NationStates Jolt Archive

Syrnë Ahcarynca Taskforce, on approach to FSP airspace, unannounced

The warship descended very slowly indeed, for it was too massive to do anything but. But the Iluvauromeni flagship, the Syrnë Ahcarynca, first seen by D'ron at Vilya Elenosto, amidst fifteen M# interceptors, all 'repainted' in ceremonial colours, must have been something of a surprise to the Federation's defence forces. Oh, they had been seen for some time, well out over the Atlantic, coming in at such a ridiculously slow speed; but it would have been impossible to tell where they were going, due to the lack of radio chatter. Indeed, other warships had been sighted in various places - the North Atlantic, for example, where the Retribution had been sighted - and near Sisgardia in the south, where the Fear had been seen. The three greatest names of the CSF all away from their posts, and in ceremonial colours; and all headed somewhere unannounced.

Rialla could not help but grin at it all. She had been advised not to go, but she was not yet quite approaching full-term, and premature births among Nenyar were usually quite rare - and premature was generally considered to be a week early. Anything earlier was drastically unlikely, with modern medical technology. Besides, the Federation was about as safe as they came; as far as she knew, at any rate.

Nonetheless, the IPG had insisted that she take a squad of guards - who, she was utterly and unequivocably sure, would stay aboard ship. She'd find some way to leave them behind - somehow.

Now she stood upon the main bridge of this mighty ship - for it had six seperate command centres each working in conjunction via trimensional links, each near some critical area, so that the command staff were always close to the key systems - and gave the order to fire up the radio antennae. Well, dish.

Somewhere on the outside of the hull a small portal irised open, revealing a comms dish that barely poked its nose out beyond the hull. It began transmitting immediately the ship descended to 320,000ft - as low as it was going to be. Any lower and the ship would be restricted to even slower speeds; although it was hard to imagine a ship this size moving much slower than the journey in had been. Nobody wanted to generate thunder storms on a diplomatic visit; it was generally bad for business. She grinned to herself.

"Transmit," she ordered uselessly, going on to speak to the screen with a broad smile, "Greetings from the Iluvauromeni People, noble and honourable Federation of Sentient Peoples. I, Empress Rialla ux-Rihad II of the Iluvauromeni Commonality of Everlasting Light do solemnly greet thee, and respectfully request permission from the authorities to make haste to the capital to begin an unannounced state visit, bearing gifts for the Imperial President and his family, as well as the Sentient Peoples themselves.

"In warmth of heart and gladness of spirit do I await the response."

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

"It's who?! And she wants what?!" The Officer on Duty for Aerospace Control paled considerably as he watched the ship track in over the northern areas of the Federation. It was high, but well, Lost American Diablos were designed to go in space as well.

Protocols flashed through the memory implant in the young woman's brain, hurried searching for the right one, and then her face grew even paler. She got to deal with them, for the Nenyans expected those to do their jobs, and not to get someone high up for the simple task of greeting a visitor until meeting with the person of rank was appropriate.

"Send the course corrections on a sub frequency, Petty Officer, and vector in the closest fighter squadrons for protection detail." Why now? Admittedly, the hundreds of warplanes lower to the ground were a bit busy to notice the massive cruiser, but some of them were armed with very heavy weapons. The Duty Officer watched helplessly as far below an entire squadron vanished in a ball of flame. She keyed on the microphone to speak, voice only, as she watched two squadrons of Longswords divert from air patrol over Cornith. The message had been copied ahead to D'ron immediately, of course, and subtle signals indicated the Presidential Guard Sqaudron was scrambling.

"Greetings and welcome to the Federation, Empress. Air cooridors are being cleared now from your present position to Griffin and escorts are on their way. I hope that your visit goes well."

In the back of her head, she could feel the flow of information through the radio links, as the massive ICEL warship was tied into TacNet for constant tactical updates on the situation far below, and as the paths which would travel over the least amount of fighting, which was still north of the Spiny Mountains only, were uploaded to the ship's crew.

Office of the Imperial President, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Four hundred kilometers south of Central Command and nearly two thousand south of the Syrnë Ahcarynca, D'ron blinked as the priority override mesage came in. He flicked into a military display on his computer, and watched as the instructions were provided, and he nodded. His people would do their best. He glanced out the window as the first of the black and white Longsword fighters of the Presidential Guard Squadron lifted into the air with a muted roar of air displacement.

Airborne, Somewhere nearer to Cornith than any other location with a name, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

"Daaamn, that sucker's huge."

Lieutenant (SG) Palmeiro grinned, and then keyed his secure mission comm, which is what the comm traffic was on. "So she is, boys and girls. And let's make sure she stays that way, okay?"

"Hey, Palmy, if we're playing babysitters, who's on board?"

"The ICEL Empress."

"Whooboy. She's even hotter than Sticks is."

Palmeiro, aka Palmy, grinned, as Sticks came back indignantly. "I didn't see you complaining last night, Horny."

Flight Officer Hornsby laughed. "I prefer red blood, not blue."

"You keep that little fetish to yourself, Horns." Sticks came back with the pilot's actual callsign, provoking loud laughter from all the other pilots.

Lieutenant (JG) Valentine suddenly broke in. "I have three inbound hostile contacts."

All the humor faded as Palmeiro felt his grin fade away. "Talk to me, Saint." He no longer needed the verbal report as he sorted them out from the mess of other ships below, but it came anyways.

"Three contacts, confirmed Diablo Mike Seven, at 317, five zero klicks out at Alpha Five Kilo."

"Break by flights and engage at will. Four Flight, head for the Grail." Nine fighters dropped from the sky to engage while three continued climbing towards the ICEL flagship.

TacOps Centre, Syrnë Ahcarynca

"It's hotter than a brothel in August down there," 1st TacOps Officer Xulia Dethra commented quietly.

"Certain they'll come hit us. Absolutely certain. We're too big a target to ignore. - Xulia, what's your thinking?"

"TacNet has tied in. Uh. Sarah suggests we cream a few of those hostiles - you know, some really overzealous firepower. Make em bleed. Make em think twice. Besides, it'd be a poor show to steam in here and ignore all the killing. Plus, we have some tests we just can't run outside of combat. The Empress won't mind, so long as we all come through clean. - That what you all thought?"

Various nods around the plushly-furnished room. "Okay. I'll send the news up to the captain."

* * *

Bridge, Syrnë Ahcarynca

"TacOps report in, sir. Advisory states: Pre-emptive strikes against potential hostiles advised. - They've run the numbers and suggest an eighty percent likelihood of attack within three minutes. Probability rises to ninety-six percent thereafter. Sir."

The captain turned to the Empress, smiling faintly. "Your Majesty, it would we wise to take up position in preparation for a hurried exit. I suggest you take the proper position in a combat situation, inside a rad-shielded evacuation point. Things might get hot, and this ship is not tested for atmospheric combat yet."

She hoped the Empress would listen; she knew the woman loved a fight - she had actually sparred with her in the past - but she did not know whether or not she would take this seriously. Captain Dethra was responsible for the safety of this woman; if she refused to let her take that responsibility, it made things so much more difficult - and distracting at a time when distraction was definitely not required.

"I understand, captain. I'll make myself scarce, despite my urge to take over the gunnery seat."

Rialla was grinning, now, obviously. There was something in her eyes-

But then she had turned and departed, leaving the captain to her own musings. Well, not for long.

"SensOps, do we have any particular targets?"

"I'm getting radiation signatures. Some of those hostile bastards are carrying nukes, from the looks of it. I'd be tempted to pound those, but we might mess up Federation planning. - I'd suggest random targets, sir."

"Okay. Pound whatever catches your fancy. Fifteen shots only. - Targeting?"

She awaited a nod from her WeapOps officer. A slow smile lifted to her features; she had not gotten to fire any weapons from this ship as yet, not in anger.

Ah, a christening.

"DFKKMs loose."

[OOC: I'll leave the entire flight of the missiles up to you. Basically as I have no idea what's around, and it's just quicker to let you do it. Those are direct-fire kinetic kill missiles, obviously - so no acceleration time (they're launched at the one tonne yield velocity for a standard weight ICEL KKM, but these are far lighter - yield is in the three hundred gram range; anti-air versions), just fire-and-boom. Obviously, they're tougher to aim, but they have designated targets and will not impact the ground. They'll slow and wheel about for an ascendant burn for the usual triple-phase attack method of one of our normal KKMs.]

While the missiles from the ICEL warship streaked groundward, reaching out to pound some helpless, unsuspecting fighter into dust, some of them even making it through the massive point defenses and overlapping energy signatures and drive fields to take out their targets, none making a second pass, the three closest enemies came onward.

Nine fighters plunged towards them, descending into what the Pilot's called the Haze, the total merging with their fighter and its AI. This had something to do, apparently, with the similiarity that a popular recreational drug by the same name had with the sensation, almost an out of body experience. But the effect was far deadlier. If the fighter's AI were to crash in this state, the chances of survival less than a tenth of a percent.

Which is why pilots rarely dropped that far into phase with the computers if they had any choice. But they needed it now, for those fighters absolutely had to be stopped, and under no circumstances could they let them get through.

Each member of the squadron knew that was why Four Flight continued to climb... to give itself more reaction time to place itself between the missiles and Rialla's flagship.

Reality faded and narrowed, the outside world becoming a subset as the fighters tore through the atmosphere, dumping the EM layer of the drive to give themselves more power, literally destroying the very air in their way. Sensors dueled with the ECM of the Diablos, while their own ECM fought back, trying to hide them.

The problem was, really, that a power signature the size of a fighter at full combat power was hard to hide as it turned the very air around it into energy. Sensors sought and found their targets, and smaller, lighter forms took wing, blasting away from their mother craft, seeking a heroic death on their own terms.

