The Gorean are more than they seem, an enemy not to be underestimated. His Watchful Eye is literally everywhere. The intelligence network he has built is second to none.
It had been on Earth long before the Empire existed. He watched us through our darkest times, and helped me in my darkest hour.
We are like two brothers caught on opposite sides of a war...
His words, not mine.
Main Hall - Imperial Senate building - Karin City
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
There was a thick scent of incense in the air, drifting across the darkened main hall. Like a shadow, she circled the upper gallery, the rustling of her silvery white scales scratching over the stone and masonry of the old building. Her claws flexing as she made her fourth and final circuit of the chamber, the revenant ritual almost complete.
The staff, a long shard of white metal capped with a raw piece of crystal, was lit with its own inner light, shining off the runes carved into her elongated body. Her broad ears, drooped under the weight of the heavy, carved bone earrings that jangled as she moved. They sounded like wind chimes, making every step she took almost musical.
She ceased her final circuit as she sensed his approach, curling the staff close to her body as she rose on her haunches, her long neck tilting to and fro as her forked tongue tasted the air.
"Petrov," she called in a voice that creaked like stone, "His Watchful Eye shouldn't see some things."
The shadows shifted, and a deep red eye, blood shot with yellow cracks, shone out of the darkness. "My lady knows that I know all there is to know."
She leaned against the staff, her lips curling as. "Then you know that this is a hallowed place, and that I hold dominion here."
"I seek no dominion over the stone priestess." The blood red eye remained focused upon her. "I have come to claim the rotting corpse."
Her head turned to the centre of the main hall, where the body lay, lit by flickering candles maintained by her Lesser Gorean attendants who, by virtue of her service, remained silently with their heads bowed waiting for her next command. She knew who was on the altar, she could taste the familiar scent about him, and she could sense the presence about it.
"He is a god, and above your... ambitions," she responded, her tone even, commanding. "Besides, you should know that your reach cannot extend into the afterlife."
His words were like iron. "It is his anchor, if I sever it..."
She shifted, flexing her boned hood, her scales rippling as she fluffed herself up. The intricate rune pattern on her body was as old as time itself, dating from an age when the carving ritual had been popular amongst those entering the priesthood. It was a reminder of her ancient status, and her knowledge over matters of the soul.
"These things, the ship that will not die and his ascendance, they are all signs and portents that the Peligians seek to reclaim their birthright," she circled towards him, "and not even you have a right to deny it to them. You refused to listen to my warnings, you allowed Sal-zÿr to draw us into this war, and you must know that you are on the wrong side of it." She pointed a clawed hand towards the corpse. "Fighting him will accomplish nothing, and serve to bring only ruin down upon our broods."
"I know enough about these matters," Petrov rumbled angrily, "I know that all I must do is sever him from this realm and he will drift for an eternity, pulled forth into the beyond. He will no longer care about anything here, and we will be free to pursue the restoration of order... the Gorean order!"
"Rikard sought order," she reminded calmly, "and where is he now?"
"Burning in the fires of his own misery," Petrov replied, amusement in his voice, "but then, in time, even he will be cast asunder." His eye rotated to stare back at her. "Lady Melesande, will you tell me what your visions see?"
"Why?" she asked, moving the staff to her other hand. "You only ignore my counsel. I would have a better time screaming into a howling wind."
"Now is not the time for your petulance," Petrov warned. "Karin has fallen, and soon the Apilon Rift. But while the cursed ship remains in this sector I feel uneasy about this victory. Why doesn't this Taine simply depart? Pax would have gone by now, dealt me some kind of devastating blow and sent the Great Armada reeling."
Melesande's hood slid back against her body, as her runic patterns danced. "You fear this Excalibur?"
"There are human legends of men clad in iron slaying great lizards with weapons they call swords, Excalibur is the greatest of these in those legends. Call it an instinctive worry of mine."
Melesande laughed, her head swaying from side to side as her jaw clenched, the bone earrings tinkling musically. "I see your sense of humour hasn't diminished. But yes, you have every reason to fear the Excalibur, for it is a weapon that you cannot destroy. Each time you reft it from Pax, he would re-forge it and return stronger. Xier won many battles, and yet that sword eluded his grasp, and eventually Pax drove it into his heart and we lost the Rift." She swayed hypnotically. "The Excalibur will survive your fury and Sal-zÿr will die here by Edward's hand, but I know that the Rift is yours."
"And him?" Petrov asked, his eye rotating back to the body upon the dais.
"He is locked within the Peligian Heresy," Melesande replied, "and as long as his anchor exists, he will remain here, battling you. If the Gorean continue to battle Taine and the Imperials, the dark one will reach Peligia and destroy us all."
"I do not fear Z'ræl," Petrov replied, "I have lived far longer than his shadow has tainted this..."
Her staff rang upon the flagstones. "You would do well to fear him, his evil is merely the latest manifestation of a darkness that plagues us all. It felled the mighty Peligians, it toppled the Polian's, and has the capacity to burn even your arrogance. Fear is merely survival; listen to it." She swept closer to him. "Embrace your fear and forge an alliance with the Pax..."
"An echo of a shadow," Petrov replied dismissively. "He is not the Pax. The Pax would never have allowed Karin to fall. He would never have permitted me to set one foot upon this world."
"You are here because it is his will," Melesande turned her head from him and looked meaningfully at the corpse. "Allow what is to come to pass, and when you have a chance, seize it. There are only five of us in the Rift, we are vulnerable. Before it is too late you must forge an alliance with the Pax."
"I will not be finessed by your manipulations," Petrov snarled.
"Then simply sit back and watch." Melesande swept back to her ritual over the body. "It is what you are good at," she called back over her shoulder. "Let Sal-zÿr carry out his will, and you will gain all you seek."
Petrov merely melted back into the shadows.
Karin Fortress - Karin City - Gorean Occupied Karin
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
"And so the watcher cometh." Sal-zÿr turned his head to look up at the crumbling, expansive stair case leading up to the fortress above.
The great creature uncoiled from his folds as he swept like a snake through the shattered vaults, climbing the stairs to where his visitor waited for him.
"You usually make your guests come to you, Sirrah," The old man greeted from the antechamber above, standing aside to allow Sal-zÿr to come out, walking beside him as they made their way through the lower chambers in the depths of the mountain fortress.
"None of my other guests are as important as you," Sal-zÿr answered, his eye hovering as he kept his head low, almost filling the entirety of the massive hall as he slipped along beside the much smaller, eccentric man.
"You honour me," his companion answered, keeping pace.
