I shall never leave an enemy for dead.
I shall ensure he is so with several rounds of ammunition..
HMS Excalibur - Taïrian Space
Lauren stood at the CIC table, reading the data reports scrawling across the repeater displays around her, her hands clasped behind her back, feeling uncomfortable in the dress uniform, knowing what it meant to be wearing it on that day.
Edward had donned his, fumbling frustratedly with the tie, turning it first one way, then the other, eventually succeeding in tying a floppy bow out of the thing. "Help?" he asked, looking up at Lauren.
Red-eyed and exhausted, her hand was resting on the Polian Kill'a'ma'jig on her belt sash, turning to undo the mess the Immortal Emperor had made out of his tie, stopping mid-swing looking into his pale blue eyes.
"You could just snap your fingers and you'd be done," she said quietly, a note of suspicion in her voice.
Edward shrugged. "I could do a lot of things like that, but I like it when you help me," he smiled at her, sensing how upset she was, trying to let her know in his own small way that he was there for her.
She pulled him tight in against her and shook her head a little, letting him go again. "Don't die again," she said warningly.
"Ditto," Edward responded, glancing around himself at the bridge, "You know the afterlife isn't quite like the brochure..."
"You were expecting wings and a harp?" Lauren leaned back, smiling a little, a smile that only Edward could bring to her face.
"No," Edward replied looking scandalized, "I want my little horns and pitchfork!" he gestured dramatically, "I have this prime hot rock all picked out, great view over the lava lakes..."
"I thought you'd be going to work in the HR department," Lauren quipped, "Recruitment services." She nodded back to the shattered doors to Darien's stateroom where the Skipper could be seen moving too and fro getting ready.
"You'd at least think I'd get a toaster oven for that one," Edward sighed plopping down onto one of the stools and twitching the ends of his tie, "You gonna help me with this, or do I have to pop myself to the nearest Denver fashion stores and get some clerk to dress me?"
Lauren leaned in and tied the uniform tie, setting Edward's collar just right as she straightened the Lieutenants' bars on it. "You really don't have to wear a uniform, you're the big I.E."
"The crown cramps my style," Edward responded, looking up through the dark bangs of his hair that had fallen back across his eye rebelliously, hiding half his face, giving him such an innocent countenance. "Besides, Ashley was one of mine, I should wear the uniform, it's...right."
Masconi marched out of one of the elevators, the Kardiac uniform with its wrap around jacket pulled tight and golden lion standing stark against the sea of red on the bridge of the Excalibur. She looked hesitantly towards the doors to Darien's stateroom, before she decided to wait in the CIC.
There was a moment's tension between the two women, Masconi standing rigid beside one of the plotting boards, blaming Lauren's recklessness for the loss. Lauren, for her part, refused to meet Masconi's eyes, turning back to the CIC table and shuffling through papers, wishing she was elsewhere.
Edward looked between them, and sighed, "Coffee?" He gestured at the table laden with a fine chrome coffee set, the smells of rich dark roast tickling the senses.
Masconi blinked, "That wasn't there just a..."
Edward shrugged, "There's a surprised governor on Centauri who is no doubt wondering where his breakfast just vanished to, but he could stand to loose a few pounds..."
His attempt to break the tension worked, as Masconi sighed and helped herself to a cup of coffee, poking at one of the freshly baked croissants, "The arrangements are nearly done," she said looking back towards Darien's stateroom a moment.
"He's getting ready," Edward said tightly swiping a Danish and tugging it apart, "He's a bit distracted, but I think he's just..."
"Him being him," Masconi nodded, "Is Shale up and about yet?"
Lauren nodded her head, looking up at the coffee set sadly, before shaking her head, "Yes, he wasn't seriously hurt, a few bruises, and a sharp knock to his pride. He was lucky..."
Masconi pursed her lips tossing the plate back down to the CIC table. "No, he was stupid. You were stupid. And I was stupid for not putting a stop to it sooner."
"Hey!" Edward stood up, holding up his hands, "Not this morning!"
Both of them turned to the young Prince who was glaring at both of them suddenly, realization sinking in as they both simmered, Masconi recovering her croissant, the uncomfortable silence returned oppressively.
* * *
"No, smaller," Darien replied coming out of his bedroom, taking a second to do up the immaculate, collarless white shirt.
Commander Durnham stood beside the floating display. "I fail to see the point in this exercise. Perhaps if you simply gave me the precise measurements I would be able to..."
"I don't know the precise measurements," Darien mused, sitting down behind his desk with the pair of black riding boots, pointing his toes as he tried to pull them on. Naturally, they didn't seem to fit and he tugged on them to no avail.