At this closing speed, those missiles were like rays of death reaching out from both sides in funnels of superheated atmosphere. Explosions tore through the sky, the more numerous Federation fighters taking the brunt of it in absolute terms, with one from each flight vanishing. Three to the two Diablos.

The last one launched a missile, slower, heavier, the nuke had the firepower to take out all the remaining fighters. They broke around it, trusting their fellows to get it, as their engines howled in protest at the violent moves. Three fighters snap rolled back, noses centering on the target as it launched all its weapons, having a clear shot now at its true target, three more missiles headed straight for the ICEL flagship. The fighter died, and fighting gravity and their own powerful momentum, the six remaining fighters clawed desperately to bring themselves on course to take out the missiles.

Four Flight was there, though, streaking through the heavens, blazing bright blue on their drives, anti-fighter EM driven autocannon roaring, or perhaps more of a soft whisper, for despite its deadliness, the sound was soft, unassuming to the untrained ear.

One missile, then two, and a third...

One left.

But they got too close, the proximity fuse met itself, and fifty kilotons of nuclear fury wiped out those three fighters not more than three kilometers from the Syrnë Ahcarynca.

All this, of course, attracted much more attention than a ship carrying the Empress of ICEL would ever have wanted, and nearby fighters on both sides, from all over the battlefield, began to vector towards it.

The white-hot flash of the blast no doubt inspires most to be fairly sure that the ICEL warship will be destroyed.

Yet the great irony is that a ship which cannot sustain a direct hit without being very dead indeed (in space, at least) can in fact sustain an extreme indirect hit.

The radiation pulse blasted outwards, more deadly than the overpressure - which sends the massive vessel whirling end over end. Broken bones are a major problem, as the PG fields cannot cope with the sudden increase in multi-axial velocity. But the excited particles thrust outwards in the pulse interact with the highly charged superconductive grid built into the 'hull' of the great warship...

The radiation-defence grid absorbs the vast majority of the highly-charged and zippy particles, but the crew still take an equivalent radiation dose to standing sixty miles from Hiroshima. Every day. For the entirety of a Human lifespan. The Nenyar lose ten or twenty years off of their lives, theoretically; the Humans are by far worse off.

Still, nothing that modern medicine can't help with tremendously. Perhaps not cure - but help with.

Unfortunately, the local electromagnetic field lines distort instantly, thrown into absolute chaos. The MI field shifts configuration - too slow. The great warship becomes a rock for the next five seconds - it's MI field providing no propulsion but protecting the ship still from heat transfer from the tumultuous atmosphere surrounding it. The false vacuum holds.

Weighing millions of tonnes is not an asset, however. The ship literally hits terminal velocity instantly-

-and falls several thousand feet, popping every ear on board-

-but then halts, 'holding' enough not to fall more than a few hundred feet here or there, always rising again. PG fields have snapped into place, reversing momentum.

As the white flash fades, it does not seem to fade all the way. A pure white glow still exists...

Like a strange, glowing, four kilometre long, two kilometre deep and three kilometer wide armadillo with no legs, or else a bizarre angel of vengeance amidst nuclear fire, the Syrnë Ahcarynca is as bright as a small star.

It looks really angry now.

[OOC: I'll backpost a bit on the next one - mainly because the crew will be picking themselves up and tasting lead for now.]

Office of the Imperial President, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Despite what people may think, the job of running a country, while stressful and difficult, is not really that hard all the time. Especially once you’ve been doing it for a while. And so moments come, on a much more regular basis than one might imagine, where there is nothing to do.

This was one such moment, and D’ron watched in horror as the great warship bucked in the blast. For despite all his power, there were also moments where there is nothing one can do.

This was one such moment. His screen blinked insistently the instructions from Central Command, ordering the Syrnë Ahcarynca to come about for Cornith. The massive firepower of that city’s fixed defenses could protect it from the Lost American fighters.

A message light blinked on and the Imperial President of the Federation answered it with a thought, the hologram blazing to life. “Mister President, request permission for First Fleet to implement limited Case Zulu in defense of the Icies.”

D’ron considered, but only for a moment. “Do it.”

Damn it, even if Rialla’s alive, Semir’s gonna kill me.

Over the Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

The blazing star of the Syrnë Ahcarynca was muted in the pilots’ vision, deep in the Haze, toned down to let them concentrate where they needed to. On the enemy.

The nuke, and the obvious damage the ICEL flagship had sustained, had attracted far too much attention from the Diablo Interceptors, almost all Mark Sevens and Sixes. But, the Lost Americans had a problem, specifically, with FleetNet.

When FleetNet made a decision, it was impossible to override it, and frankly, it did not prioritize the way a human might. A human, for example, probably would have continued killing the fighters engaging its personnel.

FleetNet did not. Instead, it ordered immediate disengagement from the dogfighting and strafing runs upon the lower and surface targets, and concluding that the ICEL warship, which had shown no previous hostile intent until engaged, was a bigger threat.

Computers only did what they were programmed to do, after all. And so, nearly two hundred interceptors broke free from what they were doing and streaked after the massive glowing bulge in the upper atmosphere. But this was when the limitations of FleetNet’s programming became clear.

It sent interceptors, armed with weapons designed to kill fighters after the largest warship ever designed by the people of Everlasting Light. Even still, there were enough weapons aboard those fighters to kill something that size. Another nuke, or perhaps a few lucky hits by hyper velocity missiles.

And so, two hundred went after nineteen, for eighteen Federation Longsword fighters stood ready to die, hovering protectively below the injured giant. But to get there, they had to proceed through the entire combat range of those fighters and the warship, and, additionally, escape from the range of the ships they had just been engaging.

Which is when everything else went wrong.

With a crackle of ionized air, the atmosphere of the Earth was split open, as four destroyers from the FSPSN dropped heavily groundward. As they did, their drive fields grew unhealthily bright, falling from artificially synchronized orbit over the Federation, blue light blindingly obvious, in addition to the torrent of other radiation pouring off them.

Which was, admittedly, tiny, compared to only moments before when the nuclear weapon exploded. More Longswords spilled from their launch bays, spinning combatward, adding two more squadrons charging through the shattered, rushing air to protect the Glorious Eagle.

At this range, anyways, there was no time lag as the four EI running the destroyers used TacNet to talk directly with the ICEL flagship. In fact, it was close enough they could literally merge it into their formation, integrating it on the fly.

And just in time, too. For it was then, in the face of all their enemies that the Diablos let fly, concentrating on their largest foe. Nine hundred missiles spawned in under a second.

{-sensing the events near-instantly from orbit, Sarah diverted fighters - unmanned - on hot-standby from six carriers inside Commonality space. They would arrive too slowly, even without their pilots to slow them down, she observed, but the sub-sentient AIs flying the craft under Tatya's strict observation would not care. They'd kill an enemy or two before they left, presuming there was anything left to kill - assuming the Federation didn't order them away.

Sarah then flowed into the glowing warship - it was difficult to punch through the interference generated by the nuke, but not impossible.

She stretched wide, filling the computers rather than merely augmenting them as normal-}

And the warship awoke without its crew. The Syrnë Ahcarynca was aware of psi-warfare tactics that might have been worth employing in other situations, but felt there would be little point in engaging such now. There was a more critical concern: the electrical system required a purge of the zippy particles it had obtained.

She felt her radiation screening rearrange as the air flowed around her mighty electromagnetic field - so potently arranged that not even the nuke had disrupted it in any meaningful way - and she felt various electromagnetic radiation causing insignificant alterations in the field lines. Tiny, infinitely small variations, existing in a frame of time far too short for any organic being to measure - she watched the universe tick underneath her great form, as ever enthralled by the power of having three stars beat hard in her chest in a rapid, staccato rhythm.

Roaring inside her mind with the fury that came so easily when her family was attacked, Sarah - audibly - informs the FSP ships to stay well out of the line of fire...

And unleashes a storm of pinpoint, millisecond burst E-cannon strikes against the incoming fighters to unleash the energy that the nuclear detonation had just so kindly provided the Syrnë Ahcarynca with. The beam strenght varies wildly - some of the white-hot sizzling streams of ionized air and charged particles even bending and arcing, eddying as some of their energy discharges into the atmosphere.

The smell of ozone and nitrous oxide - nitrogen and oxygen fusing as the beams tear through the air - mingled with the taste of lead and burning carbon in her 'nostrils'.

Syrnë Ahcarynca would have smiled, if she had had lips with which to do so; her crew was, for the most part, okay. But the enemy shortly wouldn't be - especially not with her friends alongside her. Happily, she almost 'chirrups' her responses through C-space, half-expecting to encounter Cortana-

And just about remembering to alter direction to the prescribed path. Not that she could have actually forgotten, of course. It just seemed that way.

* * *

Radiation Shelter Alpha, Deck 5, Syrnë Ahcarynca

Rialla had barely felt the shaking that the ship had endured. The rad shelter was built to spin with the ship's motion, cutting down momentum; if enough hard radiation hit the ship that you needed to be in here, you did not need motion sickness to add to radiation sickness. One of the two was quite enough.

As it happened, Rialla had not glanced at the dosimeter on the wall, and was therefore quite sure that it was merely conventional weapons going off outside. Relatively comfortable - excepting the mesh which held her body in place securely and snugly, mitigating g-forces with tiny psuedo-gravitational fields wherever the computer system could keep up, which felt just a little bit too tight - she was not particuarly perturbed...

* * *

Various, Syrnë Ahcarynca

The vessel itself was not damaged greatly - although a few weak spots had been damaged by the influx of energy into the power systems. A couple of consoles had blown out, thanks to their heavy-duty 'fuses' apparently having been faulty. The most sensitive computer equipment was, of course, protected amply.