"In a friendship such as ours, honours are unnecessary," Sal-zÿr replied as they emerged into one of the lower halls, decorated with beautiful tapestries and bullet holes. It had seen its share of fighting, the latest of which had been during revolution against General Iver. Sal-zÿr swung out, un-hitching his body as his leathery wings flexed and his forelegs folded out from his body.
His guest waited patiently.
"Tell me," Sal-zÿr said as he stretched, moving now on his forelegs to look at the other, "Why the hat?"
"If you'd ever seen the rain's on Peligia, you would understand." The old man rested on his staff. "The hat is effective at keeping me dry. You find, after centuries of life, that aesthetics aren't as important as functionality."
"Ah, the Peligian," Sal-zÿr murmured. "How is that sodden hole?"
"Wet," the Peligian answered.
Sal-zÿr laughed. "I often forget that you have a sense of humour, you are often so indifferent."
"Little in this existence interests me anymore, sirrah," the Peligian said tiredly. "There are far greater mysteries out there than these, wars beyond your perception that rage endlessly. Take the war between the Golan and the Tillwani."
"Who?" Sal-zÿr frowned.
"Two microscopic strains of bacteria," the Peligian answered, "they have been fighting for millennia, spreading that war across the stars as other races bore them about via space travel."
"What's the point?" Sal-zÿr inquired.
"Exactly, sirrah," the Peligian answered, "their war is everything to the Golan and Tillwani. They are, of course, unaware that their shared battleground consists of the bodies of billions of humanoids. There are wars all around you, struggles on different levels of existence," he pointed up, "and if the bacteria are unaware of this war, what battles are you unaware of?"
Sal-zÿr looked perplexed for a moment, and then barked out a laugh. "What do you want today, old friend?"
"Time is stalking you, Sal-zÿr, and it hungers for your flesh," The Peligian stepped forward, his eyes bright. "The God Emperor of Man comes for you, are you prepared?"
"Why would you warn me of that?" Sal-zÿr asked, "You seek to provoke a conflict between the last disciple and the Emperor of Man? To what purpose? Why would you seek to involve yourself in the affairs of mere bacteria?"
"The war you brought here was your own doing." The Peligian turned. "I warned you against it, both as a friend and as what I have become. Karin is a crossroads, there are events unfolding here that will shape the next millennia of this galaxy. The conflict between you and the God Emperor of Man was inevitable once you arrived."
"Old friend, you are worried about me?" Sal-zÿr purred. "Sentimentality is so unlike you... you're too aloof for that, beyond such emotions. And if you are not worried about me, then it must be the Emperor of Man that you worry about. What is he to you?"
"Everything," the Peligian answered, his voice low. "make no more mistakes Sal-zÿr. His Watchful Eye is already considering abandoning you to your fate here. The blood that you have shed is..."
"Irrelevant, merely two infections fighting over a host," Sal-zÿr responded. "Stay out of my affairs, old man, there is nothing in them that concerns you. Now if you would prefer a game..."
The Peligian shook his head, his beads clicking together, "I must return to my home, I fear my solitude has been disturbed and affairs there require my attention. Be warned though, Sal-zÿr. You would be wise to fear the God Emperor of Man. He is more than capable of killing you if he allows himself to."
Sentinel Station - En-route to Earth - Amsus Occupied Territory
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
The dividers spun in his hands expertly, his aged brown eyes squinting as he double checked his findings, looking across the broad glass table in the commandant's office towards the recent reconnaissance reports collected by his advanced scouts. He was right, the Amsus could see him coming and they were reacting to his movements.
Field Marshal Riley scooped up a cup of coffee and sighed, chewing on his lip as he analyzed the gamble they were taking.
The Imperial fleet was running flat out, dead jumping as soon as they were able to. Any vessel unable to keep up was left behind to repair its jump drives. There was no time to recover stragglers. As soon as they had committed to the final attack run on the crown jewel of the Amsus Hegemony, they had no choice but to continue to their target. To delay would allow the Amsus forces a chance to regroup and fortify Earth. To attempt a retreat would allow the Amsus to fall upon them at will. And evacuation back through the Jump Nexus would cost them the entire core systems.
He had heard the situation back on Karin, communicating regularly with his assets buzzing the edge of the occupied zones, but there was nothing he could do without costing the Empire its only chance of capturing Earth. All information on Karin had been shared with his crews, the House Karin, VonGrippen, and Kardiac forces under him had collectively reacted badly to the news that the capital world of the new Imperium had fallen. He'd fended off three attempted mutinies from Karin elements seeking to return home and fight the Gorean.
Rubbing his grey temples he cursed, again, the fact that Darien had seen fit to dump the whole mess squarely in his lap. A VonGrippen commander of a fleet so strongly Karin born, he was holding on to a tenuous situation by his fingertips. Any other course of action was a disaster, and he knew that he was committed to it; he just had to hope that enough of those around him would understand.
Churchill cleared his throat from the open doorway. Riley rarely sealed himself away in the office, preferring to be readily accessible. At least that was what he told people. The truth was after the last assassination attempt from a group calling themselves the Macedonian Brotherhood, Riley was growing paranoid.
The name had something to do with Alexander the Great, and how the soldiers under him feared they would march forever after an impossible goal and never see their homes again. Someone trying to be clever, but it just served to piss Riley off because Earth was everyone's home in his opinion.
"Don't stand there," Riley motioned with his mug, "come look at this, the Ice Queen's making a move."
Churchill looked exhausted, they all were, but he crossed the office to look over the charts the Field Marshal had spread out, tracking on paper the movements of the Amsus armadas. He read the indications at a glance and looked over at Riley.
"She's playing it smart," he commented, noting that Sephradon, the current Amsus High Commander, had chosen to pull her forces back, shadowing the Imperial fleet rather than rushing desperately to head them off. She was choosing to allow Earth to stand upon its own defences and using her fleet to cut off the Imperial fleet's avenues of retreat.
"Yeah," Riley nodded, "too bad though. I could have used a bit more of her trademark overreaction. It tends to make things easier for us."
"Change in leadership, do you think?" Churchill answered. "Things have been quiet from High Command of late, maybe they grew tired of their new monarch and decided to do things textbook."
Riley pursed his lips, thinking, shaking his head after a pause. "Too deliberate. We're performing an unorthodox stratagem, the Amsus would struggle to decide what to do. This adaptation is too fast for them, so unless the Amsus have evolved intuition in the last two months, I'd say someone's pulling the strings, someone with the smarts to keep Queenie's temper tantrums intact."
"Rikard?" Churchill mused thoughtfully.
