NationStates Jolt Archive

Iluvauromen.

Once a front-runner on the global stage, the Empire turned Commonality.

The heady glory days muted at last, the only public reminder that the Commonality even existed continued in the form of the old, much-loved assaults on pirates. Commonality warships still sailed the seas, and the space between the planets, and in small degree the great experiment to launch themselves to the stars continued...

And yet diplomacy was silenced. Allies were informed. Enemies were not.

And despite the retainment of diplomatic channels, they simply were not used. Over a year of silence from the rulers of the Commonality - although spy satelites from foreign states no doubt noted the lack of any particular reason.

"We don't want to partake in the international community at the current time," was the general answer given when enquiries from abroad were launched from quarters that deserved no answer. "Too busy with our own affairs," was the more private answer given. But only a select, tiny minority had any clue as to the why.

Even inside the Commonality. The Commonality news services simply didn't report the reasons; the D-notice was, as always, inviolable. Even the foreigners employed by INN Solar didn't try to violate that regulation; their salaries were far too valuable for that.

Empress Rialla ux-Rihad was in that minority. Today, she walked in the Imperial Gardens around the gigantic Palace, the Palace that had, through several thousand years of history, effectively remained inviolate. No conquerors boots had ever marched here. No one had even dare try, not even at the lowest ebb of the preceding Empire of the Eternal Flame. And not even Morgoth's minions had stolen this deep into the territories of the succeeding Eternal Dawn.

And so it remained.

Semir, of course, was away. Rialla missed him, a quiet ache in the heart, with the density of a collapsed star, and the quality of a thunderstorm.

She was not happy with his absence. Nor was she aware of where he was.

Several things, however, were more important (to most) at this time.

Firstly, the cameras. They hovered around like inquistive insects, drawn to honey, but afraid to come too close.

Secondly, the insects themselves. Summer was beginning to hit with full force in these parts, and the insects were irksome to the extreme.

But Rialla didn't mind that too much.

She smiled into the camera, and wondered how many souls would view this. INN Solar had a vast potential viewing audience, but she was hardly an interesting figure these days, outside the Commonality. The people of Sol had more important concerns... as usual. But governments would notice. And that was what counted.

And there was a small signal: no allies, economic or otherwise, such as still existed, had been notified of this policy change in advance. That would be an annoyance, and no doubt about it. But it would be seen as...

Normal.

"Our fellow sentients have long wondered, I'm sure, just quite why Iluvauromeni voices have been stilled. There is good cause. We have taken time to pause. To consider. The Crown and it's Executive Council prefers the long view. And to take the long view, you have to stop and actually look.

"So we do, and so we have.

"That time is over. The Iluvauromeni Executive Council hereby announces an open banquet to be held at the State Hall at the Imperial Palace, Nenya, whereby all of our reasons and all of our new foreign policies will begin to be enacted.

"Friends, enemies, allies, strangers - all are welcome and alike to us now. And of course... we can promise some really great food."

She smiled, softly, realigning a small percentage of her iris to make her eyes glitter and twinkle just a touch more. Not unusual for her species, but not a widely publicised ability, either.

The speech went on at length - the usual gumpf, nothing spectacular. But a little part of her grinned inside.

What was ahead should be... interesting.

* * *

3.6thousand astronomical units "above" Jupiter

Far, far away, there was a chunk of matter.

It was a pretty chunk of matter, carved into a teardrop shape that glittered and sparkled as it caught the light of the nearest star and send photons whirling away, dancing into the eternal night. Other members of the electromagnetic spectrum were captured, devoured, utilized. The chunk of matter, as a result of both this and the need to dump energy from inside, was warm.

Much warmer than surrounding space.

In an instant, it became incredibly warmer.

The kinetics shredding it into fine chunks did not mind very much. They just continued on the path they had been sent, deviating only by millimetres as gravity pulled them on a gentle arc towards the nearest, strongest influence.

A small spark, undetectable by most instruments. A whisper at speeds beyond that of normal communications.

Flowers blossom in the darkness of space, giant white lights that erupt in complex patterns, spilling bursts of X-ray radiation outwards - and light, and sound. The sound swallowed, the light welcomed.

These new chunks of matter threading the eyes of radioactive storms arrive just in time to see the first erupt in unholy light. Circular ports iris open. Vacuum swallows the sound of cradles loading much smaller chunks of matter into other cradles, swinging on gyroscopes to fling free into the blankness of the all-around.

Twenty-six seconds later, the warships swallow out again. The chatter across the electromagnetic spectrum intensifies significantly, raising to a crescendo before the inevitable trough of the wave. Volume devours insignificance.

Space slowly cools.

Chunks of matter drift aimlessly, shredded beyond recognition.

And a single chunk of matter awakens, flashing jets of particles out of it's ion drives as it stabilises it's course through the thinning cloud of debris.

And cries for help.

The distress signal spills into local space, a flurry of electrons looking for a home. They reach out in all directions, discriminating against nowhere.

And soon, someone is bound to hear.


[OOC: Open. If you need more information before posting, telegram me.]

"Somewhere Out There"

The drone scoutship appeared first. Extruding sensor palettes, it observed it's vicinity carefully, and then squirted a communique at a nearby drone of a different class, which in turn, squirted one back. Digital concordance reached, it disappeared again.

Three seconds click by, although there is nobody to notice until they've already done so. Small flowers of energy erupt, spitting out warships, tender craft, and various military supporters. All very pristine, very coordinated. But then if they weren't, they would die, and knowledge of impending potential death is a powerful motivator.

For it's part, the mass of metal thirty-eight thousand kilometres away, orbiting lazily above a gas giant by which Jupiter itself would have been slightly intimidated, was entirely unmoved. The budding consciousness it enjoyed had already been informed of the arrival of transit terminii before the ships themselves had opened said far enough to exit back into normal space.

It viewed them with a kind of distant interest, since it was far busier building itself. Tendrils of consciousness licked down to the atomic level, ordering molecules into place with electrical impulses. Impressive on paper; not so very in practice. It had been extruding matter from thirty-seven captured and "densified" (the actual term used on the documents ordering the act) asteroids for thirteen months, now, and was less than a thousandth finished. The trickier, internal functions, were carried out by technically lesser beings.

Nenyar.

The Nenyar scurried about the techno-creature's interior, arranging things just so. The only communication was visual, still, as mind-machine synergy was not within Iluvauromeni reach without significantly unpleasant machinery that nobody was willing to use. So there was very limited contact, in fact, and the techno-creature viewed the Nenyar with as little interest as it did their other machines.

That, however, was about to change. It was aware of the tickle first at the forefront of it's consciousness, sweeping back. Priorities altered. More neural networks fired up, bringing it to an awareness it had not previously had.

The first observation was that "it" was a "she".

{|She blinked, finding herself in a million constructs simultaneously. That... was unexpected. She realised momentarily that the lead warship was directig a maser at her. Alarmed for a trillionth of a second, she calmed even faster than the awareness that she knew what a maser was took to settle.

Memories. Thoughts.

Things rose unbidden, things she felt she shouldn't have words for, but did. And a second consciousness, touching hers. Sarah, she was aware. She communicated. She listened. She understood.|}

* * *

Nenya, Ma-Nenya, Iluvauromen

Martha scrambled up the old stone steps as quickly as her feet could carry her. She was not, unfortunately, a woman with particularly long legs. That was only unfortunate in this instance, since this was the only building in the entire area which still had steps. There was a ramp, but one didn't want to be fined for using it without the proper... equipment.

She burst into the lobby, flashed a card at the obligatory guard (who was a sixty-two year old bald man reading a newspaper, name of Elzar, she recalled dimly), and dashed through the side doors.

Down five flights of stairs, since the elevator was already in use (as always), through the double-doors-

"Peter!"

The individual addressed as Peter glanced up, hastily swallowing a mouth full of digestive biscuit. "What?"

"We're leaving isolationism behind. The Executive Council has issued the order."

The response one might expect from the Chief Justice of the Commonality Economic Court would have been far more appropriate than the single-syllable epithet that the man himself actually acknowledged this news with. Martha frowned, then scowled, thoughts scurrying about in her mind like rats looking for cheese.

Beat.

"That's not good," Peter added, scowling in a manner less pleased than Martha had hoped for.

"It bloody well is. You know how badly exports were hit. We've been running a deficit-"

"That's not what I mean," Peter observed, quietly. "You know what this means. We'll have six times the workload inside the week. Or should, if the higher-ups in the ITC manage to do their jobs properly. Eru knows that's been rare these past few months. Consumer confidence isn't exactly at a high after that business nobody talks about happened."

Martha grunted. "I don't see what the hell a man bursting into-"

"Don't even say it here," Peter chided, eyes widening. "You know we're under surveillance, woman."

"Right," she agreed, grudgingly.

Martha was not an economic court judge. She was an economic court agent. The agency was not official, but eminently necessary. Her position here was not quite as high as the conversation might make an outsider think, she mused. Then again, sleeping with the Chief Justice had benefits.

One of those benefits (and there were many she was unlikely to voice aloud for reasons other than losing her job) was the small fact that she could talk exactly as she chose. Her name wasn't Martha, and his wasn't Peter, but somehow the nicknames had stuck after a party years ago.

She sighed, settling down into a chair. "We're going to have to authorize it," she allowed, quietly.

"It?"

"The thing the Empress has been pushing for more funding on. We're going to need it."

Peter nodded, slowly, eyes twinkling.

"Within the week," he agreed, softly. "Before you know it, we'll be selling the stuff to more people than you can shake a stick at."

"If they need it," Martha warned, softly. "Market analysis doesn't entirely agree with her."

"If they need it."

Anárion frowned. The occasional tours of Solarian Patrol Fleets often left him for long whiles with nothing to do. Oh, it wasn’t that the ship that he was resident on wasn’t busy; there was always some fool that needed rescuing from not having calculated a trajectory right or something equally simple. But the elf thrived on solving problems involving people, and while the Solarian Patrol Fleets’ objective was essentially to be neighbourly and show the flag to all the stupid people in the system, it wasn’t necessarily exciting.

The ship, Erisavenus, watched everyone in the area. Every single other ship in the vast, fractal weirdness that was Sol. It sounds like a lot; Billions, in fact, but it wasn’t part of its consciousness that did the watching, but a sub-section hived off, and tasked with the observations. Billions of them; tracking everything that could be observed, from massive warships tooling across the systems armed with atomic rockets aimed at blasting some poor sod to oblivion, to anyone who was extravehicular and radiating enough heat.

In the room Anárion lounged back on a deep bed, a red-costumed man, an avatar of the ship based off a character from a semi-obscure comedy show, Zapp Brannigan, stood against the doorframe.

“Aha. Got one. Jupiter area. Distress call.

“Breaking orbit, beginning thrust to intercept.

“That’s odd. They don’t actually say what the distress is, I think I’ll ask…” ‘Brannigan’s Voice’ changed to a different voice altogether, the more serious one the ship used; it spoke aloud what it sent to the origin of the signal, so that Anárion could hear. “Unknown vessel. This is the Imperial Necrontyr Ship Erisavenus, Please state the nature of your distress.”

"This is Escape Pod 1-Alpha-Six of Iluvauromeni Imperial Research Vessel Tossing Dice. My occupant is unfortunately unable to respond at this time."

The voice is soft, smooth, feminine. Clipped sentences carefully phrased, slowly spoken. Clearly, some sort of AI construct is doing the talking, but there's no translation being done here: the entirety of the signal is in Common Nenyar.

"Are you equipped for rescue, Erisavenus? Situation is classified emergency status red-alpha. My sensor palettes are non-responsive. Atmosphere negligable. Backup energy reserves severely depleted. I appear to be in a cloud of rather unfriendly debris; constant burns are required to prevent collision, reducing efficiency significantly. Occupant stowed in a class-5* support chamber. I am unable to determine the precise medical condition of my charge due to internal damage. Expected remaining provisions: ninety-six hours. Optimal rescue window: twenty-three hours to twenty-eight hours approximate."

[OOC: A quick encyclopaedia checkup would reveal that a class-5 support chamber is only fitted on class-one escape pods, usually assigned to vessels categorised as "high risk" either by the Iluvauromeni Civil Space Authority or the military themselves. It would also note that the support chamber is capable of operating entirely seperate from the pod's systems and power supply, for up to twenty-eight hours.]

In contemplating an Arnstoan Rhien class cruiser, one must first comprehend their incredible size and rarity. Of their displacement class (some still exist in an older form), less than a hundred exist, each one, four kilometres in length from bows to stern. Beyond that, they’re largely made of living metal, a material that defies any conventional explanation, and powered by four massive energy taps that link them to sources of power that are conventionally describable, but of such technological audacity as to be unbelievable.

They were designed specifically for this, with a larger volume than their predecessors specifically to undertake humanitarian work. They have basic housing for millions of people, hospital facilities for the same.

Erisavenus is more intelligent even than the usual thinking-metal starship. It has been all around the galaxy, fought and won battles on its own, and saved entire races from extinction single-handed. It has established its own network of agents, a paramilitary intercessionary force equipped so much that it’s almost an army in its own right, and worked with others on similar projects. It owns vast amounts of industrial concerns and works daily though a thousand aliases, toward the general betterment of sapient life.

It’s a tremendously over-sized, powerful, intelligent and subtle do-gooder.

And it has teleporters.

A minute expires; then two, as units aboard the vast ship are activated; the new version of necron soldiers. Strangely, this would be their first actual deployment. Essentially replacing two groups of infantry, their somewhat cut-down skeletal structures host a living metal sheath that has chameleonic properties, allowing them to seem like dressed, living, breathing necrontyr. Infantry, in modern doctrine, is essentially for occupation, and while many necrons are still designed to convey the simple message of ‘Here is Death’ that’s not quite what one wants when one is rescued.

And so Asisala, the necrontyr mind possessing the entire squad that troops into the area of deep-storage adjacent to the port hospital section of the ship – a vast, multi levelled sprawling affair, found herself dragged (well, politely requested, but it felt like dragging, as she’d ne’er say no) from her nice estate, and nice harem, and nice simultaneous virtual-real existence, to the ship she occasionally ‘served’ on.

Each of the new soldiers, standing in a zero gravity environment by molecularly attractive feet, holding tapering, slim line, elegant and pretty versions of their usual hellish instruments of death, looked a little like Asisala had, so long ago, as a semi-organic necrontyr. A touch prettier, without the terminal cancers she’d been sporting at the time, and taller. Each necron was dressed a little differently, in a style that resembled Menelmacari military fashion, and indeed, each looked a little different – sisters, not twins (or whatever one would call twenty identical siblings).

In near-unison, they raised their weapons, as, in silence, the pod appeared floating, surrounded by a diffuse field of debris. The necron ship simply snatched the pod, and its surrounding debris, into itself.

Subtle manipulation of gravitic fields made the chaff fall away to one side, for later examination, and it righted the pod, and began to allow its own gravity, and atmosphere, to pour in, whipping the Asisalas’ hair up in a sudden wind.

One of them tilted her head to the side, stepped lightly over to the pod, and began examining for an opening point as the ship talked to it, telling it that it had been brought on board…

This escape pod is clearly a late model.

Two things make this clear.

One, a few years ago, the Iluvauromeni were not so fascinated with their "liquid door" technology as to put it on much anything except official aircraft and the like.

Two, it has the year of building stamped on it's hull, in Western numeric script. Namely this year. The second is more obvious than the first, though the first is slightly more eye-catching.

With a slightly molten effect, the molecules comprising the hatch tear themselves apart (incidentally spending the last reserves of energy for the pod). The sub-sentient AI controlling the pod ceases to exist.

Inside, there are four bioluminescent strips. There's also a three metre tall life support chamber. It's not transparent, and doesn't appear to be opening on it's own.

Promisingly, there is a large red button marked "Evacuate Chamber" in no less than thirty six different alphabets/languages. It's a fairly big button, with a fairly big plaque underneath it.

Just about everything about the chamber yells "PUSH ME" with regards the button.

Although perhaps a minor design flaw: the geometry is intended to convince Humans to push the damn button. Whether any other species would get the idea at a glance in the same way is not quite so clear.

Paranoia. When is too much?

For a start, necrons are essentially un-killable. Asisala has twenty bodies present, another on Garm, and several backup systems elsewhere.

Erisavenus itself, has the same level of paranoia. It would live again, if destroyed. Or at least, an exact copy would be kindled. It scans the pod so intimately that the only way to make the scanning more intense would actually result in burning its inhabitant to a crisp.

It focuses energy-suppressing fields on anything that possibly looks like it can explode, to suppress any sudden bursts of energy, and then gives Asisala the nod. One of the Asisala models, Asisala-a, one might call her, pushes the button.