On the bridge, the crew was mostly okay. A few banged heads here or there - nothing major. Elsewhere, broken bones were a problem. The simultaneous pitching, yawing, and rolling of the ship had thrown people around who weren't secured; response time was slowed most everywhere but the bridge, although a few had had the sense to secure themselves properly.

Captain Dethra scowled. She was not in control, and could not be in control. If she interfered and resumed manual control - she could still issue orders to the computer, naturally - then the ship would not respond quickly enough as not all stations were combat-ready.

So instead, she merely murmoured a single order before passing into unconscious oblivion - the back of her head felt hot and sticky, but she didn't know why...

"Give them hell, girl..."

Sarah might have been disappointed, if she had had time for such a feeling, when Cortana was not there, for even as important an ally as ICEL was, and the danger of letting Rialla die, some other things did distract and were, at the moment, far more important.

Like stopping the ground advance with Marshal Tenai and Admiral Farragut, which the appearance of the Syrnë Ahcarynca had conveniently left uncovered in that sector.

And so, Sarah, again, if she had time, might note the sudden flurry of activity far below as a wave of fire washed out. No doubt she registered what happened next, though. Even as the e-cannon tore into the attacking fighters over that section of the battlefield, the sky was ripped open by something more than the four destroyers. Capital ships unleashed a heavy barrage of precision of hypervelocity missile fire across the sixty kilometer section of frontage, powerful enough that even the portable defenses of the Lost Americans’ Ground Force could not stand up to it without the support of their fighters.

Even if, in the release of energy, she missed the shots, there was no way that she would have missed the impacts. Dust clouds, yes, small ones, but far more obvious were the seismic waves which easily could have been felt in the capitals of all three nations involved.

But even if Cortana was not there, her daughters were, Electronic Intelligences sharing the names of the four ships in which they rode. The Sentient Peoples Ships Waterloo, El Alamein, Agincourt, and Dunkirk. And while Sarah killed her attackers, they defended the mighty starship.

Instant decisions were made, and though it took a fraction of a second, reloads slotted into counter-missile launchers. Far too numerous for a standard engagement, and with point defense lasers far less effective in atmosphere, a single missile blasted from each launcher.

At first. But ever since large projectile weapons had been used to kill smaller foes and not in siege, there had been the concept of the ‘explosive’ round. Pots of burning oil for the Romans through grape and case shot of the Napoleonic Wars through cluster bomblets and the M449A1 155 millimeter shell of what was perhaps erroneously called ‘modern’ times. But this was different, and yet, the same.

The counter-missiles shattered. The effect was more shotgun like than anything as thousands of centimeter diameter projectiles hurled back and forth of the combat zone, between the missiles and their target.

The leakers were easy prey for the fighters backing up their motherships.

And just like that, there were no enemy forces within one hundred kilometers of Rialla’s flagship.

* * * * *

El Alamein could tell something was wrong, even without talking with her sister ships, or even with Sarah, whom she could feel in her ‘mind’, a somewhat distorting experience, for despite the similarities, Sarah was very different from the four of them.

But everything they could tell about the much larger warship indicated that level of just witnessed firepower was far beyond it under normal circumstances. That, combined with the lack of any true radiation shielding, led the EI to an inescapable and horrifying conclusion.

Even if the ship survived, if they did not begin running the people aboard through decontamination, everyone of them aboard was dead. It was easy enough to use their own system to hide something from the interloper, invited though she might be, and TacNet, had it been physical, would have glowed with the sudden bursts of communications.

ICEL was security conscious, and it had been in a Federation war in which the Icies had been hurt. GITH would not due, despite the slightly better equipment available dirtside for what would need to be done.

Rialla, of course, would be treated in the Imperial Medical Center, if she were to agree, and were still alive. The rest of the crew could be treated in the Anglachel’s Fleet Hospital. Suggestions along the lines then flowed, both to Sarah, and to the crew which she protected, if it were even still alive.

Radiation Shelter Alpha, Syrnë Ahcarynca

Rialla knew something was wrong the moment her blood tasted of lead.

Nenya are acutely aware of their own internal functions; it is a byproduct of the minor telekinesis which, despite their (false) claims to the international medical community, are the true reason for their longetivity. The mind restores the body until the part of the brain responsible begins to deteriorate; this occurs when the genetic material becomes too faulty, which usually occurs at around three hundred years of age.

Radiation is a primary cause of this. Nenyar who go into space are aware of this fact; this the very reason their ships are, perhaps, better radproofed than any other that lacks force fields.

And the radproofing had certainly sucked up the vast majorioty of the really hard radiation; but it isn't only hard radiation, the big, zippy, short-lived particles, that can kill.

Rialla, however, is in a unique situation. Although she can taste lead in her veins - the closest taste she can think of, anyway - she is also aware that her body is suddenly...

Different. She feels a vague...

Glow. Panic sets in; she checks the dosimeter, sighs heavily with relief. It's not as bad as she thought; but still, she's frightened. She isn't sure what the upper limit is for a Nenya; there's never really been a major radiation exposure. Iluvauromen, after all, has never engaged in the use of nuclear fission. "By Eru," she murmours, her fear boiling up again.

But her body feels strange; not just glowing, but weak. It's hard to move. She panics - then remembers something from years ago, a conversation she overheard:

"Once I was almost killed. It was the closest I came; I still do not know how I survived, but there were two of us there, and we huddled together close, and pooled minds. And we passed out like that."

She relaxes, or tries to. Maybe this is similar, or the same, or...

She doesn't know. She doesn't care. She reaches in, desperate, and feels the baby; vital, strong, energetic. Not bothered. She sighs in relief, whispers a single word...

"Semir..."

And slips into a trancelike state.

* * *

On the bridge, things aren't much better. The Nenyar aboard seem okay; but the Humans are making themselves very unpopular, what with the vomiting. The ship is extremely well guarded from radiation exposure; it remains to be seen whether or not the crew received a lethal dose, but they're certainly out of the game, at least in the short-term.

Weakly, the captain murmours, "Sarah...dis..."

Unfortunately, she passes out before the message is finished.

* * *

{-but Sarah heard, and understood. The Empress above all else, she recalls, is generally the order of the day, in a situation like this - at least traditionally, if not by the letter of the law, anymore; the Nenyar are strange, strange people, with a thirst for blood still just below the surface. It is not known what would happen should the Empress die, the Empress with whom they are all innately connected. The Ascension means more than most outsiders ever realise; but Sarah understands.

This flashes through her mind in an instant. The next instant, she relays a series of communications outwards: first, highly encrypted, to Command:

All secure.

Second, she fires off a communique to the FSP nearest vessel, encoded, and tagged with a high classification level - for the captain's eyes only, with a tag indicating discretionary need-to-know status:

Request immediate mooring instructions. Medical emergency. Empress Rialla ux-Rihad II is in need of medical attention, medical analysis system suggested prognosis: genetic damage largely correctable, presuming rapid attention and administration of anti-radiation treatment; vitals steady and stable. Human crew likely have received a lethal dose; they will require comforting before death. Nenyar likely require intervention, 55% likelihood of a lethal dose to those in minimally internally shielded areas; radiation penetration was higher than expected: venting of input was too slow. Cause unknown. Damage minimal, all mechanical systems functioning within acceptable limits.

An unusual report, but as she has no crew to report to, she decides allies seem to be the next best thing.}

Waterloo blinked as the report slithered into her systems over the TacNet and could she have gasped in shock at the report, she would have.

In fact, her holographic avatar on the bridge did gasp, and the Captain wheeled to her, for Waterloo had gasped before the communications officer said “Captain, eyes only for you from Sarah.”

The message came up on one of the main screens which surrounded the command chair, but Waterloo knew what the orders would be once the Captain had time to read the message. But time was of the essence right now, and merely human reflexes would not suffice…

So she acted without orders as the Captain began to glance down at the screen which had glowed to life.

By the time her commander had read the first word, the reply, with explicit instructions, was sent to Sarah through the emergency linkage to the Tactical Network.

Take the Syrnë to the Anglachel in orbit. Dispatch the worse cases immediately to Imperial Medical Center in Griffin by swiftest means necessary. Dispatch the Empress in same shuttle.

--Datastream--AccessCodes/RestrictedAirSpace; AccessCodes/ImperialHouseLandingGrid;AuthorizationCodes/ HypersonicOverlandMovement--TerminateDatastream--

It was some long moments before the Captain spoke, at least to the EI. “Waterloo, you’ve read this?” At the holo avatar’s nod, he continued. “Take care of it.”

Without hesitation, she replied. “Done, sir.”

{Sarah watched;

The Nenyar are often referred to as pompous, arrogant, and self-righteous. Yet a trait that is rarely commented on by others is their capacity for compassion; now, many of the older Nenya well aware that their temporary 'immortality' would likely soon come to an end, were busying themselves ensuring that the Humans on board were packed - there was little time to be too gentle - into the three large dropships that the immense ship carried. There were not enough beds - so they tore them out, by hand, from the infirmary. The doctors were all sick already; the infirmary was shielded, but apparently someone had left the emergency exit open - or the door itself had failed. Some of the systems on board had been pretty fried when the incoming radiation hadn't been fully shunted to the E-cannons; apparently the energy transfer system had worked perfectly, well capable of absorbing the volume of input that it had; but that electrical energy had had not enough places to go, and the storage systems were overwhelmed. Unprotected circuits - and there were some - blew out quite promptly. There were casualties from that, too.

The captain - having taken a stimulant, for she felt very drowsy, and had a terrible gash on the back of her head: that was why her chair had been sticky - was refusing to enter the shuttle.

"Bullshit," she murmoured to a junior officer. "I'm fine. Get the rest in. Sarah said only the worst - but everybody goes. Sarah can take care of the ship perfectly well..."

Her voice trailed off. "And I'll be just fine here."

