NationStates Jolt Archive

In space above earth, a ship of organic construction comes into orbit. A mile long and half a mile wide at its widest point, its shell gleams irridescent blue and it shimmers slightly from the spacial distortion caused by its alcubierre drives.

It sits in orbit for some minutes before disgorging a smaller craft, similar in shape it detaches from the side leaving a elliptical indentation. The smaller craft enters the atmosphere, falling serenely to an altitude of 30,000 feet before levelling out over the ocean. It then flies at incredible speeds towards the borders of the Empire of Kalessin.

When it arrives near the borders, it carries on, almost seeming like it might brave the mists. It stops dead mere meters from the barrier, and hangs there. From mach 30 to stop instantaneously, without so much as a sonic boom.

After a moment of inaction, it begins to broadcast its designation as a diplomatic vessel of the Gentec Corporation, and requesting an audience.

Meanwhile, aboard the shuttle, an old man and a young woman stand in the main chamber. The old man looks excited, and watches a set of holographic displays of considerable complexity with a growing fascination.

"Incredible! I had begun to think i would never get to see this." His voice is kindly and gentle, stereotypically grandfatherly and benevolent. "Just... Incredible!"

The woman however is the picture of serenity. She watches the images as they shift and dance, visual interpretations of the shuttles senses, and with a thought instructs the shuttle to correlate them with what its parent was seeing, and then run a set of simulations.

The results seem to trouble her slightly. "Hmm. Daedalus and Icarus seem to be having problems interpreting what they are sensing within the mists. it is unlike anything we have seen before." Her voice is strangely androgynous and alien, perfectly placid and unreadable.

There passes between them a flurry of information, a direct meeting of the minds. He loses his smile then, but the excitement, if anything, burns brighter in his eyes. "Then this is indeed what we have been seeking. It is magic, and does not conform to the usual physical laws. Try and find a way around. subtly. We need a backdoor if things go badly."

His child-like exuberance is replaced by a growing realisation that if they enter those mists they are at the mercy of its occupants, and if the histories are correct, that is not neccesarily a good place to be.

The simulations shown grow slightly more urgent and far more complex, running through possibilities faster than the eye can follow as the occupants wait for a response.

The mists hung silently between the crashing waves below and glowering clouds above, an endless white curtain, shielding the island beyond from view. As the Gentec shuttle hovered, those within could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops upon the hull, as a miserable sprinkling of rain began to fall toward the sea.

The rain falls around the ship, but none of it seems to touch it. Instead it passes through the vessel as if it wasnt there, vanishing a foot from the hull only to reappear a foot below.

Within, the old man smiles to himself. "Well they know we are here." He seems pleased, the first hurdle cleared.

The woman however looks less sure. "Why havent they contacted us then? Do they not want us here?"

"If they didnt want us here, we wouldnt be.. We just have to wait until they are ready to talk.. Care for a game of chess?" He grins, as if this is some kind of in-joke. Their Marine bodyguard, who had just emerged from the passenger cabins, groans. "Brilliant. im going back to bed.. Sir.. Ma'am."

"Why do you persist in challenging me to this ridiculous game? in 250 years, you have yet to beat me once!" She rolls her eyes, but when he opens his mouth to speak she forestalls him, pulling a smile. "Very well. if you insist."

They then settle down in the tiny rec area at the rear of the ship and begin playing on an antique wooden chessboard so old that the pieces are visibly worn from generations of fingers. The games last about 20 minutes each at the most,a nd each time the woman wins with relative ease, though by the banter it seems that the old man is doing rather well.

Meanwhile, Icarus monitors the radio channels, ready to alert the others should they get a more substantial response.

Days passed. The sun rose and set, again and again, as the rain fell and the clouds brooded, unbroken in their miserable gloom. And then, without sign or portent, the radio crackled into life.

"You survive then, I see. This is agreeable to us. It is always pleasant to make a return on one's investment. Does young Markus still direct your affairs, by any chance?"

The voice was soft, and soothing to the ear, yet completely lacking in warmth or kindess, or any other emotion, except perhaps a touch of cool, detached amusement.