Assuming there isn't one that might say 'open pod' or some such around. Less ominous than 'evacuate'...

Silence had plagued the communication systems on Elara for years. The Jovian system was not the hub of activity it once was. This misfortune allowed for the travesty of an S&R division on the satellite to respond to the distress call rather quickly, however, not quickly enough to respond before Necrontyr ship. Nevertheless, a transmission was sent to simply inform those in the area that assistance was at hand should it be needed.

##Standard Tight-Beam Transmission##

Hailing vessels Tossing Dice and Erisavenus. This is the Largentian Search and Rescue headquarters on Elara. We are currently deploying cutters into the area from which the distress call originated. They will be instructed to stand by unless aid is needed in the rescue of any personel or other cargo onboard.

##End Transmission##

Elsewhere

The silence filling the Elaran communication systems was only rivaled by that in the Imperial Gardens. The Empress sat listening to the gentle sound of running water, reflecting. Gradually the patter of feet became audible over the the soothing sounds of nature.

Behind her stood Minister of Foreign Affairs Bader Abu-Eid, wearing traditional moccasins as shoes were forbidden, as was verbally adressing the Empress. After several moments the Empress turned and led the Minister back into the palace where he told her of the open invitation to visit the Commonality. Taking a moments pause the Empress gave a slight nod and instructed Abu-Eid to send her son, Beren Oronrá.

The idea of isolationism was not a new one to any government official in Largent. In fact, the Ba'ath National Command was only a member in one alliance, had few open diplomatic channels with other nations, engaged in little trade, and had kept armed conflicts down to nearly none. Essentially, they had made the decision long ago that it would be in their best interest to keep off of the world stage.

Nevertheless, while leaving behind isolationist ways was simply out of the question, diplomatic channels with the Commonality could have several benefits. Intel had informed the Largentians that the Commonality had at least some form of a presence on the red planet and considering the mess that the Largentian colony was in, friends on the surface could only help.

>>>Transmission to: [The Commonality of Ma-Tek]<<<
>>>VIA {Largentian Diplo Networks} <<<
{From: The Office for Foreign Affairs}



[i]On behalf of Empress Elwing Oronrá, representing the Ba'ath National Command and the united Provinces therein, I am pleased to accept the generous invitation to your banquet. I have high hopes that our two nations may foster a valuable and prosperous relationship. Barring any unforseen troubles, our Prince, Beren will be enroute in his shuttle which will be ready for landing instructions.

Bader Abu-Eid, Overseer of the Office for Foreign Affairs, acting on behalf of The Ba'ath National Command of Largent.

"Evacuated" could well be a compromise for translation - but whatever the reason for the use of the word, it doesn't quite fit the process except in a loose kind of relationship akin to synonym.

This time, the smooth angular metal doesn't dissolve, it folds. Segments fold downwards slowly, the low thrum of "work" noise the hint at more internal workings. The metal does not clank.

A few seconds later, the full form of a probably easily recognizable man becomes apparent, breathing in a fairly shallow pattern. Eyelids flicker. Muscular movements, small, random, occur. Not many more seconds pass before the eyes snap open - amber, vivid eyes. Amber, vivid eyes that frame an undoubtedly ux-Rihad nose, graceful and full all at once.

Slightly thicker than average lips.

Slightly bushy eyebrows.

Those are very sad eyes, too; a man who has commanded the deaths of many, the cynical mystic might say in deep tones.

Si Ling, former Emperor, blinks slowly at the sights and sounds around him. "I don't recognise you," he 'greets', rather flatly.

Unfortunately the pod never even recieves the transmission from Largentian Search and Rescue, having wasted energy on that ridiculous melting door.

* * *

Nenya, Iluvauromen

Rialla blinked slowly as she read the missive. Beren. What a delightfully horrific little coincidence. She popped a slice of cheese into her mouth, leaning into several thousand other people at the same time. The ebb of pain from her to them was swift, like sprinkling water onto a desert; soaked up and forgotten. But not the reason.

All the same, the community of her people was invaluable; allowed her to retain "normality"... under certain unusual circumstances. She tried not to think about the Stone.

"Intriguing," she remarked, thoughtfully. "I do believe that's very intriguing."

High Lord Ambassador Dejure, on the opposite side of the oak desk, merely waited patiently. When nothing further was forthcoming, he shifted, slightly. An eyebrow arches.

"Quite," Rialla agrees, softly. "Do it."

* * *

Publically circulated, the responding communique is swiftly dispatched from the Diplomatic Corps in Nenya. It's a tough call to figure out who got it first - the news networks or Largent - but it's probably Largent, by a whisker. Nonetheless, the wording is already relayed MESH-wide within seconds, and politically involved individuals (ie, the largest percentage of the Iluvauromeni population) were already beginning to become aware of the response within minutes.

Some smiled. Some frowned. Some immediately lodged complaints with the Environmental Court. A very noteworthy few immediately lodged complaints with the Economic Court.

Both bodies promised publically within the hour to "take the Council to task". Equally, neither were likely to do so. And equally... anybody who cared knew it would be so. The ultimate exercise in government: do it because you will it... fail because someone else wills otherwise.

Some others smirked at the wording, observing that it was ever-so-slightly oversweet; still more balked, muttering that they'd never liked that Dejure chap anyway. Who voted for him?

And the vast majority didn't care, weren't really in a position to care, and never had cared. They were too busy with their own communities to do so.

"The Commonality will be glad to receive Prince Beren, and, in the interest of displaying greater trust and openness to the international community as a whole, we will even waive current laws on diplomatic grounds and allow direct flights into Nenya through our airspace without escort.

"We look forward to hosting what should be an enjoyable and progressive event for all." ~ High Lord Ambassador Dejure

Conference Room, IRD Tower, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“I’m not happy with the way they effectively dropped off the face of the earth, D’ron.” Currey leaned back in the chair across the table from the hologram of his president. “You would think we would warrant some consideration.”

“’Nathan, that’s a silly excuse and you know it. We did much the same thing, though, admittedly, not for as long.” D’ron frowned at his friend and Minister of International Relations. “We will respond, and politely. That much is settled. They are still our allies.”

The Minister nodded and sat back upright, sipping a glass of water. “Very well. I assume you want to go personally?”

That brought a grin to the Imperial President’s face. “Damn straight. I’ve been stuck here for far too long, and Rialla and Semir are my friends.”

Currey smiled back. “You’re the boss.”

That got a chuckle from the man clad in black. “It’s good to be the boss. Let them know I’m coming.” The hologram blinked out.

Imperial Residence, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“Come on now, Daniel. Eat your food.” The First Lady of the Federation sounded a bit annoyed at her son, then turned her glare on his father when he laughed at the child’s response.

“No.”

“Please, Daniel.” Lesley was growing a bit peeved to be going through the same routine every night with him, though D’ron found it amusing.

But then, that was probably because…

“Daniel.” The boy focused on his father’s voice with unerring accuracy, watching him without blinking as D’ron took a bite of his own dinner. A moment later he clamped down on the forkful of food his mother was offering him.

Lesley sighed softly, and then offered the two year old more food, and smiled at her husband. “Why is it that I always end up feeding him when you’re the only one who can make him eat?”

Brown eyes met green lovingly. “Just lucky that way.” He smiled, and Lesley, as usual, felt her small bit of anger melt away as she felt the genuine emotions flowing off of him. “We received a message from ICEL this afternoon. They’ve issued an open invitation to visit their nation to hear about what they’ve been up to. I thought maybe we could all go, as Jessica will be back with the Honor by then. Make it into a family vacation of sorts.”

Lesley chuckled. “How screwed up are our lives? A diplomatic conference as a family vacation.” She shook her head ruefully as she fed Daniel some more of his dinner. “We can’t take Daniel, D’ron. It would be rude.”

“Honor or Jess could watch him during the conference itself. Or I could even attend on my own, if you needed to watch him.”

The redhead shook her head in a negative. “That’s not why. Rellas and Rialla. It would be like throwing him in her face.”

The Imperial President looked blank for a second, then comprehension dawned. “Oh my. That must be horrid, I suppose.”

The slim woman shivered. “I cannot imagine how horrid it would be. I don’t know how she does it.”

D’ron nodded, and smiled to chase away the chills his wife was feeling. “We’ll leave him here. Jessica can watch him for a couple of days, and we’ll go, just the two of us.”

“Jessie!” Daniel exclaimed loudly at the mention of his aunt’s name, obviously enthused by the idea.

Bridge, S.P.M.S. Forbidden Honor, Low Orbit, Approaching ICEL Controlled Space, Some Days Later

Given that D’ron and Lesley were the First Family of the Federation, it was never just the two of them.

“Now, Andrew, I’m not going to have any problems with you or anyone else, am I?” D’ron’s voice was firm as he met the gaze of the soldier who was currently wearing the black semi-powered armor of the Guard, sans his helmet.

“No, sir. You are the President.” Guard Lieutenant First Class Andrew Walker sounded quite put out. But then, his Commander-in-Chief had just ordered him, Guard Lieutenant Second Class Lois Resnick, and the other two enlisted Guardsmen traveling with them to leave their weapons behind once they were on the ground in ICEL. Well, not all their weapons, but enough to make the professional paranoids nervous. A stunner could in fact kill, if you placed it to someone’s head or heart before firing, but that merely highlighted its major fault – no real range, especially not compared to the grav pulse weapons the Presidential Guard normally carried. The long combat knives, which might have been charitably called short swords, were, by design, even worse on range, and universally hated by everyone in the Guard. Andrew had held out for, and gotten permission to bring along, the Guardsmen’s lethally functional dress swords as well, which looked rather odd strapped to the armor they were wearing, but denied his first or even second choice, he would deal with it, as would those under his command.

Inclining his head in acknowledgement of his bodyguard’s unspoken feelings, D’ron smiled, then turned back to the displays. “Are we there yet?” he asked the air.

A hologram shimmered to life beside him. “Just now, Mister President. I’ve brought us to a stop right at the border to Commonwealth space and am requesting an escort and permission to enter. Shall I order the Wild Cards to depart?”

Andrew visibly stiffened at her question, then relaxed at his charge’s reply. “No, Honor. Not until we confirm an ICEL escort. You know better than that. There’s always a chance they’ll let us bring them with us, after all.” The twelve Sabre Special Operations Aerospace Dominance variants on the Longsword Aerospace Superiority Fighter hovered silently around their charge, as dedicated to its defense as Andrew was to D’ron, or Lois to Lesley. But then, that was their job.

Somewhere in Jovian orbit, within optical range of the Illuvaromeni star ships

Visualize, if you will, a starship the size of a can of soda, bolting through space. It is not especially advanced – unless, of course, you will count the fact that Allaneans have manage to fit a small FTL drive on it.

The ship, of course, possesses no weapons, unless you count lobbing it at a person like a brick.

It is not part of the Allanean navy.

In fact, the United States Stellar Navy is not at all aware of, or interested in, the pretty flashes in orbit of Jupiter.

Gabriel Thames, however, is very interested.

Gabriel Thames lives in a sort of bunk on an abandoned spacecraft in the asteroid belt. For living, he programs cargo management software for automated surface transports – boring as all get-out.

He had also not seen a human being face-to-face in the last three years, five months, six days, two hours and eleven seconds. Yes, Gabriel Thames has it timed – though he had long convinced himself it doesn't care.

He has his hobby, and that's much more important.

He is a ship-spotter – he owns a dozen drones like the one near Jupiter, and he uses them to make ship photographs – a Menelmacari gravship off Mars, a Sakkran battlehip in the Kuiper belt, and now – soon – Commonality starships near Jupiter.

This is going to be a blast.

Sentient Peoples, your forum account is broken, and you should avoid posting with it. I know that it getting fixed lies in the hands of Jolt and may not happen in the near future, but it's entirely possible that, if or when it is fixed, you will lose everything you posted with the account while it was broken.

~ Tsarmageddon is an automated warning signal

The first necron’s hair bobs a little as she cocks her head to one side, “Well, as is said, beggars can’t be choosers,” she said, “If you’d like to come this way; you probably require a full medical examination…”

The short walk through several pressure doors was uninteresting; the deep-store of Erisavenus contained all sorts of interesting sights, but aside from around the pod. A hovering, light blue ceramic creature that looked rather insectile, with long pointed legs and arms that sported various strange implements lurked to one side. And various beds and chairs sat around the triage room, a chamber with a distinct bulge downwards from the ceiling that glowed with a soft, pearly light.

And included more remote diagnostic equipment than you could shake a stick at. Which would probably make him quite uncomfortable if he were somehow able to see through it; of course, objecting would just make the necrons more eager to probe him.

Aboard Erisavenus

Si Ling's expression is a neutral one. Not just neutral in the human sense, but neutral in that "I'm not thinking anything at all" sense that the Nenyar occasionally go for. It's self-defeating generally: anyone muting their facial expression to that degree (or in the case of the Nenyar, not bothering to consciously convey what others do by instinctual muscle movements) is almost certainly hiding something.

What can't be hidden is something somewhat unusual about the Nenya's eyes. Namely, whereas all photographs (and holographs, for that matter) on record would clearly show the former Emperor with rather large, dark pupils, this guy doesn't have any pupils at all. Not even a pinprick.

Nonetheless, Si Ling doesn't appear to be acting in any way out of character...

The Nenya once almost universally detested outside of Iluvauromen walks fairly easily, a slow gait. Another problem: cursory checks of said holographs and imagery would note that his stride is four point seven centimetres shorter than it used to be. His feet lift approximately three centimetres higher with each step, and his footfall is thirty-eight percent quieter.

His arms do not swing in the manner one would expect of a former military man.

Perhaps most alarmingly of all, he generates a static electrical field tightly wound to his body.

This is not a documented Nenyar ability.

"Hmm, I can assure you I'm quite well, medically. I believe the chamber's interlink nodes failed at some stage after we...escaped. I presume the pod could not determine our state of health. Of course, we're infinitely grateful that you were on hand to extract me in time."

'We'?

* * *

Last Known Position of Tossing Dice

Debris tumbles worthlessly, end over end. A small corona of light opens wide, emitting...

Nothing at all. Only the most potent of eyes observe that the X-ray burster is accompanied by actual mass. More primitive mass-indicators do not observe the small, teardrop-shaped vessel, heavily stealthed. Not until they're very, very close, at any rate.

The scoutship hangs against the black, emitting almost no thermal radiation whatsoever. To be so heavily stealthed, it's inhabitant is almost certainly not conscious.

The ASI governing it's systems, on the other hand, watched with hawk-eyed interest. The debris was swiftly scanned, categorised, analysed, and pinpointed. Data would be passed onto the Civilian Space Clearance Authority at a later date, once all and any identifying debris had been carefully atomized by judicious use of the scoutship's weapon systems.

The first task, however, was to remove any local eyes. Solar space is notoriously crammed full of spying equipment - and this is an operation nobody wishes viewed locally.

The little object with it's unexpectedly marginally high thermal index is immediately noted by the ASI (or, rather, as immediately as linked local assets make it possible to be "immediate"); it is a sad fact that powering an object means heating an object, and overheating is one of the greatest enemies of spacegoers everywhere. Hence emission.

The ASI decides swiftly in favour of following it's orders to the precise letter.

A small gunport irises open on the skin of the blacker-than-night scoutship, deploying a one-shot X-ray laser submunition package. It glints for a fraction of a second as little puffs of energy propel it in the right direction, aligning for an intercept on the anomalous object.

* * *

IDS Lothsáralossë ar-Rihad, open stellar space

{-Sarah inhabited the vessel quite snugly. While that was a strange term to apply to it, she found it fitting (pun fully intentional). The ship-consciousness did not mind her being there, which was just as well, else she would not have been able to assume command of his functions.

Lothsáralossë ar-Rihad - the personality, not the metallic object - was quite enjoyable company, in fact. Despite the name - which even to her had a vaguely feminine tint - the ship was most assuredly a he. Rare, but it did happen. The assignment was intentional. A pocket cruiser of this type required certain minor advantages that the male-line ASI's had that the female's did not. Nothing spectacular... just developments that couldn't be reverse-integrated.

Sarah was not even jealous. Well, mostly.

She smiled at him. "We're almost there," she observed. "Only sixteen more Hops."

"It takes so long for me to get you there," he replied, quietly. "I do apologize. They haven't refit my engines yet." It was a pointless exchange. Both already knew everything the other was to say. Both, however, also had a certain fondness for this method of communication. Nonverbal verbal electronic comms had certain small advantages to those who had been raised fully believing they were human beings.

A pause. "They say your new construct is ready."