Fortunately, the ship did not carry a large crew complement. Sixty people can fit in two shuttles quite easily - and even with only eighteen people evacuating them, the operation moved smoothly.

Rialla, unconscious - or, rather, in a meditative trance - is carefully laid down.

Yet there is some hesitation - and, amazingly, she is taken back out of the shuttle by the Imperial Palace Guard. They vanish down the hallway, away from the bay, to the astonished stares of those crew not yet in the shuttles.

And then the last are in, away, the shuttles ascending quickly and away from the ship...

On board, still, as the vessel begins to ascend itself, are the Imperial Palace Guard, the captain, and Rialla...

Rialla herself was unconscious. Unfortunately, so is the captain.

And so when the vessel arrives at the Anglachel, Sarah sends a somewhat annoyed message:

We're here, obviously. Rialla is still aboard, and the Imperial Palace Guard (who were protected from the radiation by their armour, apparently), are refusing to allow any foreign medical staff near her. The reason for this decision is classified, and I am not at liberty to discuss it. However, the crew should already be arriving at the Imperial Medical Center in Griffin.

However, be advised that the Nenya arriving there do not require medical attention, beyond bedrest (they appear very weak, although I am not certain why) - moreover, they have already decided will not consent to examinations. It is doubtful that any of them have received lethal doses; they are not displaying any of the primary symptoms of radiation sickness. The Humans, however, are. Some of them, mostly those posted in the area of the ship closest to the exposure, are already experiencing nausea and weakness, strongly suggesting a lethal dose.}

By the time the large ICEL ship had docked with the Anglachel, Cortana was able to bring herself back into the loop. She had been running too many things to worry about something her daughters could take care of on their own.

Besides, they would not look kindly at ‘mother’ watching over their shoulders. But now she could respond to Sarah herself, as part of her watched the shuttles swiftly descending towards Griffin.

>> Refuse to let our medical personnel treat her? I don’t suppose you’ve reminded them that those same foreign medical personnel saved Rialla’s life a number of years ago? <annoyed sigh> Are they going to let us take her out of the ship even? Or the captain? Will they let me treat her until one of your medical teams arrives?

>> Beyond that, what can we do to help the Syrnë, or you? I’m picking up some fairly serious, but not critical, internal damage and power flux through Anglachel’s scanners. <grin> If you still need to drain some excess energy, one of the nearby Capellas can probably take the hit if you’re nice about it.

>> You sent the entire crew to Imperial Medical Center? D’ron’s gonna think that’s wonderful. How many house guests is he gonna have now?

Following these comments, Cortana sent Sarah a description of what the crew could expect once they landed. Panicking them inside the small shuttles could be deady.

Meanwhile, corridors on the massive battlestation were emptying of personnel, as the EI moved swiftly to clear a path between the berth of the allied starship and the nearest medical bay, which was also emptied of personnel, in case the Imperial Guard felt a desire to move the Empress.

It was a bit later, perhaps, as those who judge things at such an accelerated time scale would tell, that Sarah would receive another data stream from Cortana. This one contained a number of ideas and designs for incorporating heavier radiation shielding into the ICEL warships, which would give them protection nearly as strong as the Federation warships, offset only by the differences in their drives.

* * * * *

When the two shuttles were swallowed minutes later by the gaping maw of the underground hanger behind Imperial House, the doctors were listening to no one aboard them.

Hopefully already primed by the instructions sent to Sarah, they slapped temporary seals over the hatchways as they opened and pumped in a cooling white mist. Cooling in more ways than one, in fact. In addition to helping cleanse the body of radiation, both internally and externally, it was also a painkiller, an anti-nausea drug, and a sedative, along with a broad spectrum antibiotic. This was the Federation’s standard treatment for radiation sickness.

Despite Sarah’s prognosis, the doctors refused to give up hope, and waited the three minutes it would take for the mist to take effect. Then they went in. Everyone was placed on a hovering stretcher and floated on Cyrano’s control to the Medical Center deep under the house.

The Nenyar, identified only by the shape of their external aural organs, were left in a corner of the medical center and underwent no examinations, beyond the automatic scan as they entered the med center to confirm they were not in danger, as they had requested, asleep on their floating pallets.

The humans, on the other hand, were hooked up to a multitude of machines, which quickly began to process them. The doctors, for the most part, confirmed Sarah’s bleak prognosis. The ones that they might still save got the help first, for there were far more patients than doctors, and far more patients than equipment as well.

Cellular degeneration was proceeding at an accelerated rate, due to the high radiation levels from the American bomb. The two worst cases that might still live were placed into decontamination chambers, which would basically clean them cell by cell, repairing the damage with retrovirii if there was enough time.

Others still were just given the retrovirii through injections, while their blood pumped continuously through cleansing machines. The doctors would save everyone if they could, but all too soon, the keening wail of a heart rate monitor going flatline would be echoed over and over.

Fate, sometimes, can be cruel indeed.

The IPG officer in charge - who had followed the letter of the Law in preventing the Empress from receiving treatment - was nontheless regretting that choice. He peered at her unmoving form, biting his lip beneath the helmet of his full body armour.

"Perhaps we should let them move her," his second-in-command stated softly.

"No," was the blunt response.

No Imperial Palace Guardsman had ever failed to carry out the letter of the Law. They were selected because they were men of the utmost honour - brutal men, it was true, and in many cases cold-hearted men - but men of honour nontheless. 47d was no exception. He no longer had a name or family, but was merely alive to service the Imperial Family and the Palace in defence; he believed in this very strongly indeed.

Although he did play the violin, sing, enjoyed quilting, and composed sonnets in his spare time.

The quilting was all he failed to admit to.

But his keen eyes - enhanced by the painful but useful neural interface linked into the visual observation unit sewn into his helmet - noticed something.

Yes, fate could be cruel indeed.

Radiation exposure had never been recorded with a Nenya, but anyone medically versed might have guessed the outcome. Few outside the Commonality were aware of the true nature of Nenya infants; it was well-known (and often disbelieved) that Nenya were tutored in vitro, but it was not well-known that birth was always forced in the Imperial Line.

The Imperial Family, after all, were almost always genetically defective in the particular part of the genome responsible for directing the body during gestation; Rialla carried those same genes.

And only a telekinetic could commence the birthing. Usually there was an elaborate ceremony, albeit a private one; however, nobody quite knew what it was that the telekinetic did.

47d now had a very good idea, as he watched the Empress' belly ripple. "By Eru," he murmoured, "I think she's..."

Rialla's eyes snapped open, muscles tensing as she springs to her feet. The IPG step back warily.

Glaring, eyes more fiercely amber than usual - and sending out waves of emotin, Call after Call instinctively sent, seeking for her mate - Rialla snarls at the guards: "And why, in the name of all that's Holy, am I still on this damnable ship?"

* * *

The Nenya slumber peacefully. If they were to be scanned, it would be noteworthy that despite their anaesthatised state, their brains are particuarly active in areas associated with their extra-sensory abilities. Further, blood samples would indicate strange objects floating amongst the blood plasma; objects which rapidly decompose when removed from the subject body.

Unfortunately (and also fortunately), the FSP doctors are true to their word. Perhaps the scanners noted some of it.

One of the Nenyar, however, awakes with a start, peering around wide-eyed. She shudders at the scene, but hauls herself to her feet: she wears medical blue.

Pawing at the closest doctor, she states very softly, but with not much room for argument, considering tone: "I'm the Chief Medical Officer...was...tell me, what do you need from me?"

* * *

{Sarah considered for long microseconds before answering: "The captain refuses to leave the ship unless the Empress and the Imperial Palace Guard do so. Superstition, I believe. The captain must be last off.

"I would dearly love to tell you the reasons why the Empress cannot be treated by foreign hands, at the moment, Cortana - Eru knows I owe you enough - but as you know, the Nenyar are very strong on certain things. Traditions, taboos, Law, honour. This is...a very unusual situation."

Yet Sarah's thoughts are interrupted by a desperate data squirt from one the IPG men: Rialla is being moved. Now.

"Ah. Cortana, I have some news. The IPG have relented, I think-"

A mental gasp. "I have permission to tell you that the Empress Rialla ux-Rihad II is about to go into labour. This information is strictly prohibited. A path will need to be cleared, or the IPG might get very...unhappy. The birth cannot be witnessed by any but a doctor."

A pause.

"This...is new. Few are even aware that an Imperial Heir is about to be born; only the immediate members of the Imperial Family and certain members of the security establishment. Tradition dictates that the Imperial Heir be born in utmost secrecy, and that their identity remain secret until the announcement of their Ascension and Coronation," Sarah notes, with an odd little, nervous laugh. "And no Imperial Heir has ever been born outside Iluvauromen."}

Doctor Montgomery whirled, startled, at the touch and the voice. The accent registered, certainly not from the Federation.

And then her green eyes met amber ones. Ah. The words replayed in her mind. She smiled slightly. “I’m not sure what you can do to help us.” Her hand dipped into her pocket, extracting a small earpiece. “This will let you talk with Cyrano, the AI. If you can check on your counterparts,” a wave indicated the still sleeping Nenyar, “it would relieve us of some worry. I assume they’ll have no objection to your examining them.”

She arched an elegant brown eyebrow in question, her expression displaying her rushed state, though.

* * * * *

Cortana would have blinked, if she had been displaying any avatar. But at the moment, she existed purely in thought, in electrons. Understood, Sarah. The corridor to the nearest med bay is clear. Anglachel will serve as the doctor through her avatar, if that is acceptable…

New data flowed through the TacNet, alerting Cortana to a change in status. On second thought, I have a better idea, if it works… She dropped silently, for what probably seemed an eternity to Sarah.

It was enough time for the IPG, Rialla, and the ship’s captain to take two steps, though. They were met by the gleaming form of Cortana’s avatar in the hallway, though, to guide them to the med bay. It was not her, of course, but Anglachel knew they would need a face they could trust.