"Intel places him in the Orion Directorate," Riley answered, tapping his chin and beginning to pace, "being very public of late, and we still have..." He nodded up to the cluster of ships on a repeater display suspended over their heads that showed the Denver Security vessels and the Dar'shar fighters. "Rikard's manipulative but so far he hasn't made any effort to get directly involved in what we're doing. This is something new, and we're going to need intel on it."
Churchill shook his head. "We launch D-day in what, two weeks? How the hell are we going to collect intel?"
"Taine," Riley answered. "Prepare an Osterburg to breach the Gorean blockade on Karin, we need to get a message through. If Darien's managed to get the Propylons up and running then all the Osterburg's gotta do is relay him our planned co-ordinates for the next few days and he'll be able to establish a line of communication. Once we have that, we'll be in a better position to figure this shit out."
"Sir," Churchill nodded, turning on his heels and briskly marching from the office.
Riley settled back against a bulkhead, weary from the expectations and the responsibilities that were falling upon his shoulders.
He wasn't used to people wanting to kill him, well he was, but then he wasn't exactly fond of the idea. He valued his continued existence, though of course he was sure his smattering of ex-wives would discount that value.
The Macedonians weren't subtle, he'd seen them sprouting up throughout the fleet, their sunburst patches popping up under their house insignia, showing their loyalty to their homeworld. If they gained too much popularity, then it was very likely that Riley would have a civil war on his hands. The only way to rid himself of that was to keep the men focused on the true enemy, set them upon the Amsus and let them rid themselves of their frustrations. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Imperial fleet would reach Earth.
Being a rebel leader for as long as he had been, it was strange to find himself on the receiving end. He was the power, and it was him the Macedonian's blamed for their situation. If he couldn't head it off...
He gritted his teeth, vowing to deal with the situation quickly. Macedonians and Amsus be damned, Earth was more important.
He stopped, noting the Amsus fleet numbers, frowning over them. There was something amiss, and he walked back across to the stack of old figures, knocking over a pile of papers and cursing as they spread out across the deck. He didn't have time to reorganise them, so he knelt down to sift through them. Tossing irrelevant pages aside, he paused, finding what he needed to find and turning to sit on the floor, fumbling the pages as he shuffled through the report.
In black and white he counted, looking up at the repeater displays and down at the paper. "Where the hell did four Command Carrier's go?" he asked, struggling to stand up.
No escort ships were missing but, clear as day, four of the Amsus' oldest carriers were absent, and that couldn't bode well.
Riley scooped up a growler phone. "Get Luther in here, and alert Intelligence that I'm missing four Amsus Carriers."
Chancellor's Office - Karin Fortress - Karin City
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
Evans sat, his shoulders sloped forward, his head on his hands staring at the edicts before him. He hadn't bathed in days and he could feel the layer of grime upon his skin. The Chancellor of the Empire reached for a pen, stroking a half hearted signature that permitted the Gorean to harvest a thousand more souls from his world. A simple pen stroke that sentenced them to death, carved up by the skilful butchers at the abattoirs.
He no longer gave a damn.
Sal-zÿr had personally dragged the Chancellor on a tour of the facility, showing him every aspect of the brutal operation. The harvesting all the way through to the preparation of the meat that was served to the ravenous Gorean hordes.
Two months of hell.
The pen dropped to the desk, and he returned his hands to his temples, staring through the shattered doors of his office along the darkened hall lined with the ape-like Gorean Warriors.
It was never meant to be.
The yellow illumination spilled out of the narrow stained glass windows cut into the bedrock behind him, giving him some light. He tried his best to straighten his soiled clothes, standing and tugging down on the front of his once finely tailored suit, trying to regain his dignity.
"Simon?" he called expectantly towards the side office where his aide would normally sit, hard at work.
He closed his eyes, rubbing his brow, recalling that Simon had been killed the day before. He had dared to speak out of turn in Sal-zÿr's presence. The Paddesh had torn the aide apart without hesitation. While the government of Karin was permitted nominal authority, there was little doubt who ruled the world. And the Chancellor was left with the task of finding a replacement aide from one of the many forced labour camps, and harvesting farms. Business as usual in the Gorean Imperium.
Walking through to Simon's workspace, the Chancellor sat down behind the small desk, booting up the computer and scanning the signed orders himself. The joys of administrating an occupation. The empty silence of the offices around him was his sole companionship as the steady clicking of the keystrokes ensured that his own miserable existence would continue. At least as long as there were bodies to harvest.
He'd managed to work some small concessions from the Goreans. Business was permitted to continue in the capital. The people, nervous about the new Gorean order, were at first reluctant to return to their businesses and rebuild. Not that Evans could blame them; they were, after all, biding their time until they ended up on a Gorean dinner platter.
Then, of course, there was their stubborn belief that Taine would save them. Darien naturally remained obstinately at large. The Gorean had the Excalibur under siege in high orbit, cutting it off from any kind of resupply, demanding that the ships surrender. They seemed to think that Evans had some kind of mystical power to stop Taine. Boy did they have the wrong idea there.
He'd tried, standing before the holographic communicator at their request, in an effort to suppress more Gorean reprisal killings, delivering Sal-zÿr's ultimatum, which had garnered Taine's customary response; a rather politely worded go to hell.
Of course, there were still partisan groups operating on Karin. The Ice-Foxes in the mountains were the most active. Gorean intelligence reports he had been shown to prove their existence had been confirmed by his own sources. It seemed as if Colonel Mayfair, a relatively unknown and minor Karin officer at one point - definitely one of Taine's lap dogs - had managed to assume command over a Mech Lance and a squadron of modified recon fighters and was causing a great deal of frustration to the Gorean forces in the northern sectors. Inwardly Evans wished them luck. He may not have side with Taine, but considering the alternative was barbeque sauce, he was willing to thrown the occasional prayer in their direction.
He got up from the clerk's desk, wandered through his nearly silent offices and took a seat behind his desk, flipping open another sheaf of papers, trying to juggle population numbers in the newly created ghettos, trying to hide the fact that the Gorean had demanded a harvest increase. He would use his own men, a newly created militia permitted small arms and carefully watched by Gorean masters, to round up the required numbers, deliberately choosing the older and more infirm, those that were set to die, those that wouldn't stand a chance come the next Karin winter with the power generators still fluctuating. He didn't want the general populace to get wind of the Gorean plan for them; it would only lead to more bloodshed. There had already been reports of ghetto massacres after the populace had staged an uprising.
His head sank forward again and he took a long, shuddering breath, the Amsus order would have been so much cleaner. A transition of power similar to what was operational on Earth, peaceful and without the carnage.