The small group on the ship had almost given up hope, with the exception of the old man, who simply smiled as if it was all expected. The woman is the most effected. She seems to be unused to waiting around with nothing to do. Much of her time is spent analyzing and reanalyzing the sensor readouts, when she isnt cajoled into playing chess with the old man.

When the radio transmission is recieved by Icarus, he routes it through to the entire ship, mostly out of boredom and because he can. It results in a mad scramble to the command deck and a rather comically winded gathering.

A few moments later, the old man responds. "Yes, after a fashion. Gentec survives, though it is not the same Gentec that left earth. Much has changed. We suspect temporal displacement.. All of those who survived the cataclysm are long dead. Our ancestors. Markus was listed as one of the last. Our nation is now led by a council, of which i am a member. I am Luminate Councillor Elias."

The old mans voice is deep and kind, wise and serene. The voice of an Elder.

Briefly, in the wake of Elias' words, silence fell. The rain stopped, the waves quieted, and wind went still.

Time itself seemed to slow, and calm its rampaging course. The last few raindrops hovered in the dead air, around and below the Gentec vessel. Above, an albatross hung, frozen in mid wing-beat, as, in the deepest recesses of the minds of the vessel's crew, back in that darkest, most primal, and yet most human layer of thought, that dark cave of the imagination from which dreams spring, and the most unexplainable flashes of inspiration well up; from that place where creativity slumbers, and imagination, and with them, their father, the chaotic essence of intelligence itself, there grew a tiny, shimmering, flickering chord.

And then, slowly, oh-so-slowly, for all that it took less than an instant, the music grew, swelling out to echo softly at the edges of consciousness, yet never impinging fully on the waking mind, and whenever the listeners tried to focus upon it, to hear its alien melodies, disturbing and alluring in equal measure, it flitted away, intangible and but half-heard. As when a man feels a strange pressure upon his back, and is gripped by the sudden conviction that he is being watched, and yet upon whirling around and staring out into the autumnal woodland, sees nothing but ragged branches and fallen leaves, thus was this music. They did not so much hear it, as suspect that they could hear it, but when they listened, nothing.

Then, sailing in the wake of that fearful calm, a voice, not through the radio, this time, but speaking directly unto the crew, in their own tongue, and with their own accent, and, indeed, with their own voices, though tinged with the slightest glimmering of a strange and alien aspect.

Gentec survives. But does its honour survive? Do you still stand by our agreement? The agreement that was made when your race was young, and still fighting to survive. The agreement that Markus made with me, Iulsthiz al Vvishiak, a Baron of Kalessin, on behalf of his people, and of their descendants unto the last generation. Does our contract still hold? Or has your newfound wealth and relative strength driven the fatal knife that is pride into the soul of your people, cutting apart the honour and wisdom that Markus held so dear, and in which he himself was so rich?

The alien music falls on alien ears, and the effect it has on the Lumina is perhaps less than it would be on ordinary men. The Woman, particularly, seems least susceptable. Her mind is a massive and alien thing, the body on the ship a mere finger puppet to her.

She looks at Elias, her expression unreadable. Elias speaks in response, his benign tone unchanged, though his mind is forced to wrestle with itself to do so.

"Corporations have no honour, Baron Vvishiak. But the Corporation was destroyed with the Cataclysm. What remains is no longer ruled by the descendents of those you dealt with, but by the Habitats they occupy. Gentec failed to survive at all, and the tattered refugees of a broken people were absorbed into another culture. All that is left is a name. However, we have not come to sever any ties with you, merely to... re-evaluate. Our knowledge of this system is limited to the recorded memoriesd of the survivors. While the Corporations agreement with you is known in a general sense, its exact terms are not."

He then falls silent, and the ships form shimmers, then wavers as the very passage of light is disturbed by its wash. Kallessin's was by far the most detailed remaining dossier, and from what they knew its rulers were unpredictable in the extreme. As such, the ship was prepared to evacuate at the first trace of trouble. A sliver of thought, narrow as a splinter and alien in its aspect, shimmers through the Skien to alert the Siege Cruiser Damocles. Assuming that transmission reaches its destination, Damocles in turn alerts the Erinyes Carriers and soon every Gentec vessel is aware that Kalessin has returned communication. An unnoficial, almost non-existant level of alert... just in case.