"This is going to make it difficult to formulate a precise blueprint for what you need," Kit responded, pausing as he noted Darien's difficulty, "Perhaps if you pointed your toes, my lord."
"I am," Darien replied exasperatedly, uttering a small curse as he tapped the boot, "I thought these were supposed to be my size?"
"Your wardrobe remains an enigma to me," Commander Durnham replied, activating one of his subroutines as he shifted into his full dress uniform, sweeping down the fine lines of the heavy frock coat overtop of a pristine shirt.
"Yes well, unlike you...and maybe Matty, I still have to put things on the hard way." He pointed to the rotating diagram. "Piece nine, invert it."
"Affirmative, sir," Commander Durnham complied, changing the image.
Darien studied it a second, shaking his head, "Restore it, it's supposed to be the other way..." he bit his lip and stared again, not quite certain. Without a physical model before him, he just wasn't sure. That meant that he'd have to make one...
"Sir?" Lieutenant Galadriel looked through the ruined doors. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes from where she hadn't slept, not since the Rock of Braal. Not that Darien could blame her; she had been close to both Firlotte and Hobbes.
Darien's foot finally slid into the boot, and he stood straightening out the trousers, pulling the creamy white tunic on over his shoulders and doing up the unadorned white uniform. Clipping the hooks of the collar, and he folded the red blood patch, hooking it closed as he straightened the Knight's Cross at his throat.
Galadriel stood before him a moment, looking down at the two insignia on the table before him. Reaching down, she took them. "Tradition, sir," she said motioning to the bridge.
Darien nodded his head, deferring to the Kardiac-trained officer on matters of military protocol and tradition. He led the way out onto the bridge, using his finger to ease the tight collar a little.
Edward spotted him first, standing up as the other officers gathered around the impromptu breakfast looked at Darien as he marched forward, securing Ra's weapon to his belt and adjusting the cuffs of his uniform.
Silence settled on them as they stared at the particular uniform that was so out of place in that age.
"What?" Darien asked after a moment.
Galadriel open her hand and extended the pair of warlord's insignia to Edward, who scooped one of them into his hand. He nodded to her as the Prince raised himself onto tip toes attaching one to the right side of Darien's collar, Galadriel mirroring it on the other. Decorating the first Imperial warlord in three hundred years.
"Walker's going to hit the roof," Darien responded.
"This isn't a democracy," Edward murmured back at him, "This is my Empire, you are my Warlord, and the Empire needs to see a symbol, one that will shake the very foundation of the Hegemony. And topple Rikard."
Darien smiled uneasily. "We have a funeral to attend," he said coughing to clear his throat and slipping his glasses on, motioning to the elevators.
"The Propylons are ready and charged," Commander Durnham said, standing with them as the elevator descended to the lower decks. Darien nodded as he observed the Fida'i honour guard forming up around the command crew of the Excalibur.
"You have command," Darien replied to the Hologram. "Maintain orbital picket duty until we return."
"Yes, Warlord Taine." Kit responded with a crisp salute.
* * *
The honoured dead.
They appeared on the sun drenched, upper platform of the mountain city. The sun slipped lower on the horizon as it spilled red gold light across the sky, bathing the mountains in stark contrasts of light, colour and texture.
The Taïrians knew and honoured their dead, understanding the reverence shown to a fallen brother. And when Darien had asked, to use one of their sacred spots to honour their own fallen brothers, the Taïrians had been all too happy to oblige.
The Matriarch stood in her ceremonial garb, woven reeds tied with beads that clicked as she stood before the high altar. The cool wind swept past her and stirred her fur as the wizened creature stood before the eighteen caskets, decked mostly in Karin flags, except for one lone VonGrippen flag right at the front.
The seven member, Marine honour guard formed into two ranks, their pulse rifles at their shoulders as they marched into position. A couple of Taïrian drummers began to play he 'ruffles and flourishes' to announce the arrival of the Warlord. The single Taïrian horn blew out the flourishes four times, signifying the highest honour for Taine's standing, a fact that wasn't lost on the newly minted master of war.
A roar overhead caused all eyes to turn their head upwards as a flight of F-150 fighters from the Ark-Royal's flight deck swept low through the mountain passes, the third plane in the formation pulling up and leaving the formation, signifying the loss of a comrade in arms, and a slight smile decorated his lips as he looked across at Wing Commander Masconi.
He hadn't expected the gesture, and appreciated that Masconi had seen fit to include it. She remained grim-faced, tilting her eyes to him and inclining her head a fraction, knowing that he caught her sentiment.