And her mother was busy.

Connections blazed through TacNet, a hurried modification to the avatar software taking place, along with the holographic emitters in D’ron’s briefing room deep in the heart of Imperial House.

* * * * *

Elsewhere, deep underground, in Imperial House, Cortana appeared in the medical center before the Nenyan doctor could respond to the question from the short human woman. “I need your help, now. This takes precedence over the crew. Follow me.” Her gleaming purple holographic eyes peered hard at the only conscious Nenyan, trying to convey her purpose without speaking aloud. Sarah had made the need for secrecy perfectly clear. Then she moved, unable to waste any time.

There would unfortunately, on the Anglachel, be rumors among the crew. Nothing could be done about that. No one would know anything. Cortana had already buggered the local lifesign scanners.

* * * * *

The modifications would be completed by the time Cortana took her first step leading the ship’s doctor. It was mostly a matter of programming. Hopefully, the doctor was not too grievously damaged by her experience.

The fast elevator shot upwards, ten stories in a matter of seconds, the doors flashing open in the med bay of the Anglachel. Of course, it was all obviously holographic, except a small table with two black gloves on it. “Put them on. They’ll let you interact. There’s a system delay of a third of a second. It’s the best I could do in a hurry.”

* * * * *

Undoubtedly when they arrived at the med bay orbiting high overhead, the IPG would be very surprised to see the doctor from the ship they had just left standing there waiting for them.

But then, when she moved, it would become clear that it was a holographic overlay over a humanoid avatar of some sort, the actual form too obscured to identify by the hologram.

The doctor began to speak, then put her hand to her head, head cocking to one side in the manner of a dog hearing a sound far away and zeroing in on it. For a moment, glances towards the unconscious Nenyar; then shakes her head slowly. At this point, Cortana appears; the woman barely registers surprise, so focused elsewhere is she.

Refocusing on the here and now, she simply nods, understanding far better than Cortana likely expects. Even at this distance, the Call from Rialla had been loud - even though not aimed at her, she was a strong receiving telepath. She wondered if anyone else had heard the Call; she shivered internally at the thought. Security would be breached, no doubt about it; as a Loyalist - believing fervently in the sanctity of the Throne - she felt disturbed.

She tried not to let this show on her face.

"I will follow," she states simply. "But please, I need a single moment. - Doctor, ensure that the Nenyar have fruit juice when they awake - or something very like. I am not allowed to explain exactly why; just that fruit juice contains essential molecules that their bodies will need when they regain consciousness."

She tilts her head, somewhat regally. "Now I am ready."

With that, she follows.

* * *

The IPG officer in charge was greatly wary. Something of this magnitude was rare; like the assassination attempt a year ago. Of course, that had been easily foiled; but Rialla, he knew, would already be Calling to her Consort.

At this distance, the Call would be very loud indeed; any strong receiving telepath in direct line-of-sight between Rialla and Semir would have felt it to some degree. Only the Nenyar would know what it meant; and some would chatter.

The Empress was pregnant! An heir would be born - in foreign territory.

As the presiding officer, he would likely be assigned to the girl; she would rely on him for defence as much as her 'parents'. He would be cast as an uncle, to the eyes of the world, if they cared to watch a simple young Nenya infant grow up.

Yet they might know who she was.

Irrational fear gripped him. He could not protect her, even now.

Suicide seemed an option for a moment; but he realised his CO back home would kill him if he took that route. Too cowardly. Grumbling mentally, he followed, hoping the Empress would not taste the colour of his emotions.

* * *

Rialla was too busy Calling to notice much of anything. Semir! Semir!

It was not conscious. Her body knew who to call; she added the words to what she knew was happening. In fact, the child was Calling as well; she wanted her father, was what she wanted.

Rialla tried not to sob, managed to hold herself upright as she walked. She would do this proudly...and just pray that Semir got here in time.

* * *

As the lift begin to shoot upwards, the doctor sniffed loudly. "Damn radiation. I taste like lead."

* * *

The IPG men are indeed surprised to find the doctor here; didn't she evacuate with the others?

But they are relieved. Indeed, they crack open their suits, removing their helmets and placing them on the floor.

Rialla looks a little pale (which is pale indeed, considering her natural skin tone is what would be very pale for a Human), but otherwise okay. Shudders run through her as the doctor leads her to the bed; she murmours something in High Nenya, then turns to the IPG men-

"Begin," she whispers.

And then the singing starts.

The lamed ICEL flagship hung limpet like on the side of the massive station which slowly orbited the planet below, even its massive bulk next to invisible against the monstrous station.

Fifty kilometers of black and dark green mottled battlesteel and armored plastic hid the black ship like a mother protecting her young. Or perhaps the friend of her child, who had been hurt while playing in her backyard. Repair remotes hovered questioningly nearby, ready to assist if they were needed.

Outside, an First Task Group, First Fleet, swung into a formation around the space station. Fighters launched and filled the orbit. All of them. Then the station’s fighters launched as well. All of those.

Cortana had asked D’ron to trust her now, that she could not explain, that she would never be able to explain, at least, probably not while D’ron himself lived. He had merely nodded, and did what was needed.

The urgency and need in a voice rarely colored by emotion was too powerful for him to ignore. And so, two hundred thousand members of the Federation Military Forces protected two lives, not knowing who they served, but only that they served. And that was enough, for now.

Because the Federation had a need, and their task was to answer.

* * * * *

The bursts of light faded from behind her eyes as Lesley shot awake from her afternoon nap, but the sounds still echoed in her head. She glanced outside the bedroom window, overlooking the terrace behind Imperial House, and smiled as the bricks advanced around the emptiness of the ground.

It was always interesting to watch that happen. That was when the first four fighters dropped through the steadily growing opening, and she blinked. D’ron hasn’t gone anywhere. I would’ve known. So why was the Guard Squadron gone?

She closed her eyes, letting her mind push out the physical distractions, trying to remember what had awoken her. It felt…

…familiar.

A word formed in her mind. Semir. She shook her head. That was silly. The gentle swish of her hair on the back of her neck calmed her, slowing her perceptions…

Rialla. Semir. The words kept popping into her head. And then it connected. Her eyes snapped open. The last time she had felt this, she had been at their wedding. But that was wrong. There were no Nenyans for four thousand kilometers, and certainly not Rialla and Semir.

Standing, she moved to the bedroom desk, and sat in the chair before it, and activated the communications console with a thought, connecting her immediately to her husband’s office.

“What’s going on?” She got straight to the point when he answered, his eyes aimed slightly away from the screen, towards something else.

“There’s been a situation on the warfront, why?” D’ron seemed confused, of course, he lacked even the most rudimentary empathic abilities. Which is really all that Lesley’s were.

But even still, she could feel something.

“I felt something, different. Something loud.”

D’ron’s attention immediately refocused on Lesley. Her sensitivity to things had been growing since they had traveled to EOTED, when it had still been EOTED, and the growth rate of her abilities had skyrocketed since she had become pregnant, continuing even once the child was moved to the uterine replicator. “How so?”

“I don’t know. It was like the time in Ma-Nenya, during the Coronation, when I passed out, except this time, it woke me up.” She drew in a deep breath. “Did whatever happened involve the Nenyans? And are they nearby now?”

“Well, yeah, there’s a whole passel of them down in the med center, actually.” D’ron frowned. “Rialla was apparently coming to visit me, and they tried to cut above the fighting. Unfortunately, they attracted the wrong kind of attention. One of the Americans went after them with a nuke.”

Lesley gasped. “And Semir?”

D’ron blinked. “As far as I know, he’s in ICEL still.” His blink turned into a very odd look. “And Rialla’s fine, other than radiation exposure, as far as I know.” He turned his head away from the screen and apparently glared at something, or someone. He addressed whoever it was he was looking at. “Isn’t that correct?”

“Of course it is, Mister President,” Cortana’s voice echoed from the display.

As he turned back, Lesley could see that her husband was scowling. “Apparently, I’m not cleared for whatever information it is that Cortana has, other than to know that everything is okay.” He forced a smile. “But I suppose I’ll live with it.”

Lesley smiled at her husband, sensing his mood. “Should we go see about the soldiers in the medcenter?”

D’ron nodded. “Yes, we should. But not quite yet. Let the doctors do what they can and what they must without interference. I’ll stay here for a time and monitor the situation. I’ll meet you down there in an hour. That’s when they should start to wake up.” Sadness passed over his face. “Those that made it.”

Rialla felt no pain. In fact, she felt at peace. Her body was, now, exactly what it had been intended to be: perfect. Inactive gene sequences ceased to be inert, bringing the entire plethora of her Quendi heritage to bear: there would be no pain.

And it would be a perfect birth.

As always - there is no infant mortality for the Nenyar...

Almost none.

Rialla's mind - combined now with the uncontrolled force of her daughter's mind, too - Called again. Louder. She felt Semir's push in response, felt his desperation to be with her - and felt that he would not make it. His reassurance warmed her - and his suggestion shocked her.

But he was right. Familiarity...

She gripped the hand of the Healer, tightly - or it felt as if she did. She did not, physically, but the two women were by now already intrinsically linked by the ceremony itself; midwife and Lady and child were all exchanging information, now, and so all were equally present - even at distance. "Get them here," she ordered.

It was a tone rarely used by any of the Imperial Family; cultivated through the centuries, the Voice of Power was enhanced by their empathic abilities.

Historically, at least.

This time, it did not need any enhancement. Rialla's eyes were as unyielding as iron - and the subliminally fast non-conversational communication between Nenyar took care of the rest.