Sarah nodded. "Yes. It has more functions than my old Primary. Better suited to my new line of work."-}

Meanwhile, outside the ship, more interesting things were happening. Interesting though they were, they were far more deadly. The small, family-operated freighter was only a hundredth of a light-second ahead of the Iluvauromeni warship after it's latest Hop, so the warship easily swallowed the distance required, utilizing it's rather better-suited manipulating fields to cut half of it's momentum in the process.

It arrived just in time to see the gamma X-ray pulse from the other ship in attendance. A quick slice of light, and one of the domed habitat areas on the freighter became shockingly exposed to space. Gas spewed out for a moment, quickly cut off as internal systems slammed metal into place to plug the hole. The metal buckled for an instant, then held.

Masers fired from the second ship - but communicative ones, this time. Tightband, the Iluvauromeni warship could not read them, but it did manage to pick up the gist.

Without slowing, the pocket cruiser cycled open two gunports, weapons cradles selecting the correct tools for the job. A slight course change. No warning. No question.

The kinetic harpoons, ballistic weapons rather than guided, hurtled out from their cradles. Direct-fire cradles were well-suited for harpoons, which was why they had been developed in the first place; six of them were fired, while estimates assumed only one was actually necessary. The six spiralled outwards; although ballistic, they did have limited guiding imposed by their spin. The cradles controlled the spin, of course, which meant one could spread them out a little.

It took well under a second for them to find their target.

The pirate ship died easily - and sadly far more quickly than the twelve year old daughter of the captain of the freighter it had mercilessly engaged.

Lothsáralossë ar-Rihad pulled alongside the aging freighter, comms systems bleating offers of assistance.

* * *

Nenya, Iluvauromen

"Yes, yes, grant them the authority to bring their own escorts in. It'll take a load off of D'ron's hands." A glance at the IPG man, ever-present, stoic in the corner. "Goodness knows my own security are annoying enough," she observes, lips quirking upwards the corners. "We heads of state have to help each other out, eh?"

Dejure, yet again present in her office, nods, smirking faintly. "Of course. I do believe Ax is already taking care of it."

"And the preperations?"

"Quite ready. Sarah will, however, be slightly late. Her current Primary construct was delayed en route - just some pirate activity."

"Right. Has she transmitted Tatya's report yet?"

Shake of the head, more mental than physical, from the old ambassador. "No. She observed that some of the data is too sensitive. The transmission would be widebeam at this range. Too much spread. Those civilizations with better computer equipment than our own would probably have a wonderful feast on the data."

"Mmm," Rialla acknowledged, softly. "And Semir?"

Dejure shook his head, slowly. "Still no word. I expect you would hear first, Your Majesty."

Rialla nods, slowly. "Of course. - Perhaps D'ron and Lesley..."

Dejure agrees, silently... and then for good measure, vocally. "They may have an idea."

* * *

Low-Earth Orbit, Commonality Space

Sensor systems tracked S.P.M.S. Forbidden Honor all the way in, of course. Equally of course: they were not active sensors. Passive observation techniques were, in many ways, just so much more friendly.

A little slower, but it sent the right message. We don't spy on you, friends.

All the same, there are some things that cannot be ignored, and the primary of those is security.

Commonality Space, as one might expect, is a busy place. Many, many freighters arriving from the Earth-Mars Highway exit terminus; even more blocks of material, sent in containers only, rushing into the area. Control had the endless joy of observing, redirecting, and, unsurprisingly, controlling the riot of activity.

Today, things are perhaps just a little quieter. Not particularly caring if it annoyed anyone else, Iluvauromeni assets have moved out into a wider umbrella, providing a comfortingly vast zone of control high above the planet itself. Weapons do not run hot, precisely, but the implication of every warship in the area having half of it's gunports open is probably quite clear. Today is not the day to even suggest the possibility of annoying the CSF.

Fifty eXon interceptors roll down from their position in high orbit, like ballerinas on strings. Agile, swift, and well-known to their Federation counterparts. A flurry of communications attempts lance out, most of them entirely unofficial, and on non-official bands. The two armed forces have co-operated in the past - naturally the men and women of the CSF want to see if anyone they know is on escort duty today.

More importantly, though, is the communication from the lead fighter.

"Hail, Forbidden Honor. Commander Luis Varez, Commonality Space Force Diplomatic Escort Service, CAP4 assigned to IDS Fear-X, reporting," he identifies, after the initial FoF acknowledgement squirt. "Command says you can bring your pretty thunderbirds with you. We'll follow. Over."

The necrons do indeed note the use of the term we. By now, a deep-ish archive search has revealed a fairly accurate assessment of the identity of their guest, not that the necrons say anything. They never really had any contact with the Nenyans, though of course, Menelmacar did, once. As such, it was provisionally assumed to be some form of ‘royal we.’ “Observing your eyes,” one of the Asisalas said, “you do appear to require medical attention; they are considerably deviated from the known norms of your species. Furthermore, it is required that you submit to non-invasive analysis in order to determine quarantine procedures for harmful maladies, parasites, and forces you may be host to, as well as possible harmful implants you may be carrying…”

“In other words,” another necron said, “We really must insist.”

“And then, perhaps,” a third put in, “you could tell us how you ended up so far off the beaten track. You were quite a long way in fact. We were considering micro jumping out to you, but gravitic differential made a teleport marginally easier.”

“This way, please,” the second said, waving through a doorway into a small, circular room with a metal slab in it…

Somewhere Not Quite Here

First Voice: "Too late. Discovery unavoidable."

Second Voice: "Irrelevant. Proceed as normal."

Third Voice: "Eyestate definitive. Discovery agreed unavoidable. Escape improbable. Query potential self-termination."

First Voice: "Improbable willingness. Negative to query."

Second Voice: "Concur. Proceed as normal."

Third Voice: "Acquiescence."

Here

Si Ling blinks, slowly. "Yes. Yes, I can see how you'd want to do that. Non-invasive, hm. Well, I suppose it would be bound to be less invasive than assessing one's physical structure in sufficient detail in order to teleport one all this way. Although I hope you're aware that we Nenyar do not carry infectious diseases. Immune system co-opts them fairly swiftly."

A pause en route to the doorway itself, an afterthought, really, and said with little real interest: "Were there any other survivors?"

Two slivers of light became just barely visible over the horizon of Charon. Two teardrop shaped ships zipped past headed for Earth. In one shuttle the prince sat with his single bodyguard, who wold simply adress himself as an "aid to the Prince." The other was an escort that would leave the shuttle once they had reached the edge of ICEL space. The Iluvauromeni had been kind enough to trust the shuttle to pass through ICEL aerospace without escorts, the least the Largentians could do was return the favor in kind.

Inside the ship the Prince was discussing the strange openness of the Iluvauromeni. For someone who identified themselves as a "traditionalist" the current stance the ICEL seemed to be taking on security seemed quixotic. However, he was in no postition to criticize since the pain of going through security had been completly obliterated.

The prince was dressed lavishly but subtly so. His bodyguard wore a fine Largentian suit and a top of the line gold watch. Such was customary for a prince and Beren refused to deviate from what was considered proper. Any sort of abberition within the Imperial family was only a step away from heresy as far as the old partyl elite were concerned. This was the atmosphere in which the prince was raised and was the doctrine he had come to fully believe and live by. Perhaps making him a horrible dinner guest but a fantastic first impression and a fine diplomat, two things the BNC was interested in sending to the Iluvauromeni.

It was only a few more minutes before the shuttle was preparing to touch down within Nenya. Beren gazed out of his window remarking how breathtaking the forest was. Asking his pilot more about it he learned it was called the Forest of Nenya. Those trees are massive. He remarked to himself wondering if seeds would be attainable for planting in the Imperial gardens.

Finally, the shuttle began a nose dive, appearing to be headed straight for the lake, Aelinenya, the pilot called it, and the entrance to the city seemed to not have been made by anything other than nature. Nevertheless, minutes later the old diverted channels had been left behind and the prince was looking at the Iluvauromeni capital. The pilot found his designated landing space and brought the shuttle to a rest still hovering several inches off the ground.

[OOC: I used your factbook for some general info. Let me know if I was wrong about anything and I can edit it]

Low Earth Orbit, ICEL Controlled Space

The ICEL pilots may, in fact, have known someone in the Wild Cards squadron, more formally known as the Presidential Guard Squadron. The same squadron always escorted the Forbidden Honor, including all its previous trips to the city of Ma-Nenya. The same squadron had also escorted Rialla when she visited the Federation the last time.

On the other hand, these pilots are extraordinarily focused individuals, for the most part, and so, keep their conversations to a minimum, though given they can communicate by thought, and they have been trained to multi-task, a minimum is probably considerably more than one might expect. So there are some greetings, and remembrances, and questions after families and friends exchanged.

It has been quite some time, after all.

The pace was quite the leisurely lope for the President’s ship, and even more so for the fighters which surrounded it. The ship was barely creeping along as it got close enough to the ground for the displacement of the air to matter, cruising at about half the speed of sound before slowing to a complete stop over its designated landing area.

The hundred twenty meter vessel required a rather large landing area, especially as it was accompanied by twelve fighters, which slowly grounded around it in a protective circle, noses, and weapons, facing outwards. The ramp ground open from the yacht’s underside, slipping neatly between the landing struts. Two black armored forms flowed down the ramp, taking position to either side, their lethality and alertness clearly evident, despite lacking their normal kit of weapons.

The Imperial President was next down the ramp, clad in black as well, though only nanofabric in his case, and not armor. He wore a familiar sword on his belt, Kánomegil, the Sword of the Commander, the Federation’s sword of state, the raptor headed hilt gleaming dully in the shadow of his arm. On his other arm was his wide, First Lady Lesley, wearing a deep blue jumpsuit under a gauzy green cape, the ends of which flirted with her husband’s floor length cape in the slight breeze across the open tarmac.

Two more shapes followed them, these also clad in armor, walking the correct two paces behind and one to the outside of their respective charges. As they were doing so, ten of the fighters were opening their canopies. Two members of the squadron would remain on active ready for four two hours, while two more held watch outside. The other eight would be free to do whatever they wished, including use the bunks provided for them on the larger vessel. Eight off, four on was the watch cycle, and of twenty four hours, each pilot would spend four in the cockpit of his or her fighter.

The transmission from ICEL reached Vigvar in the middle of the afternoon, local time, and drew particular attention from the Foreign Ministry. The Foreign Minister was immediately alerted, as well as other members of the Grand Ducal Government. It was not long before the six government ministers and the Grand Duke established a video-conference link to discuss the matter.

“Sentients…” ranted Karth Tal-Nash, the Minister of the Interior. “I am Taraskath, not some sentient fish.”

“Indeed you are, Karth,” Mikhail said with a chuckle. “But what they think of themselves and everybody around is not the most important issue at hand right now. I need a complete brief on the state of relations in the past years.”

“Official interaction has been absent, Sire,” Ithun Khat, the Foreign Minister said.

“A good brief,” nodded Anatoly Orlov, the Minister of Defence.

“Well, trade has continued on as usual. But without any particular enthusiasm,” Illiar Lareth, obviously the man charged with Economy and Finances, stated.

“What do we make of it all then?” the Grand Duke arched an eyebrow.

“The Iluvauromeni are inviting pretty much everyone to that banquet of theirs. Even enemies, it seems,” Ithun said pensively. “Might come up with something incredibly important during the course of the event, I figure.”

“What do you have in your schedule that day, Ithun?”

The Foreign Minister was seen on the screen as hitting some keys, then quickly glancing over something.

“Opening ceremony for a new Foreign Protector training centre,” the Minister said, referring to the security service under his Ministry’s command charged with protecting Taraskovyan diplomatic missions. “I shall send the Vice-Minister, I guess.”

“You will. Prepare a missive to that matter for the ICEL. I guess the Government has no objections?”

No Ministers spoke against sending the Foreign one over to ICEL.

“Excellent. Return to your duties, Gentlemen.”

And so the link was ended.

[OOC: Pretty close, Largent...close enough. Nice to see good research. :D]

IC:

To those who inhabit her, she is nothing less than the most beautiful city there ever was. To those who visit, she tends to leave something of a big impression. Sometimes it's positive; sometimes it's negative. Like any city, she has her good and bad.

Nenya's good is natural. She is dominated by the great tropical forest that enfolds the lake from whom she takes her name, and as such, she is not a dense metropolis. At surface level, at least. On the surface, she is a forest with a scattering of trees spread across several thousand square miles - by far the most sparsely populated of Iluvauromen's cities.

From the air, she is only trees. One doesn't get a sense of city from up there; more just a sense of the great green. While on approach, visible to the north is the great peak of Tumnore, the largest and tallest mountain in the Commonality, albeit only as the merest smudge on the horizon.

Nenya Spaceport is, in a word, busy. But even here, nature doesn't seem to mind very much. Almost all the ships here are Iluvauromeni, with foreign goods always deposited out at the border Terminii, then brought inwards to the centre. Considering the purpose of this expanse of land carefully carved out of the forest, it's quite a bit quieter than one might expect.

The journey in for Prince Beren was an exercise in "invisible security", to be sure. The MISAT network, slightly reorientated for the occasion of having to watch foreign dignitaries arriving, provided real-time observation, ensuring that certain assets with long-range interdiction capacity could remain firmly in place in orbit, and never be seen from the ground or air. On the ground itself, elite forces deployed out of sight, never less than fifty metres from the planned routes of delegates... and never visible to them.

So it was that the approach of Ax-randiri Rihad appeared entirely free, and unsecured. His groundcar - in fact not a groundcar at all, but merely acting like one for the time being - manouvred over towards the shuttle from Largent, perched on it's minimalist jet-black landing pad. Fake grass, immune to thermal issues caused by certain types of engines, swayed convincingly all around the pad. No soldiers here.

Isolated pads, green grass.

And a groundcar with a single occupant. Apparently. His uniform, however, is instantly recognizable as that of someone not only of high rank, but high repute. At least locally.

High Lord Admiral Ax-randiri Rihad, Commander of the Commonality Space Force, smiled a diplomat's smile as he stepped from the groundcar and awaited the Largent prince.

"Bloody warm today," he remarked, silently, to the man standing quite invisibly next to him.

Media drones are nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Elsewhere at the Spaceport, the bustle is considerably greater. Media drones cling to the air in their hundreds, representing every media outlet in the Commonality, and at least a few from beyond. One of the larger pads - significantly larger - had been allocated to the Federation contingent. And a more visibly secure one.

Two Sentinel guard towers, thirty metres tall apiece, mobile and recently placed, stand watch at the north-east and south-west corners of this particular field. Eminently visible e-cannon sit at their crests, static but entirely ready for action. Thousands of individuals involved in the massive security operation required by respect alone go through a hundred different stresses (each) in order to make certain that the visible sections of the operation go off without a single hitch.

No groundcar here; instead, on another pad, just outside the ring of satelite pads hastily put in place for the escorting Federation vessels, rests a pocket cruiser. A mere sixty metres in length, thirty across, it bears a passing resemblance to a swan with stubby wings.

Rialla - flanked by four IPG in jet-black full combat gear - smilingly walks the distance required. Naturally, every step of her journey is marked by a red carpet placed ahead of time.

No fanfare, though, not here.

Rialla wears the pure white dress uniform fitting for her station as Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, several campaign ribbons and accolades pinned to her chest breaking the monotony of colour. As ever, her hair is shockingly perfect: jet-black and flowing, long, wild and peaceful all at once. Elegant and tall, she is, as one would expect, exactly what an Empress probably should look like.

Except for the indulgently goofy grin. Even that works in her favour; universally loved in her own country, whole families break out into similar grins, seeing the happiness so blatant on her face. Old friends meeting once again, they say. Isn't that grand to see.

It's a good media image politically, and a myriad of advisors who had nothing to do with the action clap themselves and each other on the back, maneuvering to claim responsibility in their own respective circles.

Beyond the million machinations already taking place, in the here and now, Rialla allows her joy to spill over slightly into the local area, knowing there aren't likely to be too many objections.

Might not have managed to keep it all in anyway, she mused, cheerfully.

The IPG stand a few metres back, although even this probably caused something of an argument. Protective to a fault, they observe the Federation contingent with a mixture of respect and suspicion. The latter is for everyone who isn't Iluvauromeni Imperial Family.

And then it happens. If anything were ever to be a public display of a change of policy, then this would be it. Rialla steeled herself, and then-

"Damn fine to see you two again, I must say," she greets, warmly, inclining her head precisely seven degrees forwards and two degrees to the right - and no more. That remains. But this is still not the ceremonial approach one would expect. At all.

Rialla ignores the cameras in the manner of one who is entirely used to them being there. Like trees. "I trust you both had a pleasant trip?" She gestures, vaguely, in the direction of the pocket cruiser. "We can ride the rest of the way to the Palace in style," she adds, grinning widely.