Marines marched towards the caskets, taking and securing the flags under signals from the NCOIC, stretching out the flags atop the caskets, ensuring they were level and centred over the caskets. The NCOIC inspected each of the caskets in turn, turning his eyes up to the Taïrian Matriarch, backing away to permit her to begin the service.
Darien stood while she offered a Taïrian prayer, thankful that he had chosen Taïr, of all worlds, to stand there and bury another friend. There was no talk of God, no reference to the here-after, only an honouring of the bravery, the commitment and the soul of the one who had laid down his life in service to the Empire.
It was simple, the way he wanted it. And beside him, he felt Edward's hand slip into his own, the wind rising again to stir that silken dark hair as the crew of the HMS Excalibur, Flagship and Pride of the Empire, buried its honoured dead.
The ceremony would conclude in a three-volley salute, and the folding of the flag, while the lone Taïrian played the final call upon the horn, sounding out those long and hollow notes that echoed through the mountains, leaving a single guard, alone, to stand vigil over the bodies until they were interred into the ground.
He accepted the lone VonGrippen flag that was passed to him. Head of his house made him the guardian of the flag until it could be given to Firlotte's next of kin, and Darien knew that there was only one person who could rightly receive the flag, and the symbolism it represented.
As the last note trailed off and they turned to leave, the Imperial Warlord saluted in old Imperial fashion before the graves, as behind him the men and women who served with him, fought beside him and bled at his command mirrored his gesture, saying one last goodbye to their fallen brothers and sisters.
* * *
The thick smell of incense tickled his nose as he walked behind her, down the broad sandstone steps, worn smooth by the passage of feet over millennia. His ears heard the ancient rustling of her woven skirts beneath the heavy black and green great coat, the clicking of beads as her simple hand-crafted jewellery jostled with each purposeful step.
They passed hundreds of alcoves, each set with sarcophagi, delicately painted by fingers, worked into tribal likenesses of the occupants. So many bearing the war stripes, and yet more bearing patterns of wise ones, scholars and artisans.
The hallowed hall of the honoured dead.
After the funeral had been completed, the title Honoured Dead held a hollow ring to him. Firlotte had been a good crewman; Hobbes had been one hell of a Marine. But death happened, he had to remain hardened to it. People died around him, it was war.
She led him down, across the broad carved chamber, worked with carvings more ancient than the Empire, details of long-disused Taïrian deities, their religion no more but never forgotten by the race who never abandoned the past.
He passed stone daises where bodies where undergoing the enshrining, Taïrian priestesses performing ancient rituals that would forever entomb the dead and elevate them to their rightful place of worship by those who lived.
It was a shock as Darien realized that the Taïrians were their own gods. Their bodies were true temples of the spirit, revered by those around them. There was no place for the beings who adorned the ceiling above him, and their own followers had supplanted the deities.
The Matriarch was watching him with interest, her ears drooping low as she studied him a long while, letting the lesson of what she was showing him sink in. She turned, guiding him out across a carved bridge across darkness to a sandstone column that supported a pagoda of sorts, water running from somewhere down around the small structure, an unseen wind stirring rough banners painted with the sigils and prayers of a long forgotten time.
She sat at the far side of a low table upon soft cushions, gesturing for him to do the same, adjusting her skirts and slipping the Taïrian greatcoat off of her shoulders as she watched him again.
Darien had avoided any pomp or pageantry. He still wore the white dress uniform, armed with the Polian weapon, but instead of returning to his ship he had chosen to accompany the Matriarch, seeking her wisdom. James, insistent as ever, had refused to allow him to go alone, and was no doubt skulking around the shadows somewhere. Judging from the Matriarch's slight smile she knew exactly where James was. Very little got past her.
"The Liberator is troubled," she murmured, reaching out for a teapot that was bubbling happily on a small propane burner. Her old hands removed the lid. Selecting leaves from the carefully arranged bowls, she sprinkled them inside, mixing just the right blend for her guest.
"I am always troubled," Darien said, resting his hands on his knees as he sat cross-legged on the cushion, "You're the wisest being I know..."
"No, I am merely the oldest being you know," she laughed lightly, "No, with regrets, the wisest beings reside currently amidst our enemies."
"The Polians," Darien said, watching her close the lid of the teapot.
"Yes," she remarked, settling back again, the frail old creature giving him a fond look, "They have many of the answers you seem to be seeking."
"I don't think they will be forthcoming with those answers," Darien replied tiredly.
"Has the Liberator of Taïr become a weapon of war?" her dark eyes sparkled at him, reading the expressions on his face, the scars on his cheek, the tremor in his hand and the warlord's insignia on his collar.