He fumbled through documents, ensuring that he would be able to feed the right information to the Fida'i who graced his bed chamber each night. The Gorean had no idea who, or what she was. A small effort at least to ensure that Darien had some idea of the full extent of what was going on below. And to survive while still protecting his citizens, he needed to stay together, the people needed to know that they weren't abandoned to the monsters.
Upper Platform - Karin Fortress - Karin City
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
"You failed again, Lady Tagria," the Paddesh remarked as he stood at the far edge of the upper landing platform of the occupied fortress that had been claimed as an eyrie by the Reds.
The leader of the female warriors clanked in her powered armour across the platform, the smoke still rising from the large rail cannon holes in her wings. Her helm separated, plates sliding back from her aquiline features, the slight dusting of red feathers across her muzzle heightened her beauty. Her double eyelids slid across her lizard eyes, staring with undiluted hate at the Paddesh.
"Do you have something useful to say Paddesh, or are you simply here to gloat?" Behind her the other Reds were examining their wounds from the battle with the Imperials. Each of them being attended by smaller lesser females, those that didn't possess the aptitude for flight, or weren't of sufficient stock to earn their place amongst the prestigious ranks of the fliers.
"I wanted to witness your... triumphant return." the Paddesh tucked the swagger stick under his arm as he lumbered forward. "Beaten by... what did you call it?" he scratched a claw down his cheek. "A myth?" He tilted his head to stare up at the brilliant silver shard hanging over all of their heads. The curse, the doom that it symbolized, etched into the legends contained within the lore of their holy scrolls.
She snapped her jaws at him. "Don't antagonize me, Paddesh, my failure is your failure. And I am sure that Sal-zÿr recognizes that."
The Paddesh walked through the snow towards the edge of the platform, the sharp, bladed claws on the back of his feet sinking into the metal grates to keep him steady as he stared down over the city, crumbling after the battles that had seen it fall to its new masters. Further down the mountains the work camps laboured, strip mining as they worked to fuel the Gorean war machine. Already the keels for nine Gorean destroyers had been laid and, given time, Karin would be pacified and, like so many worlds, would become a part of Sal-zÿr's holdings.
"Do you see what I see, my lady?" the Paddesh demanded, his head swivelling about to stare at her.
She clanked forward, "I see devastation, desolation and destruction."
"I know," the Paddesh ran his tongue down his incisor. "It tastes wonderful doesn't it? Like progress. We have waited for over three hundred years to take back these worlds. The Apilon Rift," he breathed in the air deeply. "I am not about to allow anyone to take it away again. Not even a myth."
Lady Tagria activated the holographic computer on her wrist, examining the warship that flickered on the projection. "There are ways to fell any beast, even a devil ship such as this one..."
The Paddesh turned. "It is doom for any who attempt it..."
"A worthwhile sacrifice to destroy such a beast. Sal-zÿr would be giving his life to solidify the rule of the Gorean Imperium," Tagria urged.
The Paddesh shook his head. "I will not be the one to bring ruin to His Reverence. And neither shall you. Service ensures life, life ensures breeding. Ignore the Excalibur, ignore Taine, and focus on solidifying our rule here. We have a plan to ensure the next processor ship gets through."
Tagria nodded her head, "I am listening, Paddesh," she replied, her eyes still locked on the ship, and the devil 'Ace' it contained. She would be ready the next time.
Administrative District Four - Karin City - Gorean Occupied Karin
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
Fixed in place, the Fida'i warrior remained as still and quiet as his training allowed. He was balanced on the thin edge over one of the aqueducts that fed Karin City its water from the mountain springs high above. The water was ice cold and rushing with a force caused by the spring rains higher. If he fell, the powerful current would sweep him away, up and over the edge of the sluice gates and down over the edge of the high plateau that the city rested upon.
Death was not something James was willing to accept, especially after surviving fifty-one days in the midst of the Gorean Occupation. He'd dodged Gorean patrols, bird-dogs, fliers, and even a great Wyrm itself. Trying to keep one-step ahead as he tried to fathom out a way to get off the icy rock of Karin and return to the sanctuary of the Excalibur and his charge there.
Above hi, on the main street, a lower Gorean stalked him. The sharp jaws, set upon a muscular ape-like frame, snapped as its tongue tasted the frigid air. James could see its snout swinging out over the aqueduct, picking up the smell of something that didn't belong. Its burnished scales flexed as it gulped in the air, savagely clawed hands gripping the railing just feet above James's head.
The Fida'i assassin allowed one of his many knives to fall into his hands. A kitchen knife lifted from a restaurant, the poison slick blade would drop even a creature as large as the Gorean shock-trooper. Of course, it would take a keen precision to plunge it between the thick armoured scales that coated the beast. Given the right moment and a little leverage, James would be able to accomplish the feat, but that would attract unwanted attention. The last thing James needed was another seven-hour manhunt, which always ended with a rather unpleasant slog through the bitterly cold sewers beneath the city as he attempted to lose yet another pack of creatures baying for his blood.
The Aga-Khan was naturally to blame for his current predicament, and James filed it away on his ever-growing list of things that he would hold against the man who he'd sworn to protect at the behest of the Silent Caliph. Not that he would ever voice his complaints, simply bottle them deep inside and allow them out in dark stares and evil thoughts that were between him and Allah.
A light snow was falling, gentle flakes that settled onto the water, vanishing in the rushing torrent below. He kept his breath indrawn, knowing that the shadows wouldn't save him from a Gorean's sense of smell. All it had to do was look down. The forked tongue was flickering again, giving a position to the strange scent, and James coiled himself, ready to strike if the creature so much as flinched in his direction.
They were vicious and efficient killing machines. James had watched them at work on those Karin soldiers unlucky enough to have been left behind after the retreat orders had been sounded. Their ranged weaponry was useless, and they had been held at bay by the Imperial Pulse Weapons as long as the weapons held ammunition. But it took nearly a half clip to fell just one of the Shock-Troopers, and even then the time it took to unload that much firepower into one target meant that three more were upon the unfortunate soldier caught in their path. Rent apart by the barbed claws, entire limbs bitten off by a snap of massive jaws that ran with the blood of their prey. The Gorean would then pause to eat before leaping off after more food.
The Gorean above him drew back, reluctantly. A failing of the Gorean's sense of spatial relations seemed to be their inability to think in three dimensions; they had evolved from ground creatures, and were most adept at fighting in their element. That additional degree of perception one clear advantage that a giant monkey had over a giant lizard, that and the ability to climb things.
James knew that his survival had been nine parts luck and one part skill. The Gorean were effective hunters, rounding up and slaying anything that offered the potential for resistance. There were other Fida'i in the city, but not many. They mainly kept to the shadows and bided their time. James knew better than to seek them out; trying to find one would put both of them in danger. The best defence they had was their ability to remain hidden, simply other faces in the crowd, heads down and shuffling past the Gorean overlords.