Federation Landing Pad, Space Port, Nenya, Ma-Nenya, ICEL

The Federation people were, of course, unfazed by the development. There had been plenty of time on their landing approach to notice the… festivities, for lack of a better word. Accordingly, Honor had landed her ship form with the exquisite precision one only truly gets from an Electronic Sentience. Just before D’ron’s foot hit the surface of the pad, a gold carpet unfurled out to meet precisely with the red one that ended at the edge of the safety zone.

The edges met perfectly. No overlap and no revealed pavement between the two pieces of fabric. It was perfect timing, really, for something that was not planned. D’ron and Lesley approached Rialla with real smiles on their faces as well, meeting her at the end of both carpets at the same time the Empress arrived. Had there been a professional at work, they would have sighed with the exquisite choreography.

The four bodyguards trail behind the two Federation officials (Lesley did, after all, hold the position of Special Representative), faces invisible behind the black faceplates. They naturally spread out to mirror the formation of the IPG men behind the Empress.

D’ron and Lesley both grin at Rialla’s greeting. Given the display being put on, they had been expecting something rather impersonal, and not the Rialla they had come to know during those many months at the Imperial House.

“Nae saian luume’,” D’ron replied to the female Nenya, his smile lighting his eyes. “Saesa omentien lle au’.”

Lesley’s greeting was even more friendly. She leaned up to the taller woman, carefully balancing on her toes so that her hands, carefully splayed to look like they were on Rialla’s arms, though only the closest camera angle would be able to tell they were not, did not have to touch the Empress. A gentle kiss to each cheek, in what was sometimes called the Continental style, was followed by her own greeting. “Lle maa quel, mellon en cormamin.” As she retook D’ron’s arm, she replied to Rialla’s question with a broad smile. “It is always a good trip, when one travels to see old friends.”

At Rialla’s indication of the pocket cruiser, D’ron smiled. “Ladies first,” he answered her, gesturing with his free hand. As they moved towards the craft, Andrew and Lois moved in closer to their charges, while the two enlisted Guardsmen moved back, outside the circle of the IPG men watching the Empress, before following along silently.

Bridge, S.P.S. Starfinder, Dragonstar-class Battlecruiser, Flagship, 23rd Space Battle Group, Five Lighthours Outside Solar Orbit

It had been some eight hours since the ships had received the signal from the ICEL escape pod, and they had been accelerating at the maximum rate ever since. Signal degradation pointed to it being over eighteen days old, so they had an approximate location.

Captain Eric Mifflin was poised at the edge of the holographic display that currently showed him nothing besides a Sol System falling behind his nine ships. “Astrogation, are we ready?”

“All ships are clear of the hyper limit, sir.”

“Very well. Lieutenant Webster, pass the order to all ships. We are now operating under Rules of Engagement Foxtrot-Alpha. All hands to General Quarters. Set Condition Red.” The dark haired man waited calmly for moments it would take the ships to acknowledge. All his captains were good, and had undoubtedly anticipated his orders. “Begin Combat Jump Sequence.”

Fifteen seconds later, all trace of the ships vanished in a universe wrenching flash of gravitic energy.

Twenty Seconds Later, Eighteen Lightdays From Sol

The universe heaved, and gravitic shear went off the charts for the briefest nanosecond. When it cleared, thirteen warships sat in place, active scanners throwing a torrent of electromagnetic radiation deep into space as they searched around them.

“No immediate contacts, Captain,” came the fairly quick response from the Lieutenant at the tactical command station aboard the Starfinder. “I am reading a lot of debris, enough to be a decent sized starship, and something very witchy is going on that I can’t localize. Definite residue of weapons fire.”

“Stay alert. It seems unlikely whoever did this is still around, but we can’t be too sure. They may have wanted to pounce whoever came to the rescue. Any sign of that distress beacon, David?”

“No, sir,” came the reply from the Communications officer. “I have no active signals.”

“No active power sources, unless they’re well shielded, either, Skipper.”

Mifflin nodded slowly. “Battle group orders, spread out slowly to encompass the debris field. See if we can track everything.” He frowned. “Especially look for heavy concentrations of carbon.” Everyone knew what that meant. Bodies. Or things that used to be bodies. “Once that’s done, if there are no hostile contacts in the next two hours, being sweeping up the debris. The Icees deserve to know what happened to their ship.”

OOC: Translations from Elven:
Nae saian luume’ - It has been too long.
Saesa omentien lle au’ - Pleasure meeting you again.
Lle maa quel, mellon en cormamin - You look good, friend of my heart.

“Is there really any reason why we’re here, sir?”

“Not really.”

“Do we even care what happens in this overcrowded hellhole known as Sol?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Who knows.”

“Figures.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Friggin’ paper-pushing politicians.”

“Now that’s taking alliteration too far. But I agree, fuck ‘em.”

It was a conversation repeated along similar lines at least once a day, a reflection of the crew’s distaste for their mission.

The men turned their attention back to the cold, unwelcoming expanses of space. A thin sheet of transparent metallic alloy separated these frail humans from an environment wholly unforgiving of mistakes and a coldly exploitative of all the flaws.

Their’s was a small ship compared to the overly massive, phallic-inspired monstrosities deployed by most powers in space. Measuring some 200 meters, it was one of the smallest warships deployed by a navy considered as one of the most formidable in the universe, a navy little seen in the Sol System for many long years. But its size was quite deceptive. The letterings on the side of the vessel named it the Popocatépetl after a hero of Aztec mythology and a volcano in the Old Earth country of Mexico.

Drifting slowly near the Jovian moon of Ganymede, the ship was operating at a level levels that permitted its signature to be masked by the newest of cloaking and stealth technology. The ship’s sensors picking up the unusual heat signature and then they received the distress signal, a universal cry for help. The escape pod was too close, its signals most definitely drawing unwanted attention to the area.

With the careful, calculated manipulation of the Popocatépetl’s maneuvering thrusters, the helmsman brought the ship farther away from the escape pod.

“HOLY CRAP!” exclaimed one of the bridge officers, seeing the four-kilometer long Necron warship flash overhead, the tiny ship shuddering slightly from the larger ship’s passage. “Now that is one big sonuvabitch!”

“Lt. Flanders,” growled the commanding officer, his face barely reflecting in the flickering lights of the darkened bridge.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“How big is it?”

“AI says four kilometers, sir,” reported one of the sensory technicians.

The captain nodded his head quietly in contemplation. First priority was on getting his command as far away as possible. His operational orders were quite clear. Steer clear of everything and if drawn into a hostile situation, run as fast as possible. He grimaced. The Popocatépetl could run, but with the intense amount of electronic energy spewing forth across space, it was highly doubtful that it could escape detection even with all the much vaunted technology available.

With a curt command, the bridge crew swiftly shut down all but the most essential of systems, hoping that they could escape. Slowly, the unpowered ship drifted, trying to head away from the ‘incident.’

[INS Erisavenus → Unidentified Ship [Coords • Vector •]]

You know, if you simply have to sneak around Sol in a stealth ship, it probably helps to get out of the way of oncoming traffic. Not only because if you get close, it becomes much more likely you’ll be detected, but because the only reason you were not shredded into itty-bitty pieces by my drive fields is because I was able to cut them as I noticed you. If I were a touch less diligent, that rumbling you felt would have probably turned you into paste against the insides of your pretty ship.

P.S. You really ought to be responding to distress calls.

---

Eight Hours or so before the Starfinder arrives…

The necron ship resumed acceleration, and a moment later, flashed into hyperspeed. A very, very low speed thereof, too; one light day per second, eighteen seconds later, the necron ship reappeared to normal senses; cruising gently near the debris field, sensor emitter masts on its underside working their way through a sequence of scans that were designed to detect objects of interest in concentric spheres around the ship before they incremented the power again, potentially incinerating anyone in the previous sphere.

Meanwhile, inside the ship, the various necrons are looking distinctly cagey about their subject as they wait for the ship to make with the scanning. It’s a simple enough process. Si Ling lies down. The ship slams him in a stasis field, briefly, and simultaneously takes a snap shot of his entire body, ranging from cellular chemistry to esoteric resonance fields that would make a new age crystal healer proud. Then it begins to analyse them…

The Chunk of Debris Formerly Known as Tossing Dice

The scoutship evaluated the situation carefully, noting the arrival of further ships swiftly enough. One was ignored, for now, although timing and communications were marked as intriguing, and filed for further investigation. The presence of the Federation vessel forced a quick rethink of policy. Firstly, it's pilot was awakened. Thermal footprint increases marginally, increasing the probability of detection accordingly. The pilot then called for help (largely to outmass on sensory equipment), but not via normal channels. The result: somewhat quicker response.

Warships Hop in three hours and sixteen seconds later. The four destroyers flank the largest of the ships, a Fear-X carrier - hull designation indicates it's assigned to the 3 Stellar Battlegroup. IDSS Vitality is flanked by Nimble, Aware, Triumph, and Ahyane I. Jumping in eight seconds later at a distance of forty-eight thousand kilometres is Unexpected Vector, somewhat longer than Vitality at four-and-a-half kilometres but less possessing of mass - a DSA-III heavy assault vessel. It is rather like a big, flying spike with deep grooves down starboard and port.

The scoutship immediately de-stealths entirely, no longer bothering to hide it's electronic/thermal footprint. It enacts a much-needed dump of static electricity and heat energy into space.

Tightband communication beams lock onto the Federation vessels, coming from the leading carrier.

"Good to see you, Starfinder. I don't suppose you came across any survivors?" Straight to the point. "Captain Ira DeVarre here, IDSS Vitality." Superfluous information last.

* * *

Nenya

Rialla continues to beam quite cheerfully as she leads the way towards the pocket cruiser. It is, of course, the Tyelca Tuo. Muted, golden light flicker across it's surface, almost a wave of greeting.

Unobtrusively, an IPG officer shakes the hand of an FSP bodyguard, pressing an item surreptitiously into their grip.

The walk is, of course, short. On the way, Rialla chitchats calmly. "Tyelca Tuo has had a little upgrade since you would've seen her last. She's had her systems re-integrated. Sarah wanted to be inserted into her, but unfortunately the girl has been delayed somewhat. Pirates being what they are..." Rialla gives a half shrug.

A segment of the hull of Tyelca Tuo dissolves down to provide entrance, solidifying into a single gold-and-red ramp.

* * *

Erisavenus

Things seem normal enough at first. It takes rather a close analysis to determine one rather unusual thing: something which, for a fraction of a second, attempts to resist the stasis field. It doesn't succeed, nor does it come anywhere near succeeding. It might even have recoiled after an initial effort. But something interrupts, just for a fraction of a fraction of a thousandth of a second.

The second unusual thing is just a tad more unusual. One could suggest defensive armour of some kind for the first, perhaps one of those personal Barrier devices that senior Iluvauromeni Imperial Family members are rumoured to wear.

The second thing, though, rather takes the biscuit. There are most assuredly four biolectric fields intermingling inside Si Ling. First, there's his own neural/nerve activity. And then, superimposed onto his nervous system in such exquisitely accurate fashion as to make it unlikely that less advanced technology would be able to discern them, are three other biolectric fields, closely mimicking (and altering?) the activity of the first.

Indications are that Si Ling is not one person, but four.

[ooc: ahhh, my post got eaten, noooo. I really should learn to save these things]

As the engines to the shuttle slowly shut down, Abdul-Malik, Beren's body guard glaced out of the window. "Rather quiet for an event that is supposed to be so big." Beren couldn't really disagree, but then again he didn't really mind either. There were more important things to do that show off for the cameras, and a few days without them might make his job a little bit easier. He took a moment to straighten out his uniform before responding.

"Yes, perhaps, but we have other things to worry about right now. Make sure you don't forget the gifts." Once again, keeping with Ba'ath tradition Beren had gone through the troubles of choosing an appropriate gift for the occasion. This was no easy task for any Largentian diplomat. There were three possible things to bring that Largent considered itself a leader in the quality of the production of: cars, wine, and rugs. A car was a little over the top, rugs were a platitude at this point, and wine, although appropriate, could only be enjoyed for a short amount of time. That is, if ICEL banquets were anything like Largentian ones. So, Beren had compromised and brought both wine and a rug.

The door to the shuttle opened with a hiss as stairs folded out from beneath the floor. Beren put on his finest diplomatic smile and Abdul-Malik put on his most appropriate and slightly intimidating stolid look complete with the cliché sunglasses. Reminding his friend once more not to forget the gifts, which he was about to do, the two disembarked from the shuttle.

Beren had to take a moment as he let the surroundings sink in. His eyebrows arched almost involuntarily as he saw what a magnificent place this really was. It is quite rare to find something so unique in such an over crowded world. Of course Abdul-Malik took no notice. He had quite a knack for letting details slip by unnoticed, at least ones that were irrelevant to the Prince's safety.

Remembering why he had come, Beren once again turned his attention to the man now only a few feet away from him, High Lord Admiral Ax-randiri Rihad. Bowing deeply he introduced himself, "Greetings on behalf of the people of the Ba'ath National Command. My name is Prince Beren Oronrá, heir to the Largentian throne. We have come with gifts as a form of thanks for your astounding hospitality. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

It took Ax-randiri a few moments to recall that most Royal families were not quite as paranoid as the IPG tended to make the Iluvauromeni one. Still, it seemed mighty strange to him to send the Crown Prince abroad without significant protection... on the other hand, he decided to take it as a compliment to the security forces. Who, naturally, were scurrying to reinforce the groundcar route appropriately.

Not that anyone with a weapon classified as lethal under Iluvauromeni law could possibly get within fifty miles of a visiting dignitary and expect to retain consciousness.

"Welcome to the Commonality, Crown Prince Beren," the High Lord Admiral greets, with a tone slightly above cordial in warmth. His head inclines precisely fourteen degrees downwards and three to the right, before shockingly amber eyes raise again.

In all, the executive council man can be said to be "robust". Tall and elegant as is common if not mandatory in his species, the middle-aged Nenya looks about thirty years old... but is in fact pushing one hundred and thirty. He has high, elegant cheeks, and, despite not being a direct blood relative, bears the Royal nose. He is a slender, muscular six feet seven inches tall. He wears the crisp blue-white uniform of the Commonality Space Force's uppermost echelon of rank.

"It's only about two hundred kilometres to the Palace," he goes on. "So we thought you might like to see the view more intimately than it would be from the air." Here, there are different publicity requirements. The louder arrival of FSP counter-acts the quieter arrival of the Largentians, but the louder journey swiftly brings attention the other way again. Equalization, by order of pass association.

"Gifts, are, of course, most welcome. However, it may not be possible for the Empress to accept them under our law... certain items above a certain value can only be gifted to the state, you understand. Conflict of interest avoidance. - We've kept the media away from you, here, but interest will escalate as we travel. I doubt you'll be aware, because we won't be travelling... slowly."

He gestures towards the groundcar. "The Empress and other members of the Executive Council will be awaiting us at the Palace."

When it found nothing to interest it, Erisavenus jumped back to its assigned patrol route, leaving behind a sizeable buoy made of primitive materials, stating that it had picked up a pod in accordance with ‘acceptable behaviour’ (in lieu of actual international law). It said nothing about who or what had been found in it, though.

Beren followed the High Lord Admiral into the groundcar. "Well, as long as the gifts are enjoyed, I suppose it doesn't matter whose name they are under," he offered with a smile. Ax-randiri Rihad certainly was an imposing man, at least to someone like Beren who had not inherited the tall gene that seemed to run throughout all other members of his family. Still six foot two and with muscles that were almost bulky from his service in the military. Nevertheless, it was unfortunate that he found himself looking up at many diplomats, in this case five inches up.

As the groundcar started moving, Beren remembered how little he enjoyed these rides to some function with someone he had never met before. Terrible akward, but he always did his best to start some sort of conversation to avoid a long silence. Meanwhile he had the small Cyanomod on the collar of his suit upload all the information about the Iluvauromeni that it could.

The cityscape was now zipping by...rather quickly. Impressive. Beren was about to strike up some sort of a conversation when it suddenly dawned on him that the gentleman that had met him hadn't given his name. Taking a moment to find a way around the obstacle he asked the High Admiral, "If you don't mind my asking, what exactly is your uniform for?"

Hoping to have found away to engage his host in some conversation he waited for the ground car to arrive at its destination.

Federation Landing Pad, Space Port, Nenya, Ma-Nenya, ICEL

Walker was surprised when the IPG man came up and shook his hand. Admittedly, with both of them in full armor, there was no danger of skin contact, but the gesture had always been assumed to be rather foreign to the Icees, the Nenyar especially. He returned the gesture promptly enough, his shock invisible behind his armor.