Down in Icarus' hull, the Marines ready themselves nervously, aware that little could be done by them to help should things go wrong, but determined to be ready anyway. After all, they have to occupy themselves somehow. Otherwise their helplessness might drive them mad.

The civilisation may have fallen, but its people live on, and it is their duty to uphold the oaths of their ancestors. Their new masters may choose to aid them in this, or not. That is their affair. The contract still remains. The memory has been sent. After one revolution of this world, I shall return to receive your answer.

And with that, the music faded away, and time resumed its natural course. The raindrops tumbled down into the ocean's rippling embrace, and the albatross swept onwards around the brooding mists, even as the scent of freshly picked apples wafted towards the nostrils of the Gentec ambassadors.

Behind them, on a tall pedestal of polished ash, sat a simple wickerwork basket, brimming with all kinds of strange and exotic fruits, some relatively familiar, and others less so. Papaya, mangos and kiwifruits mingled with dark red cherries, and withered-looking, wrinkled twists of skinless pulp, the mottled surface of which changed constantly, which lay alongside large bright-shelled nuts, bristling with razor-sharp thorns, which twitched this way and that, as if seeking to embed themselves in any creature foolish enough to seek to dine on the succulent flesh concealed within. And in the centre of the basket sat half a dozen large red apples, a gentle silvery glow emanating from their firm, unblemished skin.

Atop these apples lay a small rectangle of white card, bearing, upon its visible side, but a single word, elegantly written in gold leaf.

Elias

Elias eyes the fruit warily. Careful to avoid the more aggressive looking varieties, he reaches out and plucks up the card.

Meanwhile, the woman paces the room. Implications are running through her mind and this meeting is looking like less and less of a good idea. She frowns at Elias, but keeps her mouth shut.

Upon the reverse of the card were written, in the same golden leaf and elegant hand, the following words:

"This basket contains a selection of fresh Knowledgeapples, from the Sentient Appletree orchard of house al Vvishiak. Sent to Luminate Councillor Elias by request of Baron Iulsthiz al Vvishiak, care of the Imperial Transdimensional Post-Service. If you are not Luminate Councillor Elias, please return to the following address:

Imp Jiflit, Three handclaps and a fingersnap, ITPS depot Grue eleventy-one"

The whimsical return address elicits a smile, and he places the card on the table, then looks over at the apples. His summer-sky blue eyes rest on those apples for a good few moments, smile fading as he considers them thoughtfully and weighed up the possibility that they might be poisoned or contaminated in some way. Hyperion knows that they might do it just for a laugh... They were notoriously unpredictable.

He turns his head, and his smile returns.

"The treaty was made with the people of Gentec Amalgamated, and their children unto the last generation. Thus it is only right that one of those people be the ones to regain this lost knowledge, being as it is them to which it applies."

Icarus responds instantly, the gist of the message had been transmitted before Elias had opened his mouth. A man is summoned from the lower decks, where he has been cleaning some axons.

Bertrand Emerson, technician third-class and assistant to the Luminate ships engineer emerges onto the command deck with a look of bemused acceptance. The whims of the Lumina didnt always make sense to the humans who served them but they'd had generations to get used to it.

Elias smiles at the man, and indicates the basket of fruit with his hand.
"The Kallessini Baron sent you some fruit, child. Apparently you are to try some of the apples."

Bertrand looks suspicious, and a sideways glance at the fruit basket only makes him more uneasy. But he had been briefed before coming out on this vessel... And trained extensively before he could be allowed on diplomatic vessels at all. One was not to second guess the diplomats, especially not Elias. That could lead to war. or worse. And land battles always meant that the Humans took the brunt of the casualties.

