Ilchard seemed to do likewise. “That was wholly unnecessary.”

“As unnecessary as the discovery of an insurgent cell within Sufre’s boundaries?” The Zeltron held up the report Junazee had sent in after the raid. “Granted, it wasn’t a big one — that or most of them got away — but there’s clearly some poodoo going on that you’re either trying to keep under the rug, or secretly supporting.”

Sera nodded. “And we’re curious to know which it is.”

“Your Grace,” one of the other Varna said; an older man by the name of Grechaud, “why do we even entertain these blasphemers?” He turned his gaze to the women, harsh and crude. “They have no right detain us, much less engage our people on our lands.”

“Eldar is part of the Dajorran Confederacy,” the Quaestor said. “So if you have a secret host of combatants conducting genocidal raids against a constituent racial group of that Confederacy, then you better fracking believe we have full jurisdiction to combat it.” She could feel Cora chomping at the bit behind her, and motioned subtly under the table’s edge.

“That, gentlemen, would include the stationing of additional military forces on Aifreann and the planet as a whole if the situation does not find itself handled appropriately.”

That seemed to stiffen many backs at the table.

The Kasha especially seemed to chew on his words carefully. “We shall… open an inquisition on these incidents. Varna Ilchard,” he nodded toward the indicated man, “will liaison with you and your people concerning any and all findings.”

That stiffened the Zeltron’s posture slightly, but she kept her emotions in check enough to keep the Sardinians from noticing. Sera glanced sideward to the Quaestor, but likewise said nothing about it.

“That’ll be fine for now.” With that said, the Zeltron rose from her seat, mirrored closely by Sera almost as though it were rehearsed. It almost was. “We look forward to working with you. Hopefully we’ll be able to start talks with the Keadeans and get a planetary government sorted.”

The room remained stone silent; a sign of the culturally ingrained animosity between the two peoples. They didn’t move from their seats, but did at least offer ‘good travels’ to the Arconans before they started filing out of the room. From there they were all escorted to the ground floor and then out to the front gates of the complex, at which point they were all ostensibly on their own. Not alone by any stretch, given the urban Sardinians milling about the streets on their way to a market or other venue, or the security forces who occupied various high-traffic areas in paired patrols.

“Seems like they guard this place religiously,” Diy chuckled, eliciting a couple rolled eyes from the others of their party.

Taking Sera by the hand, the green-haired Kiffar walked off into the city, presumably to buy some food and collect some intelligence from the locals. While the ‘buddy system’ was in effect, her choice of Sera betrayed her ulterior motives as they walked away toward the markets. Xenna hung close by the Zeltron, giving the occasional cannibalistic stare to the guards and quietly revelling in their muted fear. Plenty enough people remembered the pre-plague days and seeing offworlders. The Arconans weren’t strange in that regard. What got them stares were their very militant appearance and the panoply of colors of each individual.

The Sardinians were, by comparison, somewhat intriguing to the visitors. First and foremost: there were a surprisingly large number of them. Granted, looking at the various thoroughfares and walkways, one could tell that the urban center was built for a population twice as densely packed. And after a month of running about, the Galerians were acutely aware that for all their agrarian focus, they weren’t without factories and other industrial hardware. Their isolation from the Keadeans, who were the effective rulers of the planet before the plague, had spared them a good brunt of the devastating effects; and their vast farmlands ensured they had food to spare compared to the more urbanized denizens of Tairiku.

It also meant that they were able to continue building their own machinery, vehicles, and weapons. It explained the armed guards. It explained the boats on the shores of Tairiku. To some extent, it even explained the bombs. If they could still run factories, it stood to reason they had the chemical capacity to develop explosives.

Our blood. Our soil. They can say what they like, claim what they want, but the ashes of the innocent do not lie. Like dogs let off the leash, they lash out at whatever they can sink their fangs into. It must be us, their rightful masters, to put them down, before those outsider fools can intervene.

The message, intercepted in a snap-transmission from deep within the Aifreann mainland, read like anti-Keadean propaganda, but that, like their perusal of Sardinian infrastructure, offered yet another clue. Not only were these insurgents dogmatic in their apparent war against the reptilian peoples across the ocean, but were also already acutely aware of the Galerians’ presence. The lack of headway made in actually rooting out the insurgents during their initial foray here, Qyreia felt, might have some unsavory consequences waiting for them further down the line.