The Gorean were ruthless, and yet life was beginning to seep back into the streets of Karin. Businesses were opening, their owners leery about the new regime but forced to open to earn a living. The Imperial era had been a boom time for merchants and traders, but that boom was over far too quickly and Karin was used to fascist rule.
James darted along the aqueduct, the borrowed green overcoat flapping behind him. Borrowed wasn't quite the correct word. He'd stolen it from a department store in the hours after the initial Gorean assault, but Karin was a frozen hell hole of a world, and running through the streets without a coat was the surest way to die.
He knew that evading the Gorean patrols that swept the streets, rounding up stragglers and checking ghetto IDs wouldn't be easy. His ID placed him in one of the southern districts. He'd managed, in the confused aftermath of the invasion, to slip into that district, claiming to be a tourist stranded there when his hotel had been destroyed. There had been a number of people in the district's Islamic community willing to corroborate his story, each of them willing to shelter the Fida'i in their midst. The cover worked well, but kept him isolated from Imperial resistance cells, the fortress, and of course the Excalibur.
He wished he had a TAC-link; without one, the standard radio transmitters were his only resort. Far too risky given that the Gorean closely monitored transmissions from the world. It had been that practice that had seen the early demise of the earliest resistance cells that had formed. They had tried to smuggle messages through, first to the Excalibur that everyone knew lurked in orbit, and subsequently to the rumoured 1st Marine Expeditionary operating somewhere in the mountains. Each time, the Gorean had swept in, their heavy VTOL transports dropping males while their flier powered armours landed on the surrounding buildings to offer support. The detainees had been promptly shot, publicly, a strange Demi-wyrm in robes presiding over a street trial, reading from long scrolls acting as both prosecution and defence counsel in a bizarre, schizophrenic display of what the Gorean viewed as justice.
James hadn't taken a TAC-link with him when he'd jumped off the flight deck; it hadn't exactly been high on his list of priorities at the time. His jacket had been abandoned in the corner of the bridge, the Propylon Recco still attached to it. His twin black knives were embedded in the walls of the Black Tower Propylon chamber, which was God alone knew where. At least he still had his body armour, disguised beneath his deep green wool coat, but that was a death sentence. If the Gorean found it, he'd be dragged before one of the Demi-wyrms and summarily shot as well.
Taking a long jump, he bounded across the aqueduct, jumping up off of a broken piece of the sluice wall, vaulting the balustrade up to the street. He adjusted the collar of his coat, closing it tightly over what he was wearing as he ducked through crowds of people milling towards one of the Karin street markets. He ducked past vendors selling a variety of substandard meats that stank of thick sauces used to mask the foul flavour.
Here the snow had been ground into a thick brown sludge that his soft-soled shoes sank into, quickly getting soaked. He hated the slush; it was slippery and got everywhere. One of the many Karin city busses went sweeping past him, irreverently splashing its way through a puddle spraying the liquid up and over him, causing the unflappable Fida'i to vow a one man vendetta, after the war of course, against the bus driver union.
Dripping, and definitely un-amused, James made his way along the streets. His eyes picked out the burnt out store fronts, the less fortunate ones that had been hit by stray missiles, or gutted by plasma fire. Battered facades and shattered windows abounded, and that was a lucky district. There were parts of the city that were little more than piles of bricks, twisted metal and craters. Entire communities that had been blown away.
There was a crashed Amsus transport that had been converted into temporary homes for the displaced citizenry who had emerged from the subway shelters and found their homes had been destroyed. The winter had been particularly hard, and shelter, no matter what kind, had been in desperate short supply. At least there was food, the Gorean made sure that the markets were open.
That confused the assassin. In all the occupations by the Pirate Barons under the Commonwealth, or even the Empire, there had always been an issue with food supplies. It seemed as if the Gorean wanted to ensure that its newly acquired citizenry were well fed. Though there were plenty of rumours as to why that was, for James it had to be something to do with the processing numbers listed on each of their ID cards. They were cattle, permitted lives and certain freedoms, however there were severe restrictions upon what they could and couldn't do.
An explosion tore up from the street; a car parked off to one side erupted into a fireball just as the standard Gorean patrol marched through the junction. The wreckage of the car plumed upwards as the windows of a nearby office building shattered, raining debris down upon the crowds that were scattering and diving for cover below. Somewhere, an alarm began to blare.
Long and loud, like an air-raid siren, it spelled certain doom for any that straggled in the area. James cursed again, running for a side alley, watching Gorean writing in pain where they had been cut down in the attack. The Gorean security forces would descend, along with a Demi-wyrm justicar, who would mete out administrative and capital punishment in reprisal for the attack.
It was all James needed, to be caught out of his sector, wearing his armour. He was bound to be fingered as the culprit for the attack, not something he really desired. He propelled himself upwards off of a railing and caught the edge of a fire escape, bodily hauling himself up to the wrought iron. He jogged up to the rooftop of the building, watching the skies for the inevitable arrival of one of the Gorean fliers that would reconnoitre the scene, radioing and directing the inbound transport where to drop its shock troopers.
The green firefly in the sky, screaming down on its crescent shaped wings, descended rapidly. James uttered a mild curse and slipped into the shadows of the chimneys, knowing that the furnaces for the building would mask his body heat from the Gorean flier's infrared systems. He would have to wait them out, hoping that it would be a short raid, and thankful that at least he would be warm this time.
Monastery - Keppe - Orion Territory
OCCUPATION: Day FIFTY-ONE
Rikard loosened his tie. "This is getting excessive," he said, folding his arms to lean on the broad pillar of her four poster bed. "Where the hell is this shrine?"
They had been housed inside the Monastery guest house, close to the bakery. The smells of fresh bread wafting through the open windows always made Rikard's stomach rumble. Not really because he was hungry, but more from the memory of what it was like to be hungry.
Galadriel looked up from where she was sitting, poring over a guide book that covered a lot of the history of the monastery's architecture. How it had evolved out of the Benedictine style and had become the focal point of a major tourist attraction while still remaining shut away from the bustle. No one actually wanted to see the inside of the old stone building, not when there were so many things around it, it was a focal point, a reason for coming, and an excuse for having a great time at the various theme zones lower down the hills.
"If Lex is content to wait, you should be, too," she repeated calmly, as she had done virtually every morning for the past three months, "I'm making progress..."
"No, you're not," Rikard replied firmly. "I have seen the insides of Dorters, Fraters, Granaries, and even a Lavatorium, but so far no shrines to Ark-Angels that never existed."