The Healer turned, the melodious soft singing of the men world-renowned for brutality a strange counterpoint to the wonder in the eyes of the Empress lain on the bed. The Healer stared at Cortana. "Your President and his Consort. The Empress and the High King wish them to witness the birth. Tell them to come swiftly - her daughter is impatient, and of potent mind." She lowers her voice. "And all is not normal. We should not prolong this, but I feel her daughter will not come until the mother is comfortable." She nods, curtly, and without waiting for confirmation (somewhat imperiously), the Healer turns back to Rialla.

And then she sings.

Unlike the Guards, the Healer is talented in this art in a great way; the Guards, considering their occupation, have wonderfully rich singing voices - but the Healer is a world apart. Her voice rises and falls as she sings, imparting emotional content to any within a certain distance. It is an uplifting song - similar to the bonding ceremony performed at the Coronation, it would seem - but more potent.

One might almost say magical.

Of course, it isn't. The Healer is not merely a telekinetic - but a projecting empath.

With sung words coaxing the child forth, they teach with the taste of their emotions, imparting stability to the new life.

And all wait.

Cortana nodded, her expression curious at the Healer’s instructions. But she knew whose domain this was, and hers a medbay was not, despite her complete knowledge of most sentient being anatomy. So, while a small part of her attention remained focused on the holographic briefing room, now medbay, sensors feeling the subtle EMG variations that marked the presence of a strong telempathic, more parts of her attention went to different tasks.

The tiniest silver of her vast consciousness pondered Lesley’s reaction to being referred to as D’ron’s ‘Consort’, though she knew no offense had been intended. The rapid conclusion was reached that it was best if she never found out.

A hologram popped to life in the Residence, startling the half dressed First Lady as she changed into something more appropriate than D’ron’s shirt she had been napping in. Glimmering purple and crimson, her soft soprano stopped the redhead with her jumpsuit still around her hips. Lesley’s eyes widened at the flares of blood red that slithered over the avatar body, those that only appeared in the greatest times of urgency, and her green eyes met purple ones.

“What is it?”

“As soon as you’re dressed, head to the hanger. You’re needed on the Anglachel now. Rialla needs you…” The hologram’s voice continued to explain as Lesley got into motion once more, finishing tugging on the pale green nano-cloth.

At the same time, another hologram appeared with a flash in D’ron’s office, which it had just left moments before, causing D’ron to look up sharply from the reports of the most recent battle that had resulted in the current mess. The crimson and the sudden surprise appearance after so recently vanishing was enough to shock him into speech. “Go.”

“Empress Rialla is requesting your and Lady Lesley’s presence aboard the Anglachel asap.”

D’ron’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I didn’t think I was supposed to know what was going on?”

The hologram shrugged, the EI echoing the human gesture to show her lack of knowledge as to what was going as well. “That appears to have changed.”

“What’s gone wrong?”

“Nothing.” The EI was silent for a slightly longer moment than would be the normal break between words, not noticeable to human ears, but readily apparent to one who operated on her time scale. “You should be able to find everything I know in your implant download.”

D’ron blinked as he just barely scratched the surface, but the information was far too important to leave fallow, and the Iccies were the Federation’s most reliable and long term ally. He stood with a swish of fabric from his cape as it left the huge black chair he worked from.

* * * * *

D’ron had met Lesley in the hanger, pulling her green clad form into a brief hug as they headed up the Forbidden Honor’s ramp, the false hanger ceiling (or false ground from the other side) already peeling back to reveal the nearly cloudless sky.

Behind them, black wraiths of semi-powered armored had flowed smoothly up the ramp, the three member Presidential Detail, headed by First Lieutenant Andrew Walker and Lesley’s bodyguard, Second Lieutenant Lois Resnick.

The journey to the overhead station had been quick, even accompanied by the Presidential Guard Squadron, recalled to flight just as they had managed to finish landing, and it was some twenty five minutes after being informed that Rialla desired the presence of the First Family that the Imperial President’s personal spacecraft harddocked to the massive battlestation.

It took three minutes for he and Lesley, dressed in solid black and green respectively, to arrive at the medical bay where Rialla was, followed by their guards.

Sensing the paranoia flowing off Andrew, D’ron turned and fixed him with a hard gaze, brown eyes chips of flint, and spoke in a voice that brooked no arguments. “Wait outside. All four of you.” It was no doubt bad enough that D’ron and Lesley were armed, but as they stepped through the sterile field in the doorway, D’ron stripped out his pistol and set it aside as he approached, his eyes fixed on the scene before him.

He heard a matching chink of noise as Lesley set her own pistol aside, and both of them approached with empty holsters, stopping about two meters from the bed to allow the Healer plenty of room. “What do we need to do?” he questioned softly, trying not to interrupt.

The eyes of the Nenyar had been closed for some time, focused. Preparing. Singing their song as they wrapped warmth and joy around the life about to enter the world, entombed in the comfort of fellowship. A nagging, instinctive concern at distance from home perhaps soured the situation somewhat - but not by much. Joy was the overriding sense in the room, to anyone adept enough to feel it - and it wouldn't take much of a psi rating to be able to do so.

And even failing that, the usually pale Nenyar are flushed red. Apparently, the psionic effort requires increased blood flow.

Rialla's eyes snapped open first. Always amber, they are now not merely amber. They are gold.

"Observe," she states, without breaking the song. The word is suffused with energy - similar to the sort observed many thousands of miles away in a land called Angagor, with a different, more savage use. But none present know of such things, and so none could make the connection.

The joyous sensation intensifies - even a non-empath could perceive it, although perhaps only as a strange improvement of mood. A seeming lightening of gravity manifested by the heart.

And then there is a presence in the room; a presence that, clearly, isn't really physically here. Semir-randil's mind impinges on the mood, his song unheard but somehow stronger, sweeter than the others. Coaxing warmth.

The infant returned to it's journey - a sensation of sadness, then pain. The head emerged first, in the traditional humanoid fashion. In fact, physically, the birth appears no different to a Human gestation, but with one critical difference: Rialla is clearly in no pain. Her eyes remain open, but distant, unfocused; the Healer and the Guards likewise. The Guards are oblivious to the entrance of D'ron and Lesley, it would seem - at least, they don't appear to be responding to them at all.

Now.

The voice is strong, and it is undoubtedly Semir's. Amplified by the receptive minds present, it perhaps is 'audible' several meters outwards from Rialla - it's a firm, fatherly insistance.

Okay, is the far weaker, but surprisingly un-infantlike response from the child. Rialla's stomach ripples - the first indication of an actual, full-strength contraction. But she doesn't wince - in fact, she smiles. "Now," she whispers, softly, joyously.

A Guard moves forward, an expression of surprise pausing over his features momentarily. He kneels before his Empress, Adam's apple bobbing slightly.

And without a cry or a murmour from the newborn, the Guard accepts the newborn into his arms.

Semir's smile is not visible, but it can easily be felt.

The feelings were indeed there for even D’ron, and he wraps an arm around Lesley’s shoulders, as she is nearly disabled by the feelings. She is unable to dampen her abilities to any significant extent, yet she is no where near passing out.

But she is leaning heavily against her husband, her breathing rather ragged, and if it hadn’t been for the expression of utter joy D’ron saw on her face (similar, but different to one he had seen the night before), and the feelings of joy lightening his own heart, he might have been concerned for her.

But whatever was happening, it was obviously good.

Admittedly, the last time he had seen a baby born had been nearly twenty years previous, his younger sister, separated by thirteen years. But this looked familiar, at least, and at the last second, he thought one coherent thought before the joy swept it all away.

He shut down the sense recorders in his implants, and in Lesley’s, with a sub vocalized command code. There was no need for that type of record of this. Only physical, fallible memory would do for such an event as this.

Somehow, it just seemed the right thing to do.

It would seem there are more differences than immediately obvious, regarding the birthing event itself: firstly, there does not appear to be an umbilical cord to cut. Secondly, Nenya births are clearly quite a great deal less... messy. In fact, compared to Human births, they're positively clean. Exactly what makes this so, of course, isn't immediately obvious...

And the infant does not need to be wiped down. Nor are her eyes closed: they are quite, quite open. And astonishingly intelligent.

"Ma," she burbles, not particuarly coherently. The word - obviously spoken in High Nenya - is not clear, but hidden amongst the errors of tongue and vocal cords.

But the word is there all the same. Apparently, the speaking infant 'myth' is not really a myth - Nenya really do know how to talk at birth.

But equally clearly, their bodies just aren't caught up to that mental capacity.

Still, there's something very odd about her eyes, as the guard holds her up to Rialla - triumphantly, it would seem. "A girl," he pronounces, uselessly. Clearly Rialla would have known that already - probably mere tradition. "An Empress shall reign again. And what shall she be named, Your Highness?"

Rialla smiled, softly...

And then her eyes widened. She gasped. She saw her daughter's eyes...

Which were utterly normal, except the irises. Which were blue.

She went on, regardless: "So do I name her: Rellas ux-Rihad, who shall be the First to bear that name." And then she swallowed, confusion settling in - a confusion that does is not mirrored in the vague presence that is Semir.

Which only served to deepen Rialla's own confusion.

Sparks of golden amber shimmered among the ebon of space, while planets of plants and rock looked on…

Life began and sparkled, the blue emerald of a life bearing world, water covered…

Water among fire. That was D’ron’s first thought when he saw the eyes of the child, the piercing blue that burned with inhuman intelligence. Then the weight pressing on his arms lessened as Lesley began to recover as the nearly oppressive feeling of joy receeded.

To be replaced in the young empath with a feeling of confusion, though much less powerful and overwhelming. She tied into her communications implant, unwilling to interrupt the obviously very ritualistic birth of the next Empress. D’ron, love, what’s wrong?

I don’t know. But I do know the child’s eye shouldn’t be that color.

What’s wrong with blue eyes?