Looking at the spaceport as they approached revealed the severity of the situation. Despite that it was almost entirely disused, it seemed disturbingly strange that the windows and rooftops were dotted with soldiers. While they jokingly called it their ‘embassy’ and Fort Claybake, courtesy of the large amount of its namesake in the soil, it was quickly becoming a dedicated base of operations. The Galerians, as much as the Sardinians, were growing accustomed to seeing increased traffic of transport craft flying in and out of the once-derelict structure, bringing in supplies and a trickle of additional troops. Because there was one thing about this that they all knew: this fight was far from over.

Shihon, Tairiku Continent
Eldar

Rooting out the squatters had been a long process. Kind words and harsh ones were exchanged with the displaced civilians and military personnel alike over removing the denizens that had planted themselves in the Palace of Kyuden and the Scarlet Quarter in general. With the return of the Arconans, the Keadeans tread carefully throughout the process, seeking to catch their flies with honey rather than with vinegar, as the saying went.

Now, with the Palace returned as the seat of government, it was slowly beginning to resemble its former glory. The cobwebs and dust were cleared; the tapestries were shaken out and hung; and the market stalls of the interim inhabitants firmly removed. Power was restored, albeit in a very tentative manner, as Shihon continued to revitalize itself. Many youths were apprenticing themselves at incredibly young ages in a sense of duty to their people, as well as to improve their own personal situations. From that, the ruling class reaped some of the benefits as they filtered into the meeting chamber.

The Council of Elders, or more simply the Elder Council, was a thing rarely seen in the history of the Keadeans since the formation of the Shogunate. But, lacking a shogun, it was now their only option to having any form of government.

Toranaga was already seated at the long table, inwardly enjoying the cushion seat, stiff though it was from disuse. A dozen others filtered in from the collection of other provinces that had formed out of the pockets of surviving nobility and general Keadean population. Lord Kashigipu, a contemporary of Toranaga’s, was flanked by Lady Usajiko, both looking like they had just finished a heated argument; or just finished mating. Gods knew, the pair were looking to consolidate power, trying to woo the other into their pocket, despite that both viewed themselves as the dominant partner. And where Kashi was short and stocky as a fine example of middle age, Usa was older, taller, and slender. In the old system, they might have been considered daimyo — feudal Keadean territorial lords within the Shogunate — of the middle class. In the post-plague world, even Toanaga’s lower-class origin had them all on equal footing.

Lord Ishikanari, who sat dangerously close to the head of the table, and thus the Shogun’s seat, was one of the old exceptions that refused to acknowledge the shift in power dynamics. He managed to cling to his keep throughout the tumult, but at the cost of losing much of his territory to the pirates and outlying towns purged of life by the plague. A great lord that was no longer great. If not for his attitude, Toranaga might have felt sorry for him.

A few more faces filtered in and took seats as they liked at the table, with plenty of room to spare between them. As movement gave way to idle chat and bored perusal of old documents left derelict on the table’s surface, Ishika tapped his stone seal loudly on the dark reddish wood.

“I believe we are all here, so we should begin the day’s proceedings…”

“Hold a seat for me!” came a rude interruption from the door. While some turned their heads, Toranaga recognized the voice instantly, and he allowed himself a quiet, growled sigh as Ryo’urinaga strode boldly up the length of the room. He managed to keep his expression neutral when she chose a seat directly across from him. “I hope I am not too late,” Ryo’uri chuckled, staring down the male specimen across from her. “Good morning, Tora.”

“Cousin,” he replied curtly but politely. He had not expected her presence at all. That she arrived in battle-scarred armor rather than normal clothing was yet another of her traditionally bold statements.

Ishika huffed. “This is the Council of Elders. If you are going to childishly saunter in late, then perhaps you should return to your playpen in the north.”

“I will inform the Sardinian raiders of your displeasure.” She flashed a snide grin, her bow to the old man somehow just as cheeky. Toranaga managed to hide his grin. “I would not wish to postpone your politicking.”

Another huff, more growl this time, rattled in Ishikanari’s throat. “We are here to discuss just that. The Sardinians are mounting an invasion, and we must organize a proper army to face this threat.”

“And how do you know this?” Lady Usajiko crooned. While not socially equal, her age gave her room to speak to the former great lord with a measure of indignity. “Lady Naga’s report had the humans attacking from the west and in the north. You are in the eastern center of Tairiku.”

“Lord Naga,” Ryo’uri corrected.