"You could lift a finger and help me," Galadriel pointed out, motioning towards a book.
Rikard lifted a finger. Galadriel's chair pulled back from the desk sharply and tilted her forward, dumping her unceremoniously to the floor. "I'll need the seat," he said, as if that justified his petty behaviour.
Galadriel was getting used to Rikard's rudeness, and she picked herself up still holding the book, which she tossed down on the desk. "You could always ask," she stated huffily.
"That would be a waste of time," Rikard answered sitting down in the chair, fishing out his glasses and popping them on his nose.
"Manners are never..." she sighed, shaking her head as she went to the window, sitting down on the low window seat and pulling her legs up under her chin. "It's peaceful here." She said basking in the warmth of the sun.
Rikard had his nose in one of the lager books taken from the Monastic library and clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he acknowledged her comment without actually listening at all. He seemed engrossed in the task, and was soon lost in the large pile of papers, shuffling through it as he worked. Occasionally he would make notes, producing a pen with a flourish and writing with long strokes upon the notebook, looking thoughtful as he went.
A few hours later, as Galadriel watched the crowds walking around the monastery grounds being shown by comedic recreations of the Templar, she noticed that Rikard had stopped his work. He was sitting with an emotionless façade on his face as he stared at the wall, and yet there was something about the way in which he sat that made Galadriel sure he was upset.
"What is it?" She asked, curiosity getting the better of her, but she kept her tone moderated to just show her concern.
Rikard was sitting in his shirt sleeves, the pen tucked behind one ear and his hair messed up, reminding Galadriel of a much younger man lost in his homework. The stubble on his chin hadn't been swept away in Rikard's obsessive compulsive need to be neat. He looked at her awhile with dark eyes, as if wondering how much to say.
He was loath to show any kind of weakness, and Galadriel knew not to push. Rikard may have been far from Amsus High Command, and from the board rooms of the Denver Corporation, but he was still who he was. It was like he had to make a statement of indifference, and it didn't matter that there was no one around to see it.
"I forget, at times, that there was so much suffering when the Empire fell." The tone of his voice flatly denied the regret that she knew had to be there.
She remained silent, as difficult as it was. Part of her itched to revel in the realization that Rikard was indeed human, but there was another part of her that understood, after all she had seen, that he was exactly that, a human being with all the flaws there in.
"You are allowed to be upset," she said finally, when she couldn't stand the silence any more.
Rikard sat with the book open before him, a page half turned as he looked at her again. He wrestled with returning to his work or with talking to her. His mouth opened a fraction and his bland expression warred with a new one behind his eyes. It was a subtle change in his demeanour, and were she not watching for it she could easily have missed it.
"Lieutenant," Rikard said at length, "I have moments where I wonder if what I did was the right thing. But then I was there when Kardiac was on the Council, when this place was something... far darker than it is now."
"What are you reading?" she asked, crossing the room to look over his shoulder at the tome, reading the pages that described the aftermath of the fall of the Empire, the rioting and bloodshed that had rained down upon Keppe until the Orions had stepped in to stop it. It was a hard read, and she found herself swallowing as the stories of those survivors talked about what it was like to go from a rich and full life to subsisting on brackish water and rotten food.
"I did what I thought was right," Rikard said, as if he was explaining to someone who couldn't possibly understand. "I knew these things had happened, I read the reports from the Amsus commanders, but..."
"Amsus commanders are emotionless," Galadriel finished. "They wouldn't have been able to capture the true horrors of what was happening."
Rikard smiled, a smile that chilled her to the core, and she realized she had been taken in by him again. She stepped away from him in surprise "You bastard!"
"These texts are very monotonous." Rikard waved a hand as he chuckled at her shocked reaction. "I had to find a way to entertain myself before all this pathetic whining drove me suicidal. And your face right now makes it all worthwhile."
"You're..." she stopped herself again, seeing his eyes and reading them deeply. "You can't fool me, Rikard. You may be shipwrecked in denial, but there is something of a truth in everything you say. You can't read these and tell me you don't feel at least a little guilty."
"You're projecting," Rikard answered her softly, sardonically. "You assume that I have feelings in the first place. And of course there is the arrogant assumption that just because a few people suffered at the beginning, naturally everything I did over three hundred years of rule was wrong."
"You sanctimonious son of a bitch," Galadriel seethed, "one day you are going to get what you..."
The gentle knock at the door caused both of them to turn. Rikard arched an eyebrow as he closed the book.
Galadriel smoothed down her skirts and opened the door, surprised at the thirty-year-old nun standing on the far side of it. She immediately bowed her head. "Sister," she said reverently.
Rikard rolled his eyes. "Great, company."
"Ms. Galadriel," the sister aid a thin smile, "I know that you choose mainly to not be disturbed, but I've come at the Mother Superior's bequest to invite you and your companion to the Praxis celebration."
Rikard groaned. "This wouldn't be anything like the last celebration, would it?" he shuddered at the memory of their fist week at the monastery where they had attended one of the celebrations only to discover that it was a glorified swingers party hosted by the sisters of blasphemy, a neo-religious order based upon debauchery. Rikard and Galadriel had both avoided socializing too much with the rest of the community there were now a part of.
"Oh no," the sister said, shaking her head. "We know that your mistress prefers only your company. However this is a celebration of love and commitment. The mother Superior feels you would both benefit from a little reminder of your mutual love."
"Does she now?" Rikard murmured, glaring at the sister then allowing his eyes to swing to the open window. He realized that they had been arguing a great deal of late and anyone in the courtyard could probably hear. He wondered how much they could hear, but given the distances they'd probably only been able to pick up the odd angry word, of which there were usually a lot.
"We'll go," Galadriel reassured, with a warm smile to the sister. "The Mother Superior is probably right, we're in need of a little reminder of our adoration." She glared at Rikard.
"Excellent, I will make preparations for you both," the sister beamed as she departed.
Rikard snorted after her. "Wonderful. So, what, we're going to a party hosted by the Bondage Nuns of Keppe? Remind me again why I am supposed to adore you?"
Galadriel gave him a wicked smile. "Oh I will!" she promised sinisterly.
Bridge - HMS Excalibur CVX-11- Geo-synchronous Orbit Karin City
OCCUPATION: DAY FIFTY-ONE
Alessandro flipped through the pages of the technical manual, leaning down over the shattered hyperspace communicator and blowing out a sharp breath as he tried his best to repair the melted circuit boards inside. The Polian shard weapon had done a right number on the delicate piece of equipment. Wielded by an insane construct version of the Excalibur's former first officer.