The pressure into his gauntleted hand was changed as the man stepped away, and Andrew curled his thumb down to trap the data chip handed off to him. Circuitry built to interface with a multitude of computer systems (though primarily the ones in his personal weapons or combat vehicles), quickly scanned the chip and downloaded its contents into his neural implants. Out of habit and training, he hit the file with scans to detect anything amiss with it and frowned once he opened it.

The merest concentration and the file headed straight to his President over TacNet, the FTL communications system that tied them in, even here, to the central computers in the Federation. He retained a copy, and began to study it, though, curious if it would have anything to do with his purpose. D’ron had a bad habit of not telling people what they needed to know when it came to things like protecting him. The man suffered from the delusion he was unimportant to the Federation.

Never mind that the Federation would not exist were it not for him…

D’ron and Lesley calmly followed their host down the red carpet, smiling for the cameras, and from genuine pleasure at seeing their friend again. The Imperial President got the transmitted file from his bodyguard about the time Rialla stopped speaking, and allowed Lesley to answer, a slight glimmer of his eyes letting her know he was busy with something.

He was, in fact, reading about certain incidents, such as an explanation of why Rialla’s husband was not present with her, and what was going on with her father. The whole thing was rather fantastic, even the small (he was guessing) bit that was in this file. But clearly, this was extremely private. Best not to mention it until they were at least alone – without all these cameras.

Lesley, meanwhile, was smiling all the way to her eyes. “She’s certainly shinier than the last I recall seeing any of your vessels.” She briefly caressed the hull of the ship as they boarded. “Looks good on you,” she murmured before continuing to address Rialla’s comments. “Yes. The amount of piracy has picked up of late. Some of our mining assets are being hit hard, and we’re having to send larger concentrations of vessels out to protect our convoys. We’re still searching for their base, but, well…” She grins widely. “Space is big.”

The Debris Field

The Federation ships were very careful in how they spread out, encompassing nearly two light seconds. Once the ordered time period had passed, they began to sweep up the debris field, after deploying their fighters to assist in their efforts.

Recovering the materials was going fairly quickly, when aboard the Starfinder crewmen sorting through the debris found the oddest thing. A stone tablet.

Inscribed into the tablet was a message, stating that the entity who had emplaced had found an escape pod and left behind this message. Data base consultation, given a decently accurate ship list for the Necrontyr Empire (just like most nations), revealed precisely what the ship was (assuming it was not explained on the tablet).

Meanwhile, the tactical officer was becoming increasingly concerned about the witchy data he was picking up from the surrounding space, and was arguing with the EI about it.

“I’m sure it is merely left over residuals from the ship which dropped the tablet and picked up the escape pod. I’ve been analyzing the debris we’ve dragged aboard already, and it shows two different crystallization patterns from damage.”

“Tarfi, I know something’s out there,” the lieutenant argued back. The EI made a scoffing noise. “My gut tells me there’s something watching us.”

“Whatever. I’ll let you know as soon as any evidence shows up for your indigestion.” The ship’s EI sounded extremely doubtful, though.

Long minutes passed with glacial slowness as tractor beams swept back and forth across mostly empty space, and at fifty-eight minutes into the collection effort, with ninety plus percent of the debris collected into the docking bays of the Federation warships, the thermal signature of the CSF scoutship burned through at last, when two of the fighters conducted a wider sweep outward to look for any debris which has escaped the net.

Tarfi immediately sounded the Condition Red alarm, and so, it happens that the ships are snapping to full combat readiness just as the Commonality warships appear. As they jumped into the middle of the formation, very nearly, they were almost eviscerated on beams of coherent gamma radiation. Fortunately for them, the computers had far faster reflexes than the organic crew and hold the order to fire even as Captain Mifflin gives it, recognizing the ‘attackers’.

With the scoutship now revealed, the Starfinder EI is forced to apologize to the tactical officer even as the message arrived from the lead Commonality starship. Eric Mifflin was only halfway into his skinsuit when he strode onto the bridge, but everyone recognized the skipper, and he slowly shrugged his shoulders into the garment before sealing it. Clad now in white instead of a black uniform, he directed his communications officer to open up a channel, replying by the same method used to initiate contact.

“Captain Eric Mifflin,” he replied, “commanding the Twenty-Third Space Battle Group. Good to see you as well. Do you know what was out here? We received a distress call from an escape pod, and traced it back to here, but we found nothing when we arrived, except for evidence that another ship had come through and already retrieved the pod. Other than that, we’ve found a lot of scrap parts, but no survivors or bodies.” Any more information could wait until he found out what the Icees knew.

Nenya, Groundcar en route to Imperial Palace

"My uniform? It informs non-psionics of my position and stature, for starters. Secondly, it keeps me cool. It gets quite warm here in the summer. While we're known for not caring about nudity, we're still practical. Clothing designed to cool the skin is very common. Nudity tends to be more a night-time thing, when it's already cooler."

The cityscape is pretty unastonishing - mostly greenish buildings with the occasion flash of governmental bronze - although the wildlife is quite the opposite. Somehow, these people manage to live entirely amongst it, without quite disturbing it. The occasional larger mammal - wolves, often - can be spotted amongst the giant trees, bushes, and other fauna. And then there's the entrance to the grounds of the Palace itself.

The grounds themselves are extensive, mostly still forest, with a small core cleared at the centre for the Imperial Gardens. The Gardens, tended by the Guild of Gardeners, are not, in fact, owned by the Crown. They are, however, used exclusively by the Crown, by an age-old agreement. The gardens came first, Ax-randiri explains quietly, and the Palace came after, placed carefully into the very centre of them.

There are Sentinels here, as well. SENTINEL-GO is obsolete nowadays, but the replacement national defence system still incorporates the old network. Every four hundred metres of the perimetre has a Sentinel tower covering it, so it's rather difficult to go where there isn't one. The largest are every five kilometres - and it just so happens that a giant tower, dwarfing anything within thousands of miles, is passed. It is entirely white, ornate, and doesn't look half as deadly as it actually is. Thousands of active sensors sweep the groundcar in a millisecond or so, unobtrusive and unnoticed.

"It's about a minute and a half from here," Ax-randiri explains, "but you'll see the white of the Palace on the horizon in about twenty seconds. It's the largest building in the Commonality, but still only three stories tall. Ah, yes, and when we get there... please do not wander away from any of the specially lighted corridors. While you would be completely safe, it's entirely possible to get very lost inside. There are literally hundreds of miles of corridors. More, probably. I'm not personally sure. The Empress could tell you; she's had to walk every single one of them over the course of her life."

* * *

Tyelca Tuo, en route to Imperial Palace

"Most of our forces are committed constantly to fighting piracy," Rialla admits, very softly spoken, as they pass the threshold into the ship. Lighting increases somewhat as the organics enter the vessel; it's empty aside from them, today. The ship retains the same light level as outside, as a gesture of welcome. "Tyelca Tuo is a research/explortory vessel these days, under my own command," Rialla goes on, "but even she has to do some cleanup on occasion. We come across bases from time to time. Occasionally we offer them various deals, to try to wheedle information out of them. They've been suiciding lately, leaving us free to just obliterate the computer systems. Encryption is too strong. Most unfortunate."

There is, of course, no sense of movement, but as soon as the hatch cycled shut, Tyelca Tuo launches herself into the sky. Subsonic all the way, thanks to environmental laws, but it's still effectively a quick journey.

"We might as well wait near the hatch," Rialla observes. "We'll be there in a few minutes. Plenty of comfy seating where we're going." A sidelong look at D'ron, who Rialla knows has probably assimilated a good chunk of the data by now. "Bloody irksome business, eh? Semir will be fine, wherever he is. I feel sorry for whoever's made him late home."

* * *

Bridge, IDSS Vitality, Debris Field formerly known as Tossing Dice

The Nest, elevated above the bridge at large, seated the captain. Who was not entirely pleased with the arrival position of the group, but completely unaware (for now) of exactly how dangerous that arrival had been.

Ira DeVarre, as his name suggested, was not Nenya. That he had risen to the command of a Fear-X carrier was a sign of his formidable nature; humans were not often "entrusted" with such commands. It wasn't so much racism or discrimination as a simple exercise in ability. Nenyar officers could communicate in ways that humans simply couldn't; it gave them an edge, not to mention their ability to taste the exact psychological status of their crew.

DeVarre, then, was a small anomaly. Not the only one, to be sure, but something special had gotten him here.

If only he knew what it was, he could be a superb captain. As it was, he was just a very good one, on his best days.

A quick series of thoughts, a silent, text-based exchange with the Vitality herself (inhabited by Tatya), and he had his decision.

"There was a research vessel here. She was carrying some... sensitive equipment. We believe her attending vessels destroyed her to prevent a wider incident. However, we have had no word from those attending vessels. I presume they were not present when you arrived, captain?"

Several hours later, around the same time as the Sentient Peoples’ people were searching the debris field, Erisavenus had managed to trade off its Solarian assignment to another ship, and disappeared out-system. There, transferring the stasis-bubbled Nenyan and his guards to a reproduction of the analysis chamber on a detachable module, the Ship felt an urge to begin an interrogation.

None of that would be obvious to Si Ling, of course, to him, no time at all would seem to have passed when the analysis ended, he presumably not know of the cell samples that had been taken, or that his biology was already passed around in contravention of general ethical standards; on the off-chance that it proved harmful, scans were already held in vaults in the city of Isasrach, and on other more important cities, such as the capital of the C’tan empire, and even on distant Naogeddon itself.

Nor would he know that Erisavenus was already working on an un-living duplicate of his body, a distressed corpse it might present to anyone asking after him. But that was hampered somewhat by the poor quality of records that existed on Nenyan biology. The norms were somewhat unknown to Erisavenus. A relatively ghastly business it was to assemble corpses.

Of course, this wasn’t all that Erisavenus did. It wrote a thousand pages of text in response to letters and other queries directed at it publically, it monitored countless remote drones, digested a glut of media feeds that interested it, including the Nenyan ones themselves, and it made love. A complex process currently involving the onboard avatar of the Astral Romance, the Angstian ship it generally engaged with for such dressed up in the height of Pantocratorian New Rome Court Fashion, corset, ornate skirt, and all…

Not that said skirt, original and expensive as it was, was very likely to last long. Erisavenus had gotten very good at putting fabrics back together. Which was just as well, given that one of the ship’s several avatars was currently in the role of ‘somewhat drunken revolutionary with a bayonet and little self control.’

However, the Nenyan prisoner was outside the ship, in a small module, under its guns, everything, even the necrons, seemed exactly as it had been when he had first been put into suspended-time. The door by which he had entered the room opened again, this time, not into the deep store, but into a moderately appointed (if you liked a certain sixties-ish minimalism) sitting room, with a low circular table, two semi-circular couches in a white polymer, and a number of china dishes on it. Several white bars interrupted the grey walls, giving it a certain stark appearance.

Recessed around, were five other doors than the one he had entered by; including a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom … all likely to make it seem as if the ship had rearranged its internal topography completely.

In the sitting room, another blue-skinned, white haired figure sat, this one, apparently not guarding him, though from its demeanour, it was clear that this necrontyr-looking being, another of the ship’s avatars, had questions it wanted to ask. “Please, have a seat, honoured guests,” it said, with a special emphasis.

Si Ling - or, rather, what used to be Si Ling - stared at his host with seemingly zero interest. "We expected you would notice. You appear to be an advanced culture, although this host is not aware of you. Not surprising. A limited intellect." The entity formerly known as Si Ling does, indeed, take a seat.

And looks around, deliberately slowly, apparently wishing to project some element of... dignity? Control? Something like that. The fact that reality disagrees strenuously is apparently not a consideration.

"We expect you have lots of questions. We have little interest in answering them, on the other hand. But consensus agrees that you are not likely offer a choice in the matter. Therefore, consensus states that we must offer. Better than the effort to take become too expensive."

There's no body language any more. No smile, no raise of eyebrows, no muscle tics in the face; no movement of any kind aside from the flat parting and closing of lips required to speak, the dull movement of throat as air vibrates upwards. And a slow, timed blinking, one per five seconds. Precisely.

"You were quite thorough, we expect, and therefore let us guess what you already know. Firstly, we are not Si Ling I. Secondly, there are four bioeletric fields inhabiting this form, overlapping in a way which we expect surprises you to some degree or another... or not. Most would be surprised. The Nenyar, fools one and all, were most surprised." The closest to emotion so far: complete derision. Perhaps hatred.

"Consensus wishes to add to your knowledge before any further questioning." The word, through tone, suggests 'interrogation', as opposed to 'asking'. "We are no threat to you, as you are most likely very aware. However, threat could be arranged. With time. And if you are what we think you are, time is something you are very...acquainted with. We will not perish, even if you destroy this form. We will remember through all the ages to come. We never forget. This blink of existance will cease, but the long stare of the Three Stars never ends. What fine hosts your constructs would make..."

A pause. "However, we dislike this path. Not only is it conceivable that you should eventually discover a method to eliminate us, but it is preferable to complete our preferred objectives. They are not in opposition to yours. You perhaps have not had dealings with the Nenyar directly...but you have seen them at work. Release us. We will destroy them utterly... as we have been slowly doing for thirty thousand years. The world will not miss them when they are gone. They will praise us. They will thank us. And they will pay their praise in the blood of our enemy."

...somewhere inside, Si Ling remains alive. He watches, furious, but unable to do anything. The other lifes inside him gloat, laughing at his impotence. He will come, the old Emperor who never had a chance to rule informs them. Even here. Even here.

Si Ling, such as remains of him, clings to this thought. It only makes the Three laugh with all the more bite.

* * *

Elsewhere

Semir-randil, for his part, was a bit busy. The air next to his ear was even busier. The slice of the sword was within - ironically - a razor's edge of removing it. Only his own natural instinct for survival prevented it's loss.

Which, really, you had to like.

"Hell of a way to say hello," he murmured, not moving more than the required half-inch for evasion.

"Navy," the voice hissed at his ear, the blade fondling his throat in a manner not entirely gentle.

"Quite," Semir replied, softly. "But you're a pirate. And you know that means I consider you dead already. It's a question of when, really."

Semir promptly disappeared.

The pirate, for his part, was somewhat displeased with this turn of events. Not quite knowing what to do - the bar was rather crowded and quite an audience was watching the exchange - he waved his weapon at the air in a way he hoped was menacing. "Up yours," he informed his prey. "Up yours sideways."

He never saw the neuronic whip. It was just as well, because seeing it would have meant it was aimed at his front, probably his head. As it was, the screaming man writhing on the deck dissipated the interest gathered rapidly enough. Nobody wanted to attract Navy interest, not here. Not when it was bad enough that their faces had probably already been recorded.

Semir calmly dragged the man out of the bar and into the waiting suitcase. The suitcase itself was useful enough - it packed the man all by itself. Lugging it in much the same fashion as a child lugs a car toy, Semir set off for the nearest entrance to the docking ring.

It took about three minutes. Longer than he'd hoped. That the man had been in the bar was less useful, but eyes were everywhere anyway. Nobody knew his face here, especially not when it wasn't even his own.

He didn't bother to unpack his luggage. Instead, he set a course to rendezvous with his wing again.

You will never catch us now, the Stone informed him, haughty as ever. We have won.

Up yours, he answered sweetly.

“The Three Stars? Are we to take it that these are the entities reffered to in The Book of the Stars the Nenyan version, of course, not the Book of the Stars by Yaleen¹, though I far prefer that one, but anyway…

“Your behaviour is evidently different. We shall see about letting you destroy the Nenyar, or whatever it is you want, “I think perhaps you’re right. As a race, they would not be missed. A brief search finds terms like ‘smug’ ‘conceited’ ‘irritating’ ‘crazy’ in conjunction with references to them a lot. But before we decide to do any such thing, perhaps you had better explain everything to me,” the Avatar of Erisavenus didn’t let its emotions show in its voice or mannerisms.

It had no intention of allowing any such thing. But it continued as though entertaining the idea, “So, explain from the beginning, in your own words. As if I’m an idiot, please. Who are you, what do you want, why are you here, where are you going?”

The necron ship’s tone suggested that it meant all of those questions in a certain metaphysical sense.


¹ Another Ian Watson reference… *Puts his Shoehorn away*

"The Book of Stars would have been far more interesting if it had not been corrupted repeatedly," Si Ling's occupiers observe, with the faintest tinge of amusement.

"We are former lieutenants of the Lord of all Arda, once buried long in the deep places of the world. We want revenge, suffering, pestilence, death. We have always been here. And we go wherever we please, since there are so few to stop us." Not exactly a metaphysical answer, but perhaps giving away far too much. The Three boiled with rage - although not for events taking place here.