“My dear, Lord Naga is seated across from you.”

“And yet he is wearing formal dress whereas I am attired for war.” Her eyes scanned the room, the looks cast her way all looking fairly offended at the quip. “All of you are, in fact.”

“My cousin may be called what she wishes,” Toranaga said with a force that, for its even tone, showed his disdain for the wasted time. “The Sardinian threat is still real, whether it is these raids or an invasion as Lord Nari suggests.”

“Precisely,” Ishikanari intoned. Several other former-greats looked at him promisingly from further down. “The best way to do this will be to centralize our power base here in Shihon and begin the reconstitution of our army.”

“Agreed!” one of his supporters shouted along with other noises and nods of approval.

“We would only be throwing away lives that we cannot afford to lose.” Toranaga’s reply caught many of the old guard aback.

Kashigipu smiled from his seat by Lady Jiko, nodding appreciatively.

“You would prefer to let the Selenians handle them for us?” Lord Tomariko was one of the old guard, despite his younger age. He had the slim athletic frame of a soldier though, and the thirst for a fight to go with it. Coupled with his status as ruler of the Riko domain, an old and great family, he was rather more brash than his counterparts. And his words were quite the deliberate snipe.

“Dajorrans,” Toranaga corrected. “And while some of you may have forgotten, I have not. Once our planet’s situation is stabilized, we will be rejoining the Confederacy, being Dajorrans ourselves.”

Ishikanari listened attentively, tempered with a cold scrutiny. “Lord Naga is right in this. We are Dajorrans, and we must act as such. However, our current disunity prevents us from moving forward as one body.”

“One ruler, more like,” Ryo’uri muttered so quietly that only Toranaga heard her. They exchanged a knowing glance, the latter’s conveying a need for caution.

While the powerbase of each lord was vastly reduced, the former-greats still collectively had a large population and cache of resources compared to the multitude of lesser nobles. A coalition of even half of the lower families would still be on rather tentative footing against the handful of great houses. Toranaga knew it. So did Ryo’uri, he hoped. Some of the others were still blinded by their newfound social equality and couldn’t see the wall in front of their eyes. The one thing they did recognize though was Lord Nari’s intent. He wanted to fill the seat of Hitoshi Feng, the former Shogun that was lost to the plague, along with his family.

Kashigipu leaned forward in his seat. “Lord Toranaga, perhaps you could expand on your thoughts for us. I would like to hear more.”

“Coward,” Lord Riko hissed a little too loudly. Tora and Kashigi both had the good grace to ignore him.

“We are scattered and lack infrastructure to move our own forces, much less supply them. Let the Dajorran forces handle the fighting while we rebuild our grav-rails and industry. Focus on a strategy of espionage to know our enemy’s movements so we can react and concentrate. It also simplifies things for the Dajorrans to supply reinforcements.”

“And they are quite the valuable assets in battle,” Ryo’uri added with a knowing grin. “I am for this resolution.”

Lord Nari stiffened. “We must establish the details before bringing the matter to a vote…”

One of the former-greats bowed. “All due respect, the details can be sorted after.” He nodded to Toranaga. “I second the motion to move to a vote, and cast my support.”

There was little arguing over the validity of a council vote from there. Four against and nine supported, with twelve abstentions by absence, the resolution passed far better than Toranaga could have hoped. Much of the rest of the meeting went as expected, conducting and coordinating the regular drudgery of what remained of the Keadean part of the world. A committee was formed to finalize the details of the defense strategy, which would be discussed and approved by the next month. Toranaga knew it would pass. It had to, or else all of his work could fall apart.

Ryo’uri caught him at the plaza outside the Kyuden gates as they broke session for the day. “A bold move, cousin.”

“No more than anything that came out of your mouth today. Your parents would be appalled to have seen your behavior.”

“And yet they are dead, and I am lord of my own lands.” The words put pause to the male Keadean’s stride, no less by how she stared at him with a devious grin. “Lands that you need to support you, given that mine is the bulwark against these current raids.”

“Until the Sardinians change targets.”

“And you will need information and experienced soldiers.” She stepped closer to drop her volume. “I know what you’re planning, cousin. I merely want to voice my support, so long as he would remember those that supported him when the need arose.”

Toranaga sighed, turning his gaze over Shihon and appreciating the glittering lustre that he saw in its fanciful architecture, scrubbed clean of the smoke and blood that had still lingered on his first visit back to the capital. Reminders that not long ago, the world had been a much different and more violent place.