Lesley had concentrated much more on domestic affairs since marrying the President, and obvious had either never learned or had forgotten one important fact. Nenyans always have amber eyes. D’ron told her such. Just that. The eyes should be amber, like her mother’s and her father’s. Every Nenyan has amber eyes.

Then why does the child have blue eyes? Is it not Nenyan?

I have no idea. But at a guess, since we were invited up here for some reason, we’ll find out soon enough.

[OOC: Since I'm posting to this not long after posting elsewhere where Semir is somewhere else altogether - namely in orbit - I should put in a little continuuity note. This - the birth of the heir to the throne as a whole - occurs prior to the TNE conference in said thread (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, then this note is irrelevant anyway, since you wouldn't have been at all confused), in a sort of 'mirky time' thing, since I've not been on as much as is preferred and suchlike.]

IC:

Semir's journey here had been swift. It had been swift primarily because his own aircraft had been within relatively easy access - although extricating himself from the visit to The Resurgent Dream was somewhat disappointing. Or would be, under certain circumstances; for although rationally he was aware that he would have been irritated to leave otherwise, he was not so now.

And he had been aware for most of the journey of Rialla and his daughter were safe. He felt guilty, too - guilty that the loss of life that had preceded the birth of the child had not been foreseen.

He didn't know who the hell had come up with the intelligence suggesting that the vessel wouldn't be attacked, but for a moment, he had wished that capital punishment was still applicable in the way it had been under the old Eternal Flame regime.

And then he had felt guilty at that, too.

But nothing could touch his pride. He had - shocking as the idea was - never ever ever managed to conceive a child of his own, in all his long years. It was partly why his rule...

But memory was the past. The present was of the utmost importance.

And so time flew, effectively. The time with his child was all-too-brief, but her mental contact was constant anyway - and the blue eyes sparked a memory.

He sighed softly as he strode into the room where Rialla lay, comfortably propped on the bed - of course - even though the birth had not been strenuous. His insistence, of course. Her acceptance.

She did tend to stay in bed too long anyway, if left to her own devices...

He caught the warm glow of his smile, in his mental fist, and cast it to her. The Nenya equivalent of "I love you," actually - although they spoke the words often enough, in just about every tone imaginable...

A small, rueful - internal grin - also projected. There were others present, here, in this place.

The name was familiar. He did not know the room - he had been lead here, and had not paid attention to the route, here, amongst 'family'. Almost literally, in fact, if one took into account passage of time and lineage...

There was probably a link of some sort between Vilya Elenosto and D'ron. Almost certainly. Just as Aglar ux-Rihad was...

"So," Semir said softly, gazing at his wife for a moment longer before smiling at his hosts, "I trust that you felt at least some of the event. Proximity does that. We did try to shield - everyone outside the room. When I say we, I of course mean myself and some... colleagues.

He smiles, faintly. "A strange speech, I'm sure, from a man who just became a father. But there are questions to be answered..."

A lightning-fast exchange between Rialla and Semir, unspoken, but tangible in expression and change of body language.

"...such as why my beautiful daughter has such wonderfully deep blue eyes. As you know, I'm rather old. I am, in fact, first generation, in that I was one of the first of my species to actually be born - rather than Changed. We were once Noldor, you understand, but we were Changed to meet our own destiny - we do not know what it is, unfortunately. Whether we go to the Halls or whether we join Men in their Doom - none know. But it is known that none of the first generation conceived again after thirty years had past from the date of their birth.

"I, then, have never been a father, in my thousands of years of existance." A small smile. "An entire Kingdom fell for that, once," he says quietly, and ruefully - eyes distant for an instant.

"But my daughter is special. She is... foretold. We of this room, the Healer, the Imperial Guard, and twelve others will know of this. And you must know this."

He sighs, heavily. "If any word escapes, we will know who let it do so; for all who share the secret are open at meeting to any of the others, and all outside this room are Nenyar.

"If that word escapes, and the secret of her identity and her... differences... becomes know...

"It would be very bad, shall we say. Certain powers would want her. They would crave what she could bring them - for reasons I cannot begin to explain. Especially," a pause, "The Enemy."

D’ron had met Semir in the hanger himself, greeting the High King as he emerged from his aircraft, but failed to offer his hand to shake, recalling, just briefly that contact poisons were a favored method of assassination in the land of Everlasting Light. Instead he brought his hand up in a Roman-style salute-cum-greeting combined with a nod of his head.

Trailed by Andrew, he led Semir through the underground, switchback pathways and to the elevators which swiftly carried them up into Imperial House, specifically, directly to the Residence, for, despite all the guest rooms in Imperial House, the actual Residence itself had its own guest room.

He had had a devil of a time talking the IPG into bringing Rialla down to the surface and installing her in Imperial House, but once Rialla had intervened, the matter had been settled, especially as it was fairly clear normal security procedures no longer applied to D’ron and Lesley.

D’ron had flown them down in the Forbidden Honor himself, taking it on manual control, after politely asking the EI, in the hearing of the IPG, to disengage from the systems as much as possible. She was still monitoring flight, of course, to keep D’ron from killing them, but it was

By the time they had left the medbay aboard the battlestation, the child had fortunately been asleep, and the Presidential Guard had no chance to observe anything that was amiss, though a verbal instruction from D’ron informed them that they did not see a baby.

Once he and Semir had arrived in the Residence, Andrew had peeled off, staying outside the bedroom Rialla had been granted. Normally, given the other people in the room, his professionalism would have made him stay there, but D’ron gave him no choice in the matter. That left D’ron, Lesley, and Cortana, the only three who knew about the oddity of the child’s eyes, in the room with the Iccies. Admittedly, Cortana was present as solid avatar, for once, a rarity itself in Imperial House, and it was doubtful even Semir could get past her if there was some mischief planned.

But D’ron stood carefully on entering the room, and gave a quiet, yet audible order while Semir greeted his wife privately. “Cyrano, deactivate all security and recording systems in this room.”

The melodious voice of the household AI came back instantly. “Done.”

“And take yourself elsewhere,” D’ron continued.

“Of course.” There was a very subtle change in the lighting as the AI withdrew its presence. And that point, D’ron joined Lesley, well, more, pulled her out of the chair she was in and placed her in his lap as he sat where she had been, and all three Federation citizens turned their attentions to Semir as he spoke.

D’ron spoke softly once the High King had finished. “No one will learn of it from us, of that, I can assure you. If the information is truly that important, I’m willing to place a suicide compulsion on it, in my mind, if you would prefer it so.” Lesley and Cortana both nodded as he said this.

He smiled slowly at that, though. “And yes, even I felt the event. I’m not sure how you think you hid it, but I can only hope the range was limited. Fortunately, all the nearby areas on the station were empty.” He shrugged, his smile turning grim. “So, forgive my frankness, but what do blue eyes, while pretty, and your auto-biography, while very interesting, have to do with this threat I assume the child poses to the Enemy? Or, knowing you all,” he grinned, “is it slightly more complex than that? Or can you tell us?”

Semir laughed, softly, and shook his head. "If I knew... then I would have used my own not inconsiderable resources to pursue genetic experiments to ensure this event many years ago." A twinkle in his eye suggests he may well have done exactly that - with little success.

A glance at Rialla - containing far more than just a glance. Rialla relaxes, even smiles - albeit faintly. Softly, she remarks, "My daughter is of no threat to the Enemy. It is to you that she is the threat, and that is what the Enemy would seek to use. But she will not fulfil that threat. We will not allow it."

A nod from Semir, his own gaze lost in the eyes of his daughter. "She will not marry a Nenya," he observes, softly. "Which is well for Humanity, but sad for us. And she will bear many children to her husband. Many noble children... who will never hear the voice of another in their mind, for her genetic material is weaker than mine, or than Rialla's. As you may well know, Nenya genetic material is exceedingly dominant. A halfbreed will give birth to another halfbreed, and so on, sometimes even for several generations with no further infusion of Nenya DNA. But she cannot be allowed to marry one of her own kind."

Rialla murmours, a hand touching the infant's cheek gently, "Such peril and death shall we know for this."

A sigh from Semir. "Yes. All that my family has ever known is that our future is made heavy by a bitter doom laid upon us, by the will of Eru. For this we were made stronger than the original Men - who now make themselves stronger, indeed. My brother thought this fate might be avoided, and now he is dead." A faint flicker of an ironic smile. "But now that fate approaches. Of more I cannot say, but I can provide you with tomes that may shed light. After all... you are our allies. And if our fate should prove as dark as my father believed, then you surely shall share it. Especially since we no longer look to the lands our border touches for friendship."

A tilt of his head. "We would not be amazed or angry should you desert us, at the last, of course."

[OOC: I note that this 'fate' that they're talking about likely won't ever be played out ICly. Bearing in mind the lifespan and thought processes of a Nenya with regards the passage of time, 'imminent' can mean... quite a while away. Or right away. In this case, since it would be nigh on impossible to run a plot of such scope without dozens (at least) of nations taking part, that 'imminent' is a very very long way away. (So no, I'm not proposing the end of the world.)

But that doesn't mean the -approach- to an eventual destiny can't be roleplayed. :)]

D’ron’s eyes widened as the leaders of the Commonality announced that their daughter posed a great threat not the Enemy, but to him, or at least, his nation, but he listened quietly as they continued their explanation.

When they finally finished their explanation, he sat quietly for a moment, and ran his hand gently up Lesley’s back, curling a finger in her hair. D’ron, does it seem odd to you, that their Child of Prophecy, who will marry a human, is born by radiation forced birth a week before we’re supposed to pop the cork on Daniel?

Yeah, but that… I don’t trust prophecy. It’s coincidence, nothing more. Certainly nothing to worry about.

Alright. But it does seem odd.

True.