Time was limited. Victory was less strongly assured. The host body's lip curled upwards at the corner, a small twisted tic.

Aboard the Tyelca Tuo

Lesley smiled at Rialla’s comments on pirates, then shrugged. “We have noticed a somewhat depressing tendency of late for them to fight to the death.” A smirk replaced the smile. “Which is a form of suicide, against Naval units. But they have tended to run towards getting their ships wrecked rather than captured, which, as I understand it, is making it difficult to trace them to their home ports.” One might be surprised at how knowledgeable the First Lady was on the topic, at least until one recalled that she used to be the elected leader of one of the now states of the Federation. Old habits die hard, especially when you have a top level security clearance because the President might sometimes need to discuss things with you. “But how nice it must be to have a ship that you can just fly off on. There are days…” She smiled wistfully.

When Rialla mentions Semir, though, she is quite surprised, having not yet received the file from her husband. But things suddenly make more sense, as she had wondered what was so important to distract D’ron on meeting the Empress, as Rialla clearly knew what was distracting him. D’ron, who was leaning against the wall of the ship, bringing him eye level with the Empress, smiled briefly. “I doubt whoever made him late is feeling much of anything, though.” He slid his arm up Lesley’s until their hands came into contact, and there was the briefest tingle as the data bridged the gap between their neural networks.

Undoubtedly the safest method, as there was no transmission to intercept. Not that that was actually a worry here.

“Can we do anything to assist you? Not us, clearly, but the Federation? I happen to know there’s a battle fleet sitting in orbit not doing anything, and,” his lips quirk into a smile, “I have some small bit of influence on what they do with their time. And there are other resources as well.” What precisely he may be talking about there is a matter of debate, but the Federation is rather well positioned for, well, a lot of things…

Debris Field

Mifflin frowned, but was not yet transmitting. Something about the other man’s statement failed to make sense. Well, in all honesty, a lot of it failed to make sense.

You see, the Federation did not pick Patrol Fleet battlecruiser captains lightly. They were quite possibly the best of a great bunch, given that they would have command of the entire battlegroup, and would be operating independently. It was probably the most coveted command post in the entire Navy. The only people more carefully chosen were the new carrier captains, due to the massive amount of firepower they had under their command.

After all, with that prowler ship sitting out here, they should have been perfectly aware there was no one here…

Mifflin allowed his words to be transmitted again. “The only people here were aboard your scoutship, Captain. What kind of research were they conducting out here in the middle of nowhere? And what kind of incident could have been caused by such a small ship?”

After all, there was not much in the way of mass from the debris.

Aboard Tyelca Tuo --> Imperial Palace, Nenya

"We're not sure yet," Rialla replies, quietly, thoughtfully. A flutter of a hand to indicate uncertainty. "The situation is somewhat... sensitive. A lot hangs in the balance. Hopefully, we've routed those... elements... which were causing severe issues in governance in previous years. I think the world will be somewhat surprised at the change in attitudes. Then again, I'd simply be suspicious."

Rialla's head tilts, slightly. "Ah. We're here." She gestures, indicating the hull dissolving outwards once more. It's not as pretty, seen from the inside. "Tyelca Tuo expresses her pleasure at bearing such distinguished guests." In point of fact, Tyelca Tuo has actively done no such thing, since if she had, it would have been vocal. But she would have, if she hadn't been told to be quiet. Rialla gestures. "My men and women," she glances at the IPG people, "won't be pleased at this... but after you, please. Symbolic as the move would be before the public, this is my home, and the media are kept entirely at bay in the Palace Grounds." A smug little smile. "That old tradition is firmly in place."

The former warship has come to rest "behind" the Palace, to the north. This is the same entrance that D'ron and Lesley probably recall entering via the last time they were here, for Rialla's Ascension. It is, first and foremost, the Foreign Entrance; here diplomats enter, foreign dignitaries, and the like, on those rare occasions of late that there is an invite extended. State Hall, therefore, is very nearby. One wouldn't want to walk the full length of the Palace to get there, since it is a rather massive building.

A single lane between the gardens extends out to the horizon from the entrance. Far off in the distance, several groundcars are inbound.

The building itself is, of course, pure white. Unlike other governmental buildings, which are bronze. This is technically, after all, the home of the Imperial Family first and foremost.

Whereas before the entrance was merely steps leading up to huge, ancient hardwood doors, now there are two statues greeting visitors: Si Ling I and Bao Ling, hands extended with palms up, smiling warmly.

Debris Field formerly known as Tossing Dice

The scoutship, almost on cue (although in fact not on cue at all), begins to apply thrust. Sweeping up out of the plane of the elliptic at thirty-five gees, it's pilot is most assuredly unconscious again. It begins the long flight home.

Meanwhile, the warships remain relatively in place, their fiercer decellerative capacity brought to bear to bring them to relative halts. A poor strategic position, since they now cannot jump away again without significant energy expenditure.. and time expenditure. Not that it matters much.

Words sweep across the voice, calmly spoken. "Ah, good. I'm glad you could see the scoutship. Would've been terribly disappointed if not. However, one ship does not have the scanning capacity of many. While our own asset did not find anyone, we cannot assume that means nobody else did. - Some projects require... distance for safety. The Tossing Dice was examining an ancient artifact believed to be from ancient Tumnore, amongst several more highly classified operations involving but not limited to eval of new sensory technology."

The truth, carefully weaved through a pack of lies. After all, the Captain of Vitality has absolutely no idea yet how much knowledge the Federation actually has of events.

Sometimes a lack of FTL communication is a real pain in the arse. Worse is when paranoids back home don't bother to tell you things in case other people hear them...

Just as the large white palace became visible the ship Teyelca Tuo could be seen touching down. The groundcar began to decrease speed as the two gardens which had been blurs only seconds before now carried some measure of distinguishable features. Inside the car Beren was still trying to warp his mind around the response the High Lord Admiral had given to his question. It seemed odd, perhaps the question had been poorly worded, or perhaps it was some sort of diplomatic humor. Taking the safe road Beren decided just to smile and give something along the lines of 'I see.'

Now the groundcar had come to a halt completely and the other party was just making their way towards the entrance. The three occupants exited the ground car. Beren straightened himself out and took the opportunity to examine the exterior of the palace. Even though it was only three floors high, it was a massive building. Ax-randiri had warned him not to wander off and now he was taking that warning very seriously. Not only would it be unfortunate to get lost, it would be incredibly embarassing. Turning to Rihad he motioned towards the door and two statues, "Well, given the size of this place it would probably be best if you led the way."

Ax-randiriled the way throught the entrance hall. It wasn't very dignified to walk with your head down but Beren found himself staring at the mosaic on the floor as they made their way towards the doors to the State Hall. Just as the large, ornate oak doors were nearing Beren turned to his host. "High Lord Admiral Rihad, what are some of the Commonality's industrial specialties? I suppose I was just struck with the curiosity."

The Imperial Palace

Both the Imperial President and his wide nodded thoughtfully at Rialla’s words, though Lesley’s reaction was more by rote than anything. She was fully absorbed into the data D’ron has already skimmed through. On the other hand, she was taking her time, knowing her husband, and knowing he may need to talk through some things once they are alone.

And, if nothing else, the information was interesting.

But at least she could still notice and respond to outside stimuli. There was a limit to the amount one can be absorbed into their own thoughts, which is essentially what was occurring, though her eyes were a bit blank, so it was fortunate that she was holding onto her husband’s arm.

But when the Empress invited them to exit first, D’ron is brought up short by a very mulish look from his chief bodyguard. Well, the impression thereof, given that his face was hidden behind the black face shield of his armor. The massive, open gardens awoke an instinctive need to examine them within the bodyguard, and D’ron sighed, absolutely certain of his safety on Rialla’s property. The sigh was the only visible indication of the speedy argument with his chief bodyguard, except for the fact that he did not move towards the newly reformed entrance.

The look he gave Andrew spoke volumes of his opinion on the bodyguard’s paranoia, before he turned a long suffering and commiserating look to Rialla, fairly certain she would understand when instead of the two Federation officials, the two enlisted Guardsmen were the first out of the pocket cruiser. They stay visible from inside the ship, through the doorway, just to make it clear they are not setting up an ambush in return. No need to give the IPG kittens.

A second passed, then another, and then a third still.

Finally D’ron and Lesley moved out of the ship, the President caressing the door frame as they exit much the same way Lesley did upon entering. “Thank you for the smooth flight,” he murmured. The two bodyguards remaining bodyguards followed along silently.

As they moved up the path towards the Palace, D’ron turned to Rialla, as Lesley was still involved in her in depth study of the data provided, and said, relatively confident no one could overhear, and that his words would give nothing away if he were, “Would you mind if I issued an immediate detainment order for the ship that was, ah, borrowed? I doubt it will help much, but it is the least I can do.”

His gaze found the statues in the next moment, and his eyebrows arched up in curiosity, if nothing else, and perhaps even a little surprise.

Debris Field

Again with the not making sense. Mifflin sighed as he watched the scoutship peeling away, and checked the status of the debris collection. Ten more minutes.

“Understood, Captain DeVarre. I was planning on returning to Sol to deliver these debris to the proper authorities as soon as we were done here, unless we can be of any assistance to you.” He killed the transmission. “Tarfi, is there any evidence of some sort of older piece of equipment having survived the destruction of the ship?”

The hologram blinked to life by the commander of the Starfinder. “No, sir. No evidence of anything older than the rest of the ship, and no evidence of any sort of abnormally large power supply that would be required for some sort of massive experiment.”

“Curious.” Mifflin’s brows came together as he contemplated the display, watching the ICEL ships slowing down.

Imperial Palace, Nenya

Rialla's minute smirk is evidence enough of her sympathy with regards overzealous bodyguards. In fact, she was sure there'd be some argument with the IPG later on regarding "trapping" herself inside the ship for those few seconds... a fact she derived silent but considerable amusement from.

It was the duty of the monarch, she felt, to make her bodyguard's lives just that little bit more interesting here or there. Especially when they were, in fact, thoroughly paranoid. The likelihood of an assassination attempt - according to her intelligence forces - was so low as to be entirely negligable. Not on home soil, at any rate. The fury expended against any individual or group willing to undertake such a crime was liable to be so great as to outweigh any perceived benefits whatsoever.

The only real threat was from the gardeners. Four Emperors (although curiously no women) in Nenyar history had fallen to the fate of being assassinated by a "simple gardener." The Guild, naturally, had a certain power because of that; and a certain limiting of power, conversely.

Nonetheless, there are no security breaches here today. No gardeners are even in sight. Nor are any IPG, other than Rialla's personal detachment, who follow behind her. Very quietly: "I don't think that will be...necessary. Warships were dispatched to...rectify the situation to a degree. We're seeing how things progress for now."

Rialla indicates the statues, suppressing something of a wider grin than usual. "They wanted to put up statues of Semir and I. Seemed awfully premature. We made sure they didn't; if they want to build statues of me, they can do it when I'm dead and don't have to look at them." Beat, slight tilt of the head. "We should be the first to arrive. Other than the staff, of course."

Leading the way now, Rialla walks up the steps and through the doors (at an initially slow pace that quickens once she's sure that everyone is, in fact, following her), picking her way through the corridors in the fashion of one who knows absolutely every inch.

State Hall is, if nothing else, well decorated. It is not precisely opulent, but certainly expensive. A large - perhaps "massive" better fits the bill - oak table (that isn't really oak, of course) dominates the centre of the room. Various smaller, satelite tables are laid out around it. Tapestries depicting key moments in the history of the nation adorn the walls, between VisiWalls displaying visions of the gardens outside. The room is quite far from the outer walls - no real windows here, but the light fits squarely in the natural spectrum, thanks to the complex mirror lighting system deployed in all the larger rooms in the Palace.

Food - delicacies hailing from no less than three hundred and seventeen different nations (not quite randomly selected) - is laid out on several of the tables closest to the walls, encouraging movement and circulation. No less than seven Iluvauromeni diplomats are on hand, with more probably in the wings outside.

And not too long - moments at best - after Rialla leads D'ron and Lesley through the door into State Hall (and far enough from the door to allow for a little bit of quiet conversation), Ax-randiri Rihad arrives, answering his guest's question carefully.

"Well, there are the orbital industries: ultra-pure glass - we use it in those display screens over there," he indicates the VisiWalls with one hand. "Raw materials of various kinds. Diamond, although we try not to glut poorer manufacturing markets with the stuff. Terrible way to do business. Computer components. Books. Lots, and lots, and lots of books. We have a very broad market, we make sure of that." A small grin. "But you'd be better off asking the Empress. She is, after all, the head of the Board of Control of our largest economic asset, the Imperial Trade Conglomerate."

[OOC: Minor braindeath on the debris field at this moment. Will get round to it shortly. Sorry if the above format trod on anyone's toes; was trying to bring it all together as neatly as possible.]

Imperial Palace

Perhaps it is not necessary, but Rialla did not forbid it, or even actually ask him not to. It only took a moment. D’ron did not issue a detainment order, just a simple statement that all ships should be on the lookout for the Commonality Starship Tossing Dice and report its position should they happen to come across it. Within ten minutes, all commands would have received official orders to that effect.

FTL communications are great.

Meanwhile, he was responding to the comments about the statues. “I don’t suppose I can stop them if someday they want to make a statue of me,” not entirely true, but shooting people for making a statue of him is bad press, “given my image is free-use under the current laws, as long as it is not used in a defamatory manner.”

As they traveled through the hallways of the Palace, Andrew slowly compared the path to those taken at other times by his charges and by Cortana. The map slowly forming as they walk was far from complete, due to the size of the Palace, but the Federation was getting there, though the task was made much harder with the passive sensors built in the armor turned off. That would be rude, after all.

As they entered the State Hall, Lesley finished up with the data, having made sure to examine it in detail. “That’s rather fantastical.” Admittedly, everyone has become used to strange things in the last decade, but still… this may not take the cake, but it sure has a couple of slices.

A shocked moment of silence occurs as they spot the massive quantity of food arrayed, before they turn at the sound of Rihad’s voice, entering the Hall.

"Initiate Folding."

"Fold-jump initiated, Captain."

-------------------------------

A curious constellation was flickering through the void; though suddenly the pure starlight ended its journey so many millions of light-years away from its genesis as it was silently absorbed by a small black warship.

No flash had been seen, no fields of gravity or energy; other than the small void in the backdrop of the Void, the ship was undetectable.

It began to watch passively the Systema Sanctus Solarum.

Germanische Zustande was once again to venture amongst the outside universe.

As Rihad and the prince entered the State Hall, Beren was shocked by the extent to which the area had been decorated. Whether it was simply for the occasion, or if it was always such a sight to behold. Nodding slightly as Rihad answered his question, Beren's gaze turned to the food. There was no question that the Commonality had its fair share of talented chefs.

"I'll be sure to ask," with a measure of thanks in his voice. Just as he offered the reply he turned his attention to the guests that had already arrived. He was uncertain as to which nationality they belonged but they were clearly of very high stature. In fact both did. He naturally assumed they were a couple and it would no doubt be odd for any couple other than a ruling family to travel abroad together. There were a few others in the room, all appearing to be Iluvauromeni, one Beren assumed to be the Empress.

Both Beren and Rihad had now approached the others. Beren bowed to all three, the three others Beren had taken to be rulers of their respective countries. "Good day. I am Crown Prince Beren Oronrá of the Ba'ath National Command of Largent." Turning to the Empress he bowed a second time. "May I say that I am humbled by the hospitality I have been shown thus far during my visit.

"Black Dawn" System

The "Black Dawn" system had been discovered about five months previous.

It was something of an enigma, to the Iluvauromeni. As far as they were aware, not too many others had been here. Some, for sure.

Black Dawn is a binary system. Two stars, both in the G spectral class, and, unusually, two "planetary" systems. One of the string of worlds wading through the infinite black was by far more deserving of that claim; four gas giants, two of which - the innermost two - were significantly larger than Jupiter itself. The second star - significantly distant from the first to allow twin accretion discs to form, but not far enough away to be beyond the projected heliopause of the first - was relatively unremarkable in comparison. Thirty-seven pointless bodies of rock swung around it on hugely perturbed orbits.

But a freak of overlapping gravitational influences allowed one very remarkable planet.

Black Dawn II-B - or Whispering Dark, as it had become known to the Iluvauromeni, ominously - was relatively terrasimilar.

The keyword, however, in this case, happens to be was relatively similar. A cataclysmic event - at first believed to be a cometary impact - took place in system recently. Within the last thirty years, in fact.

Except, as luck would have it, it wasn't a comet. When the Missing Particle arrived for it's full survey of the system - with an eye on those helium-rich gas giants in particular - it observed numerous peculiarities.