“I will keep this in mind.” He gave his cousin a curt bow of his head, whispering from against his shoulder as Kashi and Usa approached from behind. “Use caution, Ryo’uri. The difference of friend and foe are not always so easily discerned.”

Eldar, Dajorra System

It had been a long time since he had seen Aroi’hon.

The city had once been a bustling transport hub and economic powerhouse on Eldar. Set south and east of the Sabaku desert and the planetary capital, the city controlled one of the major trade routes into the desert and the sand-bound city that was the seat of Eldar’s government and power. As the saying went, all roads ran back to Shihon, and the seat of the Shogun.

Pashtal remembered just how it had looked when he had first seen it, back before the plague. The great open causeways and near-constant stream of mag-rail trains ferrying people and cargo alike. The city beyond, a rising expanse set against the forest-covered mountains, with greenery only broken by the foot paths and gondolas that led to the remote temples and shrines on the steep slope. The spires of the business district and shining windows of the apartments juxtaposed sharply with the agrarian swathes only a short mag-ride away. He could still remember the din of the streets, and the vibrant, happy multitude of lives that had once crowded within. It had been glorious. Beautiful.

Now it was dead.

His small engineering team was approaching the city from the remains of the southern highway: a long stretch of wheel-tracked dirt and mud that was only occasionally dotted with poorly-maintained pavement. Long-burnt wrecks dotted the road, building to a massive gridlock just outside the tight urban sprawl. The remnants of the viral carnage that had consumed the city, consumed the planet. A brisk, biting breeze washed over them as they marched on, muffling their subdued attempts at chatter. The other Keadean workers, normally politely talkative, were now notably silent. The rumors of other travelers passing through…

Pashtal gazed up at what had once been a jewel of the Shogunate, however minor. The skyscrapers were crumbling, overgrown with browning ivy, with various grasses and shrubs snaking up from cracks in the pavement. Windows and decorative colonnades were broken, the skyscrapers devoid of their once shining luster, skeletons of their former selves. The Death Walker plague had turned Aroi’hon into a silent tomb. The thousands that escaped had spread the plague into the far reaches of the Shogunate. The millions that were trapped had simply ripped themselves apart within the walls. Or, so the local rumors that survived told it. None of them had dared venture back.

”You really never went back? Not once?” Debbid, a Selenian of the AAF’s corps of engineers, questioned Tiryuna, one of the other Keadeans. His mastery of their language had grown rusty over the years, but it had come back in broken fits.

The hydroelectrician shook her head, an uncomfortable hiss rising in the back of her throat. ”No. Never. Not until now. Rebuilding has been slow.” Her eyes went up to the cityscape, wary. “And there are some places that we tread only carefully.”

Debbid nodded slowly, turning back to look upon the broken skyline, noting Pashtal’s steady gaze on their conversation before likewise turning his attention toward their goal. His team’s primary objective was to search the main infrastructure centers, uncover anything they could about the spread of the plague; determine what machinery was salvageable and what would need replacing; maybe even find someone still living there. Possibly a fool’s errand, but the planet wouldn’t rebuild itself.

“We should move up to the main hub,” Captain Debbid said. If nothing else, Pashtal knew he would make a good resource liaison, though he appreciated some of the tactful oversight. “Keep a careful watch; not keen on catching any welcoming gifts from pirates we haven’t found yet.” That elicited several hisses of discomfort from the native workers, who paused in their tracks.

“Something doesn’t smell right,” Tiryuna stated, a waver in her rasping voice. “Respectfully, Captain. Pashtal. I don’t think we should go in there.”*

Debbid frowned, thick, golden brows furrowing as he started to object. Then, he stopped, noting the apprehension in some of the others, wondering if it had to do with violating something sacred? Between the mass of deaths and the shrines overlooking the valley, he could respect their spiritual apprehension. Plus, if their stories were to be believed…people disappeared, journeying through this city. They stepped into the abandoned streets and never stepped out.

Best to have some people on the outside. Just in case.

He looked to Pashtal who, for his silence, was the de facto leader. When the Keadean nodded toward the city, Debbid knew enough of Keadean body language to get the hint. “…Right. Remain on watch outside the walls. If you see anything bad, or we don’t come back soon, report back to Shihon.” He offered Tiryuna a lighthearted salute before nodding to the rest of the hesitant portion of the party and continued the march into the city, reduced by only a handful of their dozen-some-odd number.