With a slightly faltering gait, and a look of profound reluctance, he shuffles over to the basket and takes an apple in his hand. Assuming nothing happens just by touching it, he takes a bite from the fruit and screws his eyes shut as if he expects to fall dead on the floor.

Owowowow! You walnut-brained excremental spawn of a Kaloothian mind-ferret! Try that again and I'll turn your pitiful excuse for a brain into a screaming lump of Klumish gloop that even your worthless whore of a gnarled, leafless mother will disown, even if she hasn't done so already, you ghastly little underevolved primate. Have you any idea how much that hurt? You deserve to go down to the eleventh circle of the Erythcan hell for this.. this... outrage!

Even as this agonised outburst was being screamed into the minds of those standing around, Bertrand was falling... falling... falling down through the hollow trunk of a gigantic tree; falling into a pulpy, apple-scented darkness, and thereon, into oblivion.

Light came, slowly, fuzzily, as if refracted through a thick sheet of glass. He looked around and saw a large, dimly-lit board room, spread below him.

Enthroned at the other end of the large table dominating the centre of the room was a slender, highly intelligent looking man with dark hair going white at the temples, and pale skin.

Seated alongside him was a group of distinguished looking men and women, proud of bearing, with strong, noble features, bearing a vast range of different aesthetic modifications, from fur and feathers to scales. Each nodded respectfully to the tall, graceful figure who had just entered, his features hidden in the shadows of his deep, black robe, but did not rise, or show any form of subservience. Shuffling in behind this newcomer were six more robed beings, although their garments appeared to be slightly ill-fitting, even slightly grubby, and their wizened frames seemed positively diminutive beside their leader.

The elderly man at the head of the table, however, stood gracefully. He gestured to the seats arrayed along the other side of the table, and smiled:

"I am Markus Alben."

The robed figure bowed curtly in reply;

"And I am Baron Iulsthiz al Vvishiak, of the Empire of Kalessin."

Bertrand watched, entranced, as the meeting enfolded, as countless offers and demands were made, rejected and modified by the two leaders, neither blinking, neither giving an inch, as they strove for the best agreement for both their peoples.

At last however, a treaty was drawn up, stored both on paper and in the deep data-banks of Gentec Corp, and as the two leaders signed, Bertrand felt himself slip downwards through the thick air, until he was hovering above the treaty itself, and as he read it, its words burned themselves into his mind in letters of flame.

The Empire was to provide Gentec with a substantial quantity of gold bullion, precious gems, and rare earths, to help drive forward the Corporation's researches into various profitable fields. Furthermore, the Empire undertook to offer the Corporation protection, if requested, from any foreign threat. In exchange, the Corporation undertook never to trade with the infernal elven realm of Menelmacar, and to yield up unto the Empire of Kalessin a twenty-five percent share in all holdings of the Gentec Corporation-state, men, machines and wealth alike, to be kept in trust by the Corporation until such time as the Empire might see fit to call in its investment, and take up management of all the involved items and beings. Furthermore, control over two fully-staffed research labs, and free and uncensored communication with the leading scientists of the Corporation were to be ceded to the Empire of Kalessin.

Then, the room, and the treaty, swam out of focus, and when Bertrand's vision returned, he was hovering above a vast warehouse, outside which monstrous winged lizards were landing, one after another, bearing beneath them vast containers full of gold, gems, are rare earths, as the Empire of Kalessin upheld its part of the bargain. And then that scene too faded, to be replaced by small, cold room, at the top of a great stone tower, overlooking a stormy sea, in the centre of which the tall, robed figure of the Kalessini ambassador stood, his head bowed, a single piece of paper crumpled in his gloved fist. He stared out to sea, and shook his head in sorrow.

"How did this happen? Why does this always happen? How does such a strong and vibrant people, so bold in its humanity, come to destroy itself? And why then did the survivors flee for space? Why did they not seek the aid that we so wished to grant them? A full understanding of the ways of the Young Kingdomers will always elude me, I fear."

He shook his head, turned, and strode from the room, the scrap of paper falling from his grip to lie in the dust. Upon it, a single line.

"The ashes of Gentec have drifted out to the stars."