Firstly, the nature of the system was such that there were very few cometary bodies in the class required to devastate Whispering Dark's ecosphere. In fact, Whispering Dark showed very few geophysical signs of prior impacts - the sheer amount of mass in Black Dawn made it easy to see why. The unique system just didn't have the punch in it for an impact quite, quite so severe.

For starters, the lithosphere had not only buckled under the impact, it had thrust upwards for nearly a thousand kilometres, deforming significantly. Magnetic field lines were entirely ruptured into chaos for many thousands of square kilometres. Magma flow to the surface was considerable. A new volcanic age was starting, a massive supply of energy to the planet resulting in a tumultuous, long, painful response.

Eventually, impact velocity was calculated. And recalculated. Disbelief was swiftly overcome with horror when artefacts of intelligence were discovered planetside. And then just a little bit more disbelief when the realisation settled: not only had there been intelligent life here, but it had been entirely eradicated by an attack.

The nature of the projectile, considering it's complete destruction in it's final act, remained unknown. Impact velocity was a wide envelope, dependent on mass, but it was relatively clear that the assault had been a single strike. A planet-busting strike.

Naturally, Iluvauromeni interest skyrocketed. Warships came. They left satelite observation stations, strung out across the system rapidly over several months. They uncovered a nest of pirates, obliterated them utterly to the last man despite pleas of surrender, and carried on stringing out satelites. Every planetary body had a delivery of three satelites; warships were swiftly rotated out, taken out of their usual squadrons on temporary assignment. No single squadron came.

And so far, no following foreign vessels.

Except one.

Gil-galad ripped space-time carefully, peeling back a layer and wrapping itself in either waves or energy, depending on where and how and why one was looking at it. In a heartbeat, the spindle-shaped vessel, black as night, arrived inside the orbit of the unique world, Whispering Dark.

Silently - and here is a place very easy to hide for some - the Tumnorean warship waits.

A few hours flicker by, irrelevant here except for the arrival of a certain moment.

Iluvauromeni warships promptly flash into existance, bright and dark both. As the energy flares of their rather more clumsy manipulation of reality fades, communications begin between two the warships begins; Aelinenya and Gil-galad converse rapidly, exchanging information.

A small vessel detaches from the hull of Gil-galad, floating across the void with an effortless capacity it's less advanced and paradoxically more threatening cousins lack.

* * *

Imperial Palace, Nenya, Earth, Sol

Elsewhere, Rialla smiles welcomingly as she turns. And as has rarely been failed to notice by Iluvauromeni males, the Empress really can smile. Her entire face lifts in a simply gorgeous way, eyes becoming all the more focal, lips twitching with a softness that contrasts well with powerful bone structure.

If someone didn't like the usual aesthetic standard, they'd be immensely sickened at the sight.

Rihad, for his part, brightens considerably at the sight of her. In fact, now he's behind the delegate he brought, he looks very, very faintly relieved.

Rialla tosses a smile to D'ron and Lesley, well aware that they'll know she has to be full of greetings now she's been addressed - to dismiss either openly wouldn't just be rude, it'd be diplomatically stupid. So she disregards the faint rudeness of having a greeting burst upon her without introduction, and speaks:

"Empress Rialla ux-Rihad II, Chairperson of the Commonality Executive Council, as well as a fistful of titles that the traditionalists adore hearing read out loud. A pleasure to meet you. I'd shake your hand, but my guards," speaking of, where did those IPG go? "would have kittens. Quite possibly literally." Her eyes dart towards the food, lips quirking playfully upwards at the corners.

"We have a history of poisoning, you see," she shares, large, amber eyes (they looked green from a little further away) sparkling in a very literal sense.

Internally, Rialla was fully aware that this was perhaps the most amazingly unpolitic thing she could say first. Instead of trying to soften it with an immediate follow up, however, she just smiles that ridiculously warm smile, and watches...and no doubt analyzes the response thoughtfully.

Beren goes on, blissfully unaware that his gregariousness had come across poorly to the others. This actually, was not an unusual occurance. Many felt that the prince had a slightly aggressive personality, perhaps a little bumptious at times. Even if Beren were blessed with the ability to pick up on the most subtle of signs that convey emotions, he still wouldn't have noticed because Rialla's comment had left him terribly confused.

He turned the comment over in his mind again and again. No matter how he looked at it, it made no sense. It clearly wasn't intended as a joke because neither Rialla nor Rihad had chuckled even in the slightest, which meant it would have been a poor idea to respond in turn with a joke. Glancing at his own bodyguard, he had to grab his wrist lightly to prevent and unfortunate outburst which from the looks of things was only a few moments away.

With that potential issue averted he turned his mind back to his response. Sighing inwardly, he decided it was best to just play this one safe. Glance at the food he smiled. "Well Empress, even if the worst were to happen, after a meal of such magnificent food, I could claim I had lived a sufficiently happy life, although I am certain that the Commonality is more that compitent in preventing such things."

Perhaps that wasn't the perfect response to what was appearing more and more like a test, but it would be sufficient. Hopefully he hadn't insulted anyone and had at least passed whatever sort of test Rialla had sprung on him.

Chuckling quietly, Rialla nods slowly. "But of course," she answers simply. Politely, she indicates D'ron and Leslie. "Esteemed allies from the Federation of Sentient Peoples," she observes.

Internally, she suppressed a faint titter of amusement. Meeting the delegates of monarchies was always more intriguing than meeting the delegates of democracies. An entirely different kind of politics, she mused. No Iluvauromeni politician would have responded that way... or, indeed, responded much at all. An exercise in saying nothing at all would be what she'd have gotten from one of her own people.

She hesitates, uncertain for a moment. In the Commonality, people tend to introduce themselves, after an indication of stature from the host (as she had automatically done just now)... she decided to go with her own customs on this occasion. Even if it did feel slightly awkward.

[OOC: If anyone else wants to take part in the banquet, just feel free to arrive at State Hall from this point onwards.]

* * *

Whispering Dark System

Fifteen minutes waddle by silently. In those fifteen minutes...

The small vessel detaches from Aelinenya as silently as it arrived, and flits effortlessly back across the distance to reattach itself onto Gil-galad. It promptly disappears.

The disappearance is not instantaneous. More like a slow melting effect, with the smaller ship seemingly eaten by the large, needle-shaped spire of Tumnorean technological prowess.

Within seconds, more Tumnorean vessels arrive, thirty-seven in all. Quite where the hell they came from is anyone's guess; they certainly were not sighted leaving Sol.

As a group, the joint Tumnorean-Iluvauromeni taskforce re-aligns on Sol, accelerating to match velocities. As a group, they Jump.

Captain Norvich dragged his hand from off the Command Console panel beneath his right arm. His Frigate's bridge was oddly silent; the vessels of the Black Fleet had been built for silence. The Federation had not wanted anyone with quantum technology similar to their own to be able to detect the motion of the sound waves themselves.

The decision had seemed pointless to Norvich, since the very quantum communications systems of the Fleet itself could be similarly observed. Of course, that would require the firsthand knowledge of the various computer codes and storage methods of the Federation. Though the rebellious Republic had made... modifications... to the Black Fleet after its capture, it was unlikely that any other foreign nations had the nigh-identical quantum technologies of the Federation-built ships.

"Intelligence, send me the trajectories and engine sigs of all traffic into and out of Sol." Speaking wasn't too great a risk; After all, the most advanced civilizations the IRFGZ had encountered were all very far removed from Sol.

"Data uploaded to your Console, Captain," came a smart reply from the Crewman at Intel. "I can't exactly explain many of the readings," his voice only slightly tinged with perplexion, "We simply don't know enough about the majority of the traffic to determine methods of locomotion. Further scanning would be necessary."

The Captain had just began to sift through the data he'd recieved when the same voice broke through his concentration: "There are, however, two anomalies our long-range sensors have barely picked up. One would seem to be continuous streams of quantum communication; The other is a large debris field near Iovis (Jupiter). Residual spatial fluctuations indicate a battle of some sort."

Norvich' brow involuntarily rose as he registered the implications of quantum communications crossing the range of the Sol system.

"Quantum communications?" Leaning forward, Norvich slowly ran his hand through his greying blond hair. "Volume?"

"Excited chatter, sir. There seems to be a hub somewhere on Terra. We'd need to move closer for our QS arrays to pinpoint any further information."

Norvich began to mutter, his mind reviewing the information displayed on the holopanel before him. "Legend has it that no civilization that advanced is based on Terra at this time. Trace the communications."

"Yessir," the Crewman curtly acknowledged, his hands flying across the console before him. "A rather out-of-the-way binary system seems to be registering as the termination point for the majority of the transmissions, with another sizeable number being directed toward the Debris Field above Iovis."

"This debris field," the Astrogation Officer interjected, his voice booming through the silent bridge, "Is being actively searched by several vessels."

Norvich swung his chair about and peered up at the third level of his cavernous, spherical bridge. Gazing through the computing crystal that formed the upper Bridge Decks, he could see the stern face of his second in command peering back.

"Asnur? Your recommendation?"

"Deactivate the AIQSM, fold into the debris field, and watch, Nik."

Commander Asnur Richter shifted to lean over the bridge's third tier railing, surveying the massive holodisplay that occupied nearly the entire bridge. His bony arms dangled just above a close-up projection of Iovis, spinning lazily through the holographic void. After nearly a minute of intense study of the projection, Asnur registered his Captain's stare. Richter stood and postured himself before the gaze, the impression his lanky frame gave not imposing in the least.

"Give order to fold, sir?" Commander Richter said, attempting to summon an aura of brevity to the query.

Norvich chuckled at his first officer's attempt to fill the room with dark foreboding. "We're in an out-of-the-way rest-stop in the Universe. Earth is no longer the powercenter it once was. It's probably just a pirate skirmish," the Captain said as a mocking smile spread across his face."

Asnur's previously faked stern look quickly changed to a laughable attempt at a jesting sneer. "Bah. You're just angry the Admiral relegated you to this 'rest-stop' instead of including you in the Battlegroup," he said with a loud guffaw.

"You watch it, Comman--"

"Captain," the same Intelligence Crewman interrupted excitedly. "I'd suggest we Fold now, sir. Sensors show that the ships in the debris field are intensifying their scans... They're obviously searching for someth--"

Commander Asnur returned the Crewman's favor, interrupting his opinions on the obvious. "Perhaps, Mon Capitan, you should pull out of the rest-stop and get a move on," a slight tinge of sarcasm ringing through.

"Well, you can't control your face very well, but at least you show further command of your vocal expressions, Commander," Norvich shot back. "Helm, plot course for Iovis. Initiate Fold when ready."

---------

The Frigate winked out of space and time, the light of the dim constellation once more unblocked.

---------

The same ship manifested itself amongst the debris field.

Something had gone wrong.

The Navy's epitome of observation and subterfuge was not invisible as it should have been.

"Engineering reports a malfunction in the Fold drive, Captain!" A previously unnoticed Leftenant shouted from the second tier of the Bridge. If there was one thing IRFGZ personnel were good at, it was remaining invisible themselves. Before the Captain could utter his string of curses, the Leftenant continued. "The AIQSM's captive spatial tear appears to have breached containment. Tachyon emissions are off the scale, and we're spewing an energy signature the size of a damned Flotte-Befehl!"

The Flotte-Befehlen, ("Fleet-Bases"), were the massive mobile battlestations that had been constructed just prior to the Federal Civil War. Although they had been constructed and maintained in the Utmost secrecy, three ships each of 200 miles, the energy signatures they gave off were far too great to mask for any technology the Federation had. Thus the expression.

"Damnit," Norvich growled. "They may not be able to find us through any normal means, but with that kind of a Core leak, they'll get close enough to kiss our exposed--"

"Yes, Captain, I just hope they're friendly. In the mean time, I'm sure Commander Orlif is effecting repairs most industriously."

The Iluvauromeni sensors are not sluggish in detecting the "anomaly". T-drive instabilities were a good sign of use of FTL in the vicinity, tiny instabilities in... something. Was the giveaway.

Not that a single soul aboard any of the Iluvauromeni vessels could actually explain what the anomalies were, or how exactly they occurred. The physicists who claimed to understand weren't here - they were back on Earth.

First, the T-drives all begin to experience anomolous instabilities. Second, the various ships' ASIs begin triangulation, pinpointing the rough area the instabilities seem to be originating from. Waveforms shift, causing a "bleed" in the direction; strength and vector determine point of origin.

After eight seconds, the ASIs compile the data in the network, cooperating and then sharing the information with the FSP ships and their own commanders, in reverse order.

Twelve seconds: the Iluvauromeni warships open gunports.

Twelve-point-seven seconds: the Iluvauromeni ships open fire.

Combat hornets screech into local space, some thirty of them. Twenty-five are packed to the brim with defensive submunitions, largely electronic countermeasures. The combat hornets assume a tight formation around their launching ships.

Thirty more slide into the combat bays of Unexpected Vector, the only ship apart from Vitality not to have launched.

Thirteen-point-two seconds after detection, a cycling contact signal is directed at the instability in space, demanding to know exactly who the hell they are.

The message conveys extreme irritation more than hostility.

And things might have been fine for all that. Except at this precise moment, thirty-eight Tumnorean warships Jump in less than six hundred thousand kilometres away. They are moving a tad fast for this area of space, suggesting that they are, in fact, aligned on another location. Velocity matches Earth.

And while the Iluvauromeni do not possess the knowhow to precisely pinpoint the interloper, these ships certainly do. Active sensors wash over the "anomaly" - rather high energy ones. If sensors are an indicator of technological prowess, the thirty-eight needle-like warships are certainly very advanced.

Almost hidden by the intentionally bright coronas of their Jump emissions are the Iluvauromeni warships following.

"DO NOT OPEN FIRE," Gil-galad orders the Iluvauromeni vessels. "STAND DOWN IMMEDIATELY. ANY COMBAT ACTION WILL BE NULLIFIED."

Surprisingly, the Iluvauromeni, hardly known for doing what other people tell them to... do just that. Combat hornets flash-ignite immediately, and gunports on every single vessel cycle closed. Comms silence falls on the Iluvauromeni vessels.

At least, electronically.

* * *

TVS Gil-galad

The bridge of Gil-galad was totally different to any Iluvauromeni warship, Semir noted calmly. For starters, it was smaller.

There were only eight crew on the entire ship. Under normal conditions - two up here, two in engineering, four (theoretically) off-duty. These, however, were not normal conditions.

High King Gil-romen glanced at his nephew. "So. There goes thirty thousand years of secrecy."

Semir-randil nodded, slowly. "Yes. I'm sorry, but it was entirely necessary. The Stone would draw their vassals to us. And no Iluvauromeni ship can match the Gil-galad. We were attacked nine times before we managed to align on Black Dawn."

Gil-romen slowly stroked a smooth chin with a fingertip. "Ah well. We've hidden away for far too long anyway. Of course, you do understand the repurcussions, don't you, Semir?"

Semir nodded, again. "Too well, father-brother of mine. Far too well. Still, you will give us the last requested item, I presume?"

"Yes," Gil-romen agrees, softly. "You will need it to survive without us."

Semir-randil nods, sadly. "So it shall be."

“Well,” the Avatar of Erisavenus said at last, after a long moment of silence, “There is more to tell, I think. Tell me how you came to be in possession of this body, and then how you came here. Then you may conclude with your motives in doing what you wish, and speculate on why the Nenyar want you dead quite so much…”

It was looking at the ex-emperor through blue irises that matched its skin. Necrontyr pupils, were of course, black, for the same reason that the inside of telescopes and nigh every other eye were black; optics. The sclera of the eye, on the other hand, could be a number of colours, and even sport patterns. The basic genetic heritage of the necrontyr dictated a slightly off-white cream colour, with, of course, blue blood vessels where humans had red (though not exactly, the actual detail of the circulatory systems was different in many ways, with different muscle groups dictating different layout.

An example of this sub-dermal alien layout was the neck. Instead of a single, splitting tube, the necrontyr sinuses (comparatively small) went through a porous filter tissue directly into the lungs, and the mouth went to the stomach(s) directly. The roof of the mouth incorporated intakes into the filter tissues, protected by bone, and waterproofed by constantly regenerating membranes that allowed breathing through the mouth, while making it essentially impossible for a necrontyr to choke on their food.