The Kardiac Lieutenant could only get bits and pieces of the story, many of the crew of the command carrier flatly refused to discuss the matter, especially not with a strange interloper who had stepped into the shoes of a dead woman.
He felt around behind him for his travel mug filled with coffee, sipping it as he considered exactly how he was supposed to fix a machine that was at least ninety percent scrap metal. He had bits of a hyperspace communicator down in the secret security station that Commander Durnham had found during the initial invasion. But, naturally, trying to tie an independent system into the Excalibur's main communications networks was proving problematic.
More specifically, the security station had been purposely designed to be independent from the main ships systems. A separate computer system, deliberately configured hardware designed not to interface with the Excalibur's main computer. Alessandro, on occasion, had seriously considered borrowing a sledgehammer from the ships stores, that kind of thinking had worked well when as a kid he'd had to get a square peg to fit into a round hole. He was pretty sure, however, that wailing away on their only chance at a lifeline to the Imperial fleet escorting the Sentinel Jump Nexus wouldn't earn him a commendation.
He rubbed his arm, scratching at the uncomfortable blue enlisted officer's shirt he was wearing. With enough refugees on Excalibur to virtually choke the ship's lower decks, resources were stretched to their limits. He was wearing a shirt borrowed from another crewman, his lieutenant's insignia looking out of place on his epaulettes over the top of the Petty Officer stripes. He especially didn't like the VonGrippen Falcons on his arm, but fortunately he'd found a Kardiac Lion and sewn it in its place. The opposite winged sword could stay; part of the Warlord's standing orders were that anyone serving on his ship had to wear the mark. Something to do with Polians. Alessandro knew better than to question it, he merely continued his work.
Excalibur was a city in space, at least that was how she felt. Crowded to the point of being critically so, Alessandro had been stuffed into a dropship down on the hangar deck. He naturally shared this makeshift berth with four other people, but considering some of the places people had to sleep, it was almost luxurious.
Fights and frayed tempers had begun after the initial shock of their situation had worn off. Soldiers and marines were kept in close confines with civilians that had managed to seek shelter with the SAS and Marine Expeditionary units evacuated during the fall of Karin City. Stuffed in a space barely able to hold them, they were struggling; the ship seemed permanently on the edge of a nervous breakdown. And what with being chased by an unending stream of green steel, harassed and harried at every turn, morale was at an all time low.
The Warlord appeared distracted, standing uneasily on the bridge, or pacing the length of his quarterdeck while his men rushed to action stations every time the Gorean strayed too far into the no-fly-zone that stretched for five miles around the great warship. The exact range reachable by the Excalibur's rail cannons.
Missiles were a luxury that was in short supply aboard a vessel unable to be supplied, and prior lessons had taught the Excalibur's commanding officer to conserve them; using them only as a last resort, or to finish off a crippled Gorean destroyer that had grown careless.
Although, really, no one aboard the Excalibur could understand the Gorean behaviour. There was nothing stopping them from swooping in en-masse and obliterating the Excalibur in a final, spectacular fire fight. It was a fight no one aboard the ship doubted would be won by the numerically superior Gorean forces. And yet they refused to cross an invisible line in space, taking long range shots, or running light fighter raids on the Imperial Command Carrier.
Speculation on this odd behaviour ran rampant in the Excalibur's ward room. Everything ranging from the Gorean were chickens pretending to be giant lizards, through to that they wanted to capture the Imperial ship intact, and a siege was the only way to ensure that.
Through it all, Alessandro hadn't heard Darien offer a single theory Daily he would come onto the bridge, test the Gorean behaviour, push the boundaries using both Black Knights and the newly acquired Cavalier squadron to launch probing missions off of the Ark-Royal and Invincible's flight decks. But no answers were forthcoming.
They were practically cut off from the trapped forces on Karin - any attempt to get close to the occupied world was met by Gorean forces hurling everything they had at the ship, driving her off long before they risked any kind of direct confrontation. Darien had little choice but to break off any kind of approach or risk taking his ship directly through the concentrated fire that, despite Excalibur's formidable defences, would carve her up like an oversized turkey.
It was a stalemate that had driven Masconi steadily crazy. Her fighter pilots seemed the only ones thrust into actual danger. At the very edge of the no-fly-zone, they were at risk from Gorean strikes, and as a capitulation to that small concession, Darien had pulled the outer BARCAP, removing the outermost layer of protection from the ship. The cost otherwise would have been cold slaughter.
They couldn't even call for help; the Gorean had a large communications and control node on the planet. The engineering crews had dubbed it Wormwood. An artificial quantum singularity generator, similar in theory to a hyperdrive, it projected a massive black out on FTL communications, blockading signals into and out of the system that relied on the formation of hyperspace events. And with many of its long range fighters destroyed at Yeji-Sola by the Lex Talionis, or before that by the Amsus, and R-403 being atomized destroying the Amsus flagship Vengeance in the Martian orbit; Excalibur lacked the means of manually relaying any kind of message.
They were almost totally dependant on the Propylons, and the Propylons weren't reliably functional.
Alessandro had done what he could, using his vast knowledge of Electronic Warfare and Communications equipment to try to jerry rig something that may help Prince Edward fix the system. But it wasn't a matter of expertise, it was a plain and simple matter that the Excalibur didn't have the parts necessary to fix the system, and, cut off from Karin, unable to jump or even get a message to Eisenhower station, they were, in a word, screwed.
They Gorean weren't willing to attack, but at the same time the Excalibur was unable to do anything to stop their pillaging of the captured Capital except draw Gorean vessels away from a potential orbital bombardment of the trapped Imperial military.
At least they still had intra-system communications. This, of course, was a mixed blessing. While the ship had its daily rituals, part of them was the daily argument between Warlord Taine and Chancellor Evans. It usually began with polite platitudes between two men who obviously detested each other. Evans urged the Imperial Military, and the Excalibur, to follow the example of the civilian government and surrender to the Gorean. Taine remained quietly defiant, saying that he wasn't about to do any such thing. His patient tones parried Evans thinly veiled barbs and threats, standing strong and firm in his faith that the Gorean occupation would be over soon.
It was strange to Alessandro. He'd been through many military commands, been exposed to several commanders over the course of his career, and yet he'd never served under any quite like Taine. Quiet self-confidence, brilliant analysis of situations, and moments of sheer genius when it came to battles.
There had been an interesting counter-attack orchestrated by the Warlord almost a week before, where he had used a squadron of dropships, which were cluttering up the main flight deck of the Excalibur, as bait in a pincer attack. He lured several dozen Gorean fliers into range of the Excalibur's flak guns, and had created a chance for retribution. Gun crews, who had been idle for nearly three months, gained a chance to join the fight and gave supporting fire to the fighter pilots who flew and died for them daily.