"I..." he paused thoughtfully, "I at times feel that way."
The Matriarch adjusted the burner, selecting two mismatched cups to which she added something that resembled milk for him, sprinkling some other leaves inside the cup as she poured. "It was not your battle prowess that won we Taïrians our freedom, it was your example."
Darien nodded mutely, accepting the cup, sniffing the dark amber liquid inside and tasting it, feeling immediately a warm sensation that followed the liquid down through his systems. It was refreshing, easing stiff muscles.
She nodded her muzzle at him. "I have found that, for you, your heart is a far stronger influence than perhaps your reasoning."
"You're saying I'm stupid," Darien replied, looking up from the cup.
"No," she said at length, "Merely passionate in your convictions. You bravely entered an Amsus-occupied world to bear back to us one of our honoured dead. It was that example that showed us that the Amsus had only beaten us by our surrendering our will to fight them. If you were willing to fight them for us, how could we not follow you?"
Darien cradled his teacup, staring distantly. "I am afraid of what I might have to become in order to win..."
"Do you have to win?" the Matriarch asked, "You are a man, a great leader of men. But you need not become a weapon to win a battle. Order your companion to step out of the shadows."
Darien looked up. "Oh, he seldom obeys me..."
"No, there is a difference between serving you and obedience," the Matriarch smiled as she poured a third cup and held it toward the right of the pavilion. "Your master is safe here, and the tea is quite good."
James emerged from around one of the columns, looking perplexed at having been spotted so easily. He looked uneasily at Darien as he folded to his haunches, accepting the teacup awkwardly.
"This man is a weapon," the Matriarch said with a slight incline of her ancient head, "He is a blade with a proud and keen edge, razor-sharp in your hands. You just need to be willing to wield him and the others like him."
Darien shrugged. "I have many weapons at my disposal, but I am not a killer..."
"Fear is more than a weapon of death," the Matriarch said sagely, "Too many view fear with the sense that it is wrong, a tool of evil. But many do not realize that it is fear that keeps them alive, it is fear that teaches them their limitations, and urges them to caution. Mayhap you should teach the Amsus to fear the shadows, and honour those who are willing to die in your name by granting them the chance to do so?"
"I don't want to throw lives away..." Darien said, shifting uncomfortably.
"You must stop thinking like Darien Taine the Inspector, and think as Darien Taine the Highlord. Brutality will never be your path. You do not kill senselessly, but you must permit those who are willing to sacrifice a chance to do so." She nodded to James. "Use your blades, and make their lives count. They are trained to die. Do not fetter them with your sensibilities."
Darien drew pensive, staring into his tea, watching the liquid swirl and settle. "I have far greater weapons... weapons of such terrible destruction that they can destroy worlds."
"Beings have sought such weapons since the dawn of time," the Matriarch said at length, "Do you feel that such a weapon would solve your goals?"
"It would be a deterrent..." Darien said softly.
"A weapon's sole purpose is to be used," she said, calmly refilling his cup, "And so you must ask yourself, are you prepared to cross the line to use this weapon when you have to? Can you destroy an entire world? Would the destruction of a single world accomplish what you must accomplish? It is unlikely; that kind of unbridled destruction serves only the insane, and to the rest of us, those of us unwilling or reluctant to bring such power to bear, a weapon of mass destruction becomes little more than a symbol of our desperation. This weapon will not stop the Amsus fleets; it will only serve to enrage them. Destruction is not your goal, unless you are willing to destroy every last Amsus there is; your goal is freedom, remember that when you choose which weapons you must use. Ask your assassin beside you, which weapon suits him best, a blade or a pulse rifle?"
James flicked his wrist and drew his black-coated knife. He twirled it back into its sheath a second or two later.
"I will," Darien nodded.
"And what of your mate?" the Matriarch inquired, "I can smell his scent upon you. He troubles you as well."
"He too has changed," Darien said at length, "I am worried that he is no longer the man I thought he was. It is complicated..."
"Love does not change. He may be lost, but it will be that love which will guide him back to you." The Matriarch stood, placing her cup aside and turning off the burner. "You must remain firm in your love for him."
"He asked for me to convey you back to Karin. He urges us to hurry." Darien said, standing.
"Then I must prepare for this journey. If Prince Edward commands for the Highlord council to journey to Karin, then we must do so." She gathered up her greatcoat. "I sense you two are far from one another, but worry not Liberator, your mate will find his way back to you. He is still a pup and you only a little older, and pups oft need to get lost in order to understand the importance of the familiar."