A similar chill wind as before washed up the long length of the jungle-flanked highway, piercing Tiryuna to the bone as she watched the others depart, making their way into the hitherto lost city. She wished that she could have warned them. Told them, in a way that they would have believed. Something that translated the taste of fear into words; for her own sake as well as theirs. Even their regular check-ins over the comms could not put a nagging feeling in her mind at ease.

Hours passed and night started to encroach on the small group waiting just outside the city.

And, in the distance, the screaming started.

Sufre, Aifreann Continent
Eldar

Dawn was just cresting the horizon, visible from the parapets of the starport-turned-Fort Claybake over the primarily squat buildings of the Sardinian capital of Sufre. A mix of Galerian soldiers from the 6th Recon and 11th “Eldar Rangers” Special Forces companies walked in almost relaxed quiet among the windows and along the rooftop. Everything was so peaceful that it made more than a few of the soldiers’ hair stand on end.

Even in Sufre, it was never this quiet.

The first bomb seemed less to explode than to lift soil, street, and the starport wall up in a reddish-brown bubble that finally reached critical mass, sending anything that hadn’t fallen aside upward in a cloud of detritus and a colossal noise. Of course, what comes up must go down, and the amalgam of material cascaded back to ground in a heap. Were it not for the protrusions of guns and the occasional limb or piece of armor, one might not have even thought that there were people buried underneath. With ears still ringing, muffled shouts could be heard along the length of the other undamaged portions of the starport superstructure.

Through the red-brown haze, the nearest soldier, just barely righted onto his feet by a compatriot, nearly missed seeing the fleeting shapes dashing into the dust cloud from across the street.

“It’s an attack!” he shouted through a coughing fit. “They’re going for the breach!”

With only the muzzle flash of the Sardinian slugthrowers to give them away visually, it was hard to tell who shot at who first. Galerian blasters flashed energized gas into the cloud in fits and spurts, but not nearly enough to stop the assault through the dwindling dust. As soldiers stumbled out from various doors, many half-asleep and in various forms of pajamas, they were met with a dozen Sardinians mounting the lip of the crater caused by the explosion. And they were met with a furious barrage of gunfire. Some were able to escape back into their quarters with no more than injury; others were not so fortunate.

The insurgents continued forward, making a clear line for the LAAT/i gunships parked on the landing pads. But the further they moved in, the more they exposed themselves on all sides. And even with their capable numbers, they couldn’t cover every direction at once.

Their tactical pace became a sprint. And one by one, they started to fall.

This counterfire from the Galerians did not go uncontested. Slugthrowers cracked among the Sardinian ranks just as much as the blasters screamed into theirs. Other groups still outside the walls also began their own attacks at other points in the perimeter; demonstrations meant to distract more than definitively break the soldier’s lines. They just needed to buy time for the assault group to reach the gunships. However, that didn’t mean they couldn’t cause more serious damage.

Rockets launched from the shoulders of scattered insurgents flew from hidden positions in alleyways, slamming into the starport’s superstructure and blowing large gaps into its red clay surface. As each grueling moment passed though, more of the soldiers were brought into the action, and the return fire grew in both accuracy and volume. More and more insurgents were taken down, or forced to take cover. Some, not expecting such stiff resistance, even started to make a run for it. Those inside the compound had no such choice though. It was succeed, or die in the attempt.

Just as with the dust cloud from the explosion though, staring too hard at what was in front of them could easily cloud the vision, and those in front didn’t notice those in the rear going down. Not until those in front started to drop in quick succession did they look around to realize that there were only a handful left.

The charge slowed. Halted. They took cover behind the bodies of their fallen for lack of anything else in the open expanse. The nearest was hardly a dozen meters away from a gunship, but it was the deadliest distance that could possibly be crossed. Worse, the soldiers on top of the structures had no such issues as those on the ground in hitting the prone Sardinians.

The Galerians stopped shooting, demanding a surrender. The insurgents responded with gunfire. In moments, there were no more living insurgents within the walls of Fort Claybake.

But the damage had been done. Among the Galerian soldiers, dozens were dead or wounded. The gunship crews ran to their ships to start patrolling for any more attacks, prevent capture, and to evacuate any that could still be saved to a hospital.

A message went out, back to the House’s terminals on Selen. The attack was over. For now.

But there would certainly be more. And many wondered: how did they get so much fighting power into the Kasha’s own domain?