Commander Durnham walked the weapons tier above Alessandro, the holographic Commander, the Excalibur's acting First Officer, keeping a keen eye on the tactical boards. Offering recommendations to the fighters flying the CAP, ready to launch Masconi's alert fighters and send the ship to battle stations at a nod from Darien.
Chewing on his lip, Alessandro considered giving up on his attempt to repair the FTL communicator, stretching tired muscles and drinking again from his mug.
He wasn't sure where he fit into the command crew. Sure, he had his duties and responsibilities, but he still felt like an outsider. There was a moratorium on what was considered taboo subjects. In his routine staff meetings, there were things that were just not mentioned. It seemed the crew simply accepted the losses around them and continued onwards with gaping holes in the command structure. There seemed a loss of spirit, and of will. Everyone looked towards the Warlord for strength, and he gave it when called upon. But Alessandro could tell the it wore on him from the lines about Darien's eyes and the premature grey beginning to seep into his hair.
Then there was the pronounced shaking. Another of the taboo topics that everyone seemed to ignore. But it was hard to ignore it when Darien always seemed to be in motion, sitting forward in his chair, rocking back and forth at irregular points, a slight wavering to his voice... the fact that it took him two tries to pick anything up. It had been hard enough for Alessandro to watch his grandmother degenerate into old age, but to watch a man everyone was depending on deteriorate...
He marched around the connecting ramp, climbing first to the middle weapons tier and finally approaching the Excalibur's quarter deck. Darien was sitting in place reading a report, unaware of the Lieutenant's approach. Darien's eyes flicked up from the page, some sort of sixth sense altering him to the young man's approach. Any doubts that Alessandro had about Darien's physical condition vanished instantly.
There was a clarity in the Warlords eyes, a hardness and strength that seemed to rise beyond the disabilities. The first Imperial warlord in three hundred years, and he left no question that he was exactly that. Calm, coolly logical, and possessed with a temperance that radiated from him. Alessandro felt at ease again.
"Excusé, mio signore," he said, reverting to his native Italian Easy given his heritage, but he had to remind himself that Darien wouldn't understand if he continued in that manner, and he switched to English. "I would like to run some calibrations in the radio shack."
"Via the mess hall?" Darien inquired, closing the report as he focused his attention on the young Kardiac Lieutenant.
"Sì, sì." Alessandro nodded his head. "Can I fetch you something, signore?"
"No," Darien replied, "but you can take this report back to Doctor Kyr while you are down there. Inform him I'm considering it." Darien shakily extended the report, and Alessandro accepted it, nodding his head as he set off back towards the bridge antechamber where the bank of elevators was located.
He tried his best not to stare, as he always did, at the battered and twisted blast plates, the gaping claw marks that rent the walls, and the fact that the Stateroom doors were missing altogether. Memories the Excalibur had of her ordeal at Ordessus under the hands of the former Imperial Chancellor Rikard.
He bounced a little on the balls of his feet as the elevator arrived, spilling one very dark cloud, shaped surprisingly like his cousin. Alessandro cocked his head quizzically as he smiled his patented don't kill me smile.
Masconi was still in her flight leathers, though the Ark-Royal patch overtop of her Peligian Expedition patch marked her sentiments clearly. She'd started wearing it after the invasion of Karin, and had kept herself mainly to her flight decks. She was forging swords. Her Tempus-born Black Knights, supplemented by the Cavalier Squadron from Karin, fought hard, and she trained them hard. Never complaining publicly when Darien ordered them to launch. But the blood that always seemed to seep through the flight deck had become a steady torrent. And her patience was beginning to wear thin.
Always a passionate and strong woman, Alessandro could remember times when, as children, she had gotten herself into trouble for being far too headstrong. Always in motion, she didn't like sitting still, and while Darien seemed filled with boundless patience, she was a woman of action.
"Allie," Masconi caught his arm and led him through the shattered doors of the stateroom, "is there any news from Karin?"
Unofficially, as the communications officer aboard the Excalibur, Alessandro had become the only primary source of news about the war effort beyond the Excalibur's own particular struggles. Everything happening on Karin was filtered, be it direct communiqués from Imperial forces, intercepted Gorean messages, which had been surprisingly easy to decipher by the cryptologists onboard, or from civilian news services. The latter were typically censored, but still showed that life progressed on Karin, despite its new overlords.
Alessandro scratched around the collar of his shirt and shrugged. "Nothing new," he admitted reluctantly. "The Gorean are continuing to round up a tenth of the population, and the harvesting camp outside of Karin city is beginning to fill."
That particular piece of news worried everyone on the ship, files from the first Apilon Rift war had detailed the Gorean 'harvesting' of sentient life forms for their processing ships. The Gorean horde would gorge themselves upon a tenth of the population on one world, leaving the rest behind for breeding and taxation purposes, taking to the skies in their destroyers, and sweep down upon another world, fighting till it was overrun and resistance was annihilated. The Gorean would begin to round up the population, starving, ready to do it all again. Three months into that phase, the Gorean horde were growing close to feasting time, when they would sweep out from Karin, falling upon the remaining free worlds of the Apilon Rift and repeating the cycle all over again.
Time was fast running out, and the crew of the Excalibur knew it, and yet Taine waited.
"The Propylons?" Masconi pressed, crossing her hands over her breasts, her dark eyes clouding worriedly.
"Nothing, still," Alessandro replied, resting his back against one of the many bookshelves in Darien's stateroom, one of the few sanctuaries from the throngs of people aboard ship. There was always a serene peace to the room, with its massive windows, shadowing the bright lights of the Gorean armada pursuing them.
Masconi nodded her head. "We can't go on waiting like this, with or without them we need to find a way to break this..."
"Stalemate?" Darien's voice caused both of the cousins to jump upright, like they were children again, back on the Tempus vineyards sneaking grapes from the sweetest vines.
Darien didn't appear angry, he stood in the doorway to his stateroom looking at both of them a moment before he entered. "I don't like it any more than you do," he answered, crossing to his desk and pulling out a few items.
"I'm just saying that we need to start doing something before we all go stir crazy," Masconi pressed.
The young warlord picked through the clutter on his desk, the half assembled alien device that he worked on in his spare time, as well as the multitude of reports that seemed an unending mess. He glanced up again as he found his sunglasses, popping them on.
"We may have an answer to our problems," he replied, clipping his shard weapon to his belt and walking back to clap Masconi on the shoulder. "I'll tell you more when I get back. Until then, you are in charge."