D’ron finally refocused his attentions on the two (well, three) Nenyans. “I cannot see the Federation abandoning you, and though we humans do live longer than we used to, I can’t see myself being around forever, so I cannot guarantee that our alliance will not die, but I shall never let it.”

Lesley interrupted with a whisper, “Fate can only take us so far. It is up to us to fulfill it.” She looked at the child, sitting so quietly, and raised her voice, though she still spoke quietly. “I will look at the tomes, for D’ron’s and Cortana’s time is far more limited than my own.”

D’ron smiled. “So very true,” and grinned as Cortana nodded her head in agreement. “I trust you to end this threat, my friends, but I have to ask though, as I would be remiss in my responsibility if I did not, what precisely is this threat? How explicit is the prophecy?”

Semir-randil smiles, faintly. "The threat is not a personal one, to any Human. No, the threat is far more sinister and subtle. She will not be limited in how many children she can bear, if she were to marry a Nenya: just as all of the Firstborn were. And nor would her descendants be limited. This we have already confirmed. And then we would then breed as swiftly as you, perhaps slightly less or slightly more so... and considering the numbers, that would mean that within several centuries, we would outnumber you. Worse than that, the number of telekinetic Nenyar would increase vastly. - Considering our past history with Humanity, and how easily it is that our two species find hatred each in the other..."

Rialla, at this point, gives a small sigh, and trails a finger in an idle circle around the infant's head. Slowly, the child appears to be drifting off to sleep - although whether Rialla is directing this or not is not apparent.

Odds would be in favour, however.

"So you see," he goes on, quietly, "our flame must burn brightly and briefly... so that your destiny may be fulfilled. It is our burden... and our blessing. But as there are no others alive to understand this as I do; as there are no others who knew those who were Changed... none else can know. Except you. And only," his smile is, perhaps, slightly sheepish, "because our child lives, and likely would not were it not for your aid." A slight bow of his head.

Lesley smiled tenderly at Semir. “All sentient life is precious, and we do our best to protect it, Semir, the newborn innocent even more so. We did the same for yours as we would for any other.” She smiled again. “But it is no matter. Among friends, such debts are surely repaid in the passage of time, and we have each repaid each other’s debts many times.”

D’ron lightly squeezed Lesley’s waist. “Rialla and Rellas are more than welcome to stay here as long as they want or need to. We would be delighted to have house guests.” He grinned. “We don’t get many living here, after all.” He moved slightly, and Lesley got the hint, sliding off his lap to let him stand, and he spoke more quietly. “And, as Rellas appears to be asleep now, perhaps we should let Rialla get some rest.” He made eye contact with Semir, though it was difficult since the man kept looking at his wife. “Maybe we should go see your crewmen down in the Medical Center.”

While there, D’ron presented each member of the crew with the Third Combat Front ribbon, those who were alive, and those who were passed on.

* * * * *

It had been a few tense weeks from the arrival of the Empress to the Federation, especially on the war situation, but now it appeared that there was a stable solution. They were waiting on a response from the Confederacy government to their offer of a cease fire.

D’ron stopped as he strode into the Residence, watching silently for a moment as Rialla and Lesley interacted, the month old Daniel and the week older Rellas held in their arms. He smiled happily, and then breathed out loud enough to let him know he was there, if they had missed the quiet whisper of the opening door.

Lesley turned to him as he approached, and a grin lit her face. “You’re back early.” And so he was, tired of the day to day grind of running the country, he had needed a break, at least for an afternoon.

D’ron nodded happily, and reached down to gently poke Daniel’s nose. The baby swatted at him slowly, a delayed reaction, before it blew a bubble at him. He smiled tenderly, then lightly kissed Lesley’s lips. “Good to see you too, love.” He flopped down on the couch next to her, his arm naturally falling about her shoulders as she leaned into him. “I needed a break from all the work, to get outside and do something. How are all four of you?” He glanced up to include Rialla and her daughter in the question.

Lesley cocked her head up and looked at him. Well, as best she could from that angle. “Are you going to go riding?”

D’ron nodded. “Probably go shoot a course or two, I would think.”

Lesley paled slightly. She hated it when he went target shooting from horseback, but knew he needed it to relieve his stress. “Well, be careful.”

D’ron grinned. “Aren’t I always?” He looked and included Rialla in his gaze, talking to both of them now. “Would either of you like to come, riding at least, if you’re not up to a little target practice?”

The most disturbing thing about the child - aside from the way in which she watched people, with an obvious, more-than-visual curiousity - was the fact that she could talk.

Like any infant, of course, she could not talk well - but unlike Human infants, the words were definitely detected amongst the misshapen formings of her mouth.

Thus it was that both Rialla and Rellas answered at once - the one with clear, perfect enunciation, the other with blurry childish cuteness.

"Fine," was that answer. Rialla grinned, faintly and wryly, at her daughter, cradled as she was in her arms.

Then her eyes turned to D'ron, and Lesley, each in turn. "I hope that doesn't bother you." Pointed glance at Rellas. "She's like her father. Far too much to say." Semir, of course, had needed to return to the Commonality all too soon.

That last statement, however, clearly was a joke. Over the weeks, one thing has become increasingly clear: the Rialla of public life is quite different to the private, relaxed Rialla. And rarely has there been a more relaxed persona.

"But I'd love to go riding. Horses and Nenya are like... Nenya and cheese. We don't often ride, though. They don't always want to, and it would be impolite to force them."

Okay?

Soft laughter. "Of course, we do rather spoil our animals. I suppose that's why. I mean, would you want to go out in the cold with someone riding your back..." She pauses.

"Actually, best not to answer that one with inquisitive minds around." A glance downwards. "But... shooting what, exactly?"

There was a bit of sadness in Lesley’s gaze as she looked down at Daniel when Rellas spoke, a brief tightening of her lips. While advanced for his age, that meant very little when you were discussing human babies of a month old. Honesty was one of her better qualities, though. “It does, a bit. More jealously, I think, than anything else.” She smiles, and it is barely forced. “I’m getting used to it.”

D’ron and Lesley shared a grin at Rialla’s mention of the love of cheese. Not that D’ron and Lesley did not like the stuff. Indeed, they had tried it in more ways than they ever had before since Rialla had arrived, especially as cooking was another thing that D’ron loved, and since they took less formal meals since the Empress’ arrival, he and Lesley were both cooking a lot more.

And they both loved experimenting. Not all the experiments worked, of course. Some, in fact, failed miserably. Others, they resolved to add to their regular diets. They drank less alcohol while Rialla was there, which, admittedly, meant that they cut down from two glasses of wine a week and a beer or two for D’ron to a single glass. But it was not exactly a hardship. Besides, fruit juice was better for them.

At Rialla’s near slip into more adult topics, Lesley flashed an image to D’ron over their communications link of a place deep in the Presidential, once Imperial, Forest, where a bit of mossy ground covered an open area by the stream, and he returned to her a silent laugh, recalling that particular fall day a few months after they had been married.

D’ron smiled at Rialla. “Well, it’s rather complicated, but usually I have the Presidential Guard deploy an unknown, at least to me, number of their targeting drones along one of the hacking paths through the forest, and then I take a pistol or occasionally a shotgun and go see what I can make of them from horseback. Usually I use the powder burning weapons, because since I’m doing it to relieve stress, the bang is more satisfying than the soft hiss of the gravpulse weapon. But I suppose, in theory, any ranged projectile weapon would work. Heck, with a slight modification to the drone parameters, you could probably whack at them with a sword if you’d rather, though I prefer to do my sword work in the salle.”

Rialla gave a little frown - almost a pout of indecision, actually, although the woman is just a bit too severe in features for that ever to be strictly accurate.

"Well," she's unsure. "I don't know. If I were to miss and hit a tree..." She winces. "But maybe your trees are quieter than ours."

Uh?

"But. Okay." Still hesitant, though. "But I'm not sure I've ever handled a projectile weapon. The Guard usually drill me in those new-fangled m-wave blasters we have. Dreadful things. Have you seen what they do to a melon, though? Quite amusing."

Twitch of lips.

"Bang," agrees Rellas, very solemnly, even if the sound is a bit mangled... perhaps in response to an image sent by his mother.

[OOC: For some reason, at mention of the word 'pout', I immediately got an image of Rialla as a cheerleader.

Somehow this is incredibly funny to me. ;)]

D’ron had not seen precisely what it was that the Iccies new weapons did to melons, but he knew in general how microwave weapons worked. And had seen them used on things before… things approximately melon shaped and sized.

And that did leave a horrible, gory mess.

As it was, he felt Lesley shudder ever so slightly in his arms at the nearly blithe amusement even he sensed from the two Nenyans, though admittedly through more conventional means than empathy. He knew that Rialla, at the very least, had to know what that meant.

And so, for some reason, Rellas’ comment fails to produce any laughter, though involuntarily, he feels the corners of his mouth twitch upward towards a smile. She is a month old baby, after all. It is, on the other hand, a rather brief one. “If you’re too worried about the trees, I suppose the Guard can set up the drones to respond to a training laser. But I would imagine these trees are used to it by now. If nothing else, I’ve been doing it for five years, but these trees have been on the grounds in this location for nearly a thousand years, though the forest used to be far larger. It has seen many, many battles.” He smiled tenderly, acknowledging the concern which flowed from the woman’s Elvish heritage, for there is no hint of censure, sarcasm, or even surprise in his tone. “I have noticed, though, that given I’m on horseback, most of my misses tend to hit the ground.”

He leaned over and kissed Lesley’s head, through the thick red hair, and then untangled himself from her to stand up. “Think on it while I go change into something more appropriate for riding.” Not that his current nano-fabric outfit would be incapable of handling the stresses of the activity, it was just so much more fitting if one wore cavalry boots and the appropriate clothing. He considered her outfit briefly. “You might want to change too. If you don’t have something that works, I’m sure we can provide it.”