And as he read it, Bertrand awoke, the still furiously screaming apple rolling from his grasp.

The yound technician comes to sprawled face down on the ground, and slowly, he staggers to his feet.

Marines stand with weapons leveled, not knowing quite what to do. Elias watches calmly and the Woman has dissapeared, perhaps belowdecks.

As the still swimming world comes slowly into focus, he coughs, and tells what he saw in the awed tones of someone who has seen something he cannot quantify or understand. He stammers, and seems unfocused.

Elias listens, and senses some deception on the humans part... some niggling primitive part of his brain tells him that something isnt right. The story is complete, he knows that much. It matches up with the memoirs of the few survivors who attempted to put their pasts on paper. But something was off.

Impatiently he pushes the feeling aside, and steps forward with evident concern for the mans wellbeing. Helping him to a chair, he gently questions him. Bertrand complies readily, almost eager to tell his story, to share his vision. But still deception lurked in his eyes.

Unknown to the crew and passengers of Icarus, and his mothership far above a message was being sent from the envoys craft, a message cunningly encoded, concealed and sent through hidden within the background noise within the Skien itself. The message was recieved by Humans all through the Habitats and their fleets, and its reply was bounced through hidden, and highly illegal channels that the Lumina did not, in fact could not suspect existed.

The pact with their ancestors still stood.

Bertrand Emerson's last act was to hijack the ships communications systems with the illegal neural implants he had installed as an agent of the Albenite Movement. A full-sensory image of a man standing in a darkened room, his features illuminated by a single beam of light.

The man speaks, and his voice, like his face, is instantly recogniseable as that of Markus, though an older, greyer Markus than the one in the memory. He speaks quickly, but his voice still carries that noble command, and the perfect clarity of one who is born a leader of men.

"I am Markus Alben. Or at least his ghost."
The man smiles, a quirk of his mouth that contains a bitter humour.
"The agreement I made on behalf of my people still stands. But my people are weakened, they do not rule their own destinies. I exist now only in the nueral pathways of the very Habitats that hold my people as willing prisoners, and have worked for many years towards this day. My people are ready, or as many as ever will be. We will rise and become stong again, but we ask for your aid. Contained within this message is the information required to gain access into the subnet i occupy. If you have the means to use the information, and i think you do, i would request an audience."

The message terminates in a flash of seemingly meaningless jumbled and swirling flashes of light. And as it is finished, Bertrand Emersons life is ended in a flash of light, the fountain of blood sprayed up the wall like a gory exclamation mark. The first blow in a secret war prepared for in secret for centuries. Marines lower their weapons, thinking the excitement finished. But Elias knows better. He stands in shock, blood covering his robe, and a single tear runs down his face, stained red by the blood in his eyes.

"The first of many i fear. Marines! round up the human crew members and put them in the cargo hold. Icarus, get us out of here. Now."

The apple continued to scream furiously into the minds of the marines.

Good shot that man, served the greedy scum right! Owowowow, you idiot, you let him drop me. Ow! I bounced! An apple should not BOUNCE! It's... it's... undignified. Now pick me up. Right now. Right this instant you plankton-brained MONKEYS. I'm bleeding. Aaaagh, I'm bleeding! Can't you see? My juices, they're going everywhere. Help me you oafs! Why aren't you doing anything! Ugh. I've got ape-blood on my skin. Disgusting.

Behind them, on a tall pedestal of polished ash, sat a simple wickerwork basket, brimming with all kinds of strange and exotic fruits, some relatively familiar, and others less so. Papaya, mangos and kiwifruits mingled with dark red cherries, and withered-looking, wrinkled twists of skinless pulp, the mottled surface of which changed constantly, which lay alongside large bright-shelled nuts, bristling with razor-sharp thorns, which twitched this way and that, as if seeking to embed themselves in any creature foolish enough to seek to dine on the succulent flesh concealed within. And in the centre of the basket sat half a dozen large red apples, a gentle silvery glow emanating from their firm, unblemished skin.
OOC: Tactical Fruit Basket™, Kalessin style. :D

Great thread so far.