They got brain-freeze from ice cream a lot more, though, if they let it get onto the roof of the mouth…

These two cartilaginous tubes (the peristalsis of the oesophagus was achieved by cylindrical muscles inside the reinforced tube) had been re-designed in the past by necrontyr genetic engineers, to make the whole neck area somewhat safer than the random inheritance of evolution. The oesophagus was, as it was less important than the trachea, placed nearer the skin – which made choking necrontyr an incredibly difficult proposition – between the two were cartilaginous bracings, which were somewhat thinner at the base of the skull to accommodate the voice-box (which was ancillary to the breathing filtration tissues, that had in the past, sported a number of wonderful cold-like ailments which often interfered with speech). On either side of these tubes were veins and arteries, again, protected by design, this time a thin cartilaginous mesh, not quite like anything earthly. Both arteries and viens could be closed off by the autonomic system (and in some cases, voluntarily) to stem blood loss from injuries.

The spine was essentially the weak point in the necrontyr neck; there wasn’t that much that could be done to make it more durable, and it was essentially the same as its human equivalent, though visually distinct.

The Avatar of Erisavenus tilted his head to one side, and waited for answers.


Meanwhile, a vast ship left Venus.

Captain Norvich flung his clenched fist down upon the Communications control on his command panel. Were it not for the quality of materials used within Federal ship construction, it is likey his great bear-claw of a hand would have shattered the arm-chair console into a great sparking mass of wreckage.

"Commander Orlif, why did this one particular jump result in such a catastrophic malfunction!?" Niklas bellowed into the right arm of his command chair, knowing full well that proximity to the console was not required to carry every decibel of his question into Engineering.

A crackle of static came back through the comm. That single crackle was enough to freeze every living thing on the bridge in its place. The amount of energy that would have been required to overload the ship's Comm system was enormous; and a spike that large would certainly mean only one thing:

Their AIQSM Core was now a collossal beacon, crying out to all Federal ships in the entire galaxy.

Though the crackle subsided, wordlessly a Crewman who manned the Engineering consoles on the bridge transferred an assessment of the severity of the spatial tear directly to the Captain's Battle Report file.

A second or so after the Comm cleared up, Commander Lukas Orlif spat out a brief status report before degenerating into cursing and cutting the channel.

Just as the Captain began to resign himself to the probability of a Federal Squadron popping in, the size of the tear no consolation, he noticed a priority warning in the Battle Report File.

Norvich let out a loud curse. "So much for 'let's hope they're friendly', Asnur," he said in a mocking sing-song voice.

Asnur transferred a reproof to Niklas' neural interlink. Du kannst mich danke fur mein hoffnung. Norvich frowned, recognizing that hope is not something to mock. Even when it can't be found. He returned a brief apology and set his mind back to the situation at hand.

The Priority Warning had come from Intelligence, notifying all hands that the unidentified fleet was readying weapons and launching defensive drones. "Weapons, route all power away from spatial-manipulation systems; ExtraDimensional Shielding, QSDs, etc. We wouldn't want any further spatial disturbances to cause any further systems malfunctions. Divert all power to matter-generation for the Particle cannons; bring the forward PPC batteries online..." and so forth, the orders went; Though a single frigate, the vessels of the Black Fleet had been built to combat the technological superiority of the Shivans. A single Corvette from the Black Fleet could easily defeat a Cruiser of the Fleet Proper.

"Sir," the Crewman at Intelligence called out, "A second fleet has just dropped into Realspace. Its entry vector matches the Binary system we determined to be the endpoint of several communications from Terra. However, their structural configuration appears to be different from that of the warships preparing to fire."

A voice from Communications added, "Detecting exchanges between the two fleets. My analysis of their communications, though, has proved elusive of a communication scheme. Their quantum communications are not instantaneous, and must therefore be of a differing base operational principle."

"The hostile warships are standing down, sir," the Intelligence crewman reported.

Before Norvich could register the report, Communications routed a Hail from the hostile squadron to his console. An attatched note from the crewman simply said, "Temporal anomolies resultant from spatial disturbances caused a delay in our reception of the primitive EM signal."

Norvich chuckled. He routed a short note directly to the Communications console. Send them my return message via quantum communications. That'll shock them.

"Attention, Hostile Vessels, this is Captain Niklas Norvich of the Independent Republic Frigate Unterwelt. We are investigating the scene of a battle we detected while on routine patrol."

Though the Federation was currently losing the war, it was likely that an intrusion in the Sacred Home of the Ancestors would be met with fierce resistance. The Systema Sanctus would become a raging battleground. Better now, thought Norvich, to try and play these ships onto his side.

"However, we would highly suggest that this area be cleared immediately. Certain forces... hostile to us... will have detected the same disturbances you have, and any ships caught in the area will be at risk. It would be better for us to face them alone. They won't discriminate between targets."

Nothing like a good bald-faced lie or two. Norvich new very well that any Republic reinforcements would arrive quickly, and would likely far outnumber any Federal squadron. He also knew that the Federals would never fire on any non-involved party. No matter.

"Now, who, exactly, are you?"

State Hall, Imperial Palace

Having been politely indicated by their host, D’ron and Lesley stepped forward, smiling. They had also been a bit surprised at the rather forward introduction of the newcomer, but their faces showed nothing. Ten years in politics was more than enough time to have one’s face learn to only say what you wanted it to.

But even still, it was difficult to keep a smirk from creeping onto Lesley’s face when she felt the amusement from the Nenyans at Beren’s response. It vanished instantly, but it had been there. “D’ron Smith,” her husband said, extending his hand, figuring that since the man wasn’t Nenyan, shaking hands was probably okay. There was no data on Largent in his implants. “Imperial President of the Federation of Sentient Peoples. And my wife,” his other hand resting in the small of Lesley’s back guided her forward the tiniest amount. A half step, no more. “Lady Lesley.”

Without a dress on, a curtsey, while not impossible, was difficult to pull off without looking like a moron. Lesley managed it perfectly, though.

S.P.S. Telmehtar, Flagship, Venus Task Group, High Orbit, Venus

Data points and energy signatures, gravity surges and tides, solar winds and radiation storms, everything and nothing…

It was all reduced, at some level, to a signal.

And the signal traveled between the ships, and their bases, and every computer hooked into the TacNet.

A change.

A note.

The orbit continued.

The Debris Field

It is said, that when things happen, they happen in threes.

This was one such case.

First, there was communications. Deep within the heart of the ship, the core computer was linked eternally to the Federation Tactical Network, an FTL communications system that linked all the Electronic Intelligences in government service together in real time. And far more than that. Real time location beacons for suits of armor, tanks, vehicles, and everything else was also present. If someone were to ever tap into the ansible communications network that formed the system, it would be a horrid blow to Federation security – but all evidence pointed to it being untappable from outside the system.

As it was, D’ron’s order took only a few moments to reach the Starfinder once Central Command had copied it and made it into a proper format. “Sir! Flash Priority Update from Central Command. All ships be advised to report any and all sightings of Commonality Starship Tossing Dice immediately.”

“What?” Captain Mifflin turned his command chair towards the communications station, away from the plot which was showing the degree of completion of sweeping up the debris. “Is there any more than that? Like why we’re supposed to be on the lookout for said ship?”

“No, sir.” The communications officer shook his head, frowning. “Would you like me to ask?”

“Energy spike! FTL translation!” That was from the rating manning the sensor display in the tactical section…

Mifflin was going to get dizzy. His chair swiveled the other way, now facing Tactical. That report was far more worrying than the new orders from Central Command. “Talk to me! What’s out there?”

“There is nothing on sensors from the direction of the spike, Skipper… wait, I’ve got something now. Energy bloom is highlighting a mass out there. I’ve got it locked up now. Ah…” There was a pause in the report. “Icees are readying weapons, sir.”

“Do the same! Squadron orders, immediate Condition Red, target potential hostile.” Within energy range of the ICEL warships meant that the ship was well locked in by at least half of the Federation battle group.

The orders did not change a whole lot, given the very recent of the Commonality starships, all personnel were at their posts. Only the target changed. Multiple ships began to roll to present the broadside weapons arrays to the target.

Mifflin was turned back, watching the master bridge plot, which meant that he saw it happen at the same time the Tactical section piped up once again. “Status change! Multiple unknown warships transitioning in.” Warships was an assumption, but given the shape, size, and high energy signatures, probably safe.

Tarfi shimmered into existence next to the command chair. “Looks like the Icees weren’t telling the whole truth about this thing.”

“Communications between the Icees and both unknown parties, Captain.”

Mifflin frowned. This was all moving too fast. “Alright. Tap in, if you can. I want to know what’s going on. Once you’ve done that, send a status report to Central Command, letting them know our situation, and the condition of the Tossing Dice.” The counter on the time until completion for sweeping up the debris spun downward. Seconds now. “Then, order all ships to immediately assume Formation Delta-Baker on Starfinder.

“Aye aye, sir.”

All in all, the Federation ships remain silent, letting the Icees handle things. It’s their debris field, after all.

Debris Field Remnant formerly known as Tossing Dice

"Negative, Unterwelt," Gil-galad squirts on a general channel, via several mediums, both electromagnetic and rather more exotic.

"This is Gil-romen, commanding TCS Gil-galad of the Tumnorean Kingdom. High King Semir-randil of the Iluvauromeni is with me. It is our opinion that you should withdraw from the vicinity immediately. It is further our opinion that you would have no reason to jump to this specific point in space while being 'pursued' if you were not the scouting party of a larger force inbound with hostile intent to some part of Sol. As such, if you show any sign of hostile intent against any vessel currently present, we will be forced to commit you to the vacuum.

"While we accept the possibility that this assumption is incorrect, it is glaringly obvious to all concerned that you are not being entirely truthful. Therefore we shall do the military thing, and assume that you are, in fact, hiding something as a prelude to gaining strategic advantage. If, however, you are telling the truth, then your conflict is not of our concern and we are confident that your pursuers would not engage a minimum of fifty warships simply because of proximity. If they are that stupid, then they should be easily conquered, no?"

Pause.

"Federation vessels; greetings. We are grateful for your support to our esteemed allies, the Iluvauromeni. Let me explain this situation. There has been a new type of infection discovered, one which appears to have started aboard Tossing Dice. She was sent here to undergo quarantine away from the usual trading routes, where she could be watched. However, she resisted quarantine, and the nature of the non-biologic virus required her elimination by the attending squadron. You perhaps have heard of an artifact. It has already been retrieved. However, there is a likelihood of contamination, minimal. Therefore we ask that you observe your crew closely for sudden, unexpected behavioural shifts. Incubation period is unknown. Cause is unknown. Effects are, largely, unknown. It is strongly suspected by some of our scientists that this may be a concerted assault upon our species alone, and therefore we believe it is unlikely humans are at risk. The High King of Nenya offers you his apologies for any duplicitous action taken by the forces of the Commonality with regards this matter. It was deemed preferable to maintain silence on the matter. Clearly... this is no longer possible."

* * *

Erisavenus

The Three looked back at the C'tan with infinite curiousity masked. Beneath lay the increasing fury at being here, unable to affect goings-on elsewhere. Goings on that were not in their favour.

They were tempted to lash out and attempt to 'escape', but a tingling sense of foreboding suggested this would be very unwise indeed. Perhaps better to be freed first. Not that that seemed likely anymore...

"Hmmm. It would be a story long in the telling if it were told in full. The Nenyar have it correct in part. They are indeed a relatively old civilization... older than they recall now. The Tumnoreans... now they know more. And they have no strength except in hiding."

A brief pause. "Very well. We were imprisoned by the Tumnoreans twenty-six thousand years ago. We attempted to subsume them, in hope of ridding the future of their threat. Subdivided ourselves into thousands of slivers, inserted into thousands of their people. They fought back surprisingly strongly for a primitive society. Apparently their Art was greater than we were aware... or than our hosts were. They fashioned a great prison. Some sort of dimensional matrix. They ripped us from our hosts and imprisoned us in it.

"But they did not build as strong as they had hoped; nor did they capture every sliver and cast us out. We found gaps. Slithered forth. Found our way into a few Iluvauromeni during the first days of their city, Nenya. They delved deeply then, and we used them to build the machine. The Stone was flung far into the ocean, but we created a tenuous link between the machine and ourselves through those who still hosted us.

"And almost every Emperor and Empress since those days has borne us. Except Rialla. She came to the machine but we could not enter her. She laughed at us and saw us and told us of the cruel things she would do when she found the Stone. Of the cruel punishments that could be applied."

Utter bullshit, of course, but nobody but the Three are aware of that.

"They find it not enough to imprison us. They will destroy us. And we will not let that be. Nor should you. We know secrets. Great secrets. Secrets to make an already great Empire greater still."

OOC: I may be able to post tomorrow, but I doubt it. I also have a minor surgery tomorrow afternoon, also, so it may be a day or two before I can post.

Beren had detected a bit of amusment on the part of the Nenyans, but he realized that the situation, no matter what he had said or done, was almost entirely unavoidable. It was like asking a poet to rhyme only the words "purple" and "orange". It would be humorous regardless of the content. Deciding it would be best to forget the exchange he turned to those that had just greeted them.

He shook D'ron's hand and exchanged greetings with both him and his wife. He was a little surprised when D'ron had extended his hand. While it was by no means considered rude according to Beren's own customs it simply was something that was uncommon to say the least. Perhaps because all Largentians are germophobes, or perhaps bows seem more graceful. Nevertheless, a handshake would never bother Beren, however he would have objected to shaking the lady's hand and chose to bow in response to her curtsey.

Now that introduction were appearantly completed he began planning for the task of being the third wheel, preparing to weasel his way into the conversations between the others who clearly were much better acquainted.

OOC: Okay, so I lied. I did it last thing in the evening. Hahaha.

IC:

Debris Field, Iovis, Systema Solarum Sanctus

"Gil-Galad," Norvich began along so-called 'exotic' channels, "The Unterwelt was under orders to passively reconnoiter the Systema Solarum. We Folded to investigate this debris-field in which we detected the remnants of a battle, as well as a high volume of communications originating and terminating in the area. As for being 'persued'," Norvich sneered, "The malfunction in our power core has created a rather large beacon which our enemies will doubtlessly have detected. We are effecting repairs, however, it is likely that a Federal Squadron will shortly appear."

To appear arrogant and talkative would prevent any possibility of sympathy on the part of nearby fleets; if their support was not won by the time the Federals appeared, the sentiments of the Tumnorean leader would be validated, and there would be no hope of easy victory. As such, a favorable explanation and personable expression would carry much greater weight in gaining allies. Norvich could play the weakling; he could play the defiant defender of some supposed freedom, etc. But it was quite obvious that outright warning of impending annihilation from a foreign force would not work.

In any case.

"Our power core is highly advanced; and the amount of energy spewing from our captive spatial tear is traceable even clear across the galaxy, where our Enemy lies silently." Norvich decided upon the latter strategy of manipulation. "We shall fight them to our deaths, and though we wish not harm upon any bystanders, the yields and ranges of our, and our enemies' weapons, are greatly destructive, and likely nothing will remain, save the victors. My ship cannot make way until the containment field is restored around our Core, and as such, we are forced to face the Federation here." Whether or not fleets in proximity were to side with him, Niklas still felt the need to inform them of the power of the Federal arsenal. "As to your belief that the Federation would not engage fifty ships, perhaps I should briefly enlighten you as to a part of Federal history."

Before degenerating into a lecture on Federal bull-headedness, Norvich tapped several repair orders into his console, these in response to various status reports which had flashed before him while he was communicating to the Tumnorean vessel.

Returning back to the matter at hand, "Perhaps your people were not privy to the affairs of Galactic politics when the UFGZ and its weak, but numerous allies stood up against the most powerful consortium of nations in the Galaxy; the ESUS. Merely a hundred-and-fifty-thousand warships and a single fortress-system held off the combined might of three-hundred-thousand warships of the Enemy. The Federation has countless times bitten off more than it could chew, and each time come out alive. They have recreated an entire world from mere chunks of space rubble after rallying a great coalition in a great war against the Shivans. The great battles of our own Civil War have oft been fought by the Federal Fleet with far fewer ships than our own Republic, and though just as often a defeat, the Federation has inflicted great casualties. Perhaps you have not known of us, but that is as our people have wished it for milennia. Perhaps now, though, the foreign blunders of the Federation, and its previous and subsequent isolationism, will be rectified as the Republic restores our people to preeminance amongst the empires of the galaxy! No longer shall we live repressed, no longer shall we slave for the all-consuming 'good of the Federation'. And now, I must return to the duties of my ship. Think quickly on what I have said; there will not be much time for contemplation."

-------------------------

Federal Military High Command, Neurenhoff District, Neurenhoff, Federal Member-World of Auzeg

"What in holy Auderr is that," exclaimed Lukas Feldmann. He was the night-watch Sensor Tech, and he'd noticed an enormous disturbance appear in the Systema Sanctus, seemingly out of nowhere. There were nearly three hundred other assorted personnel in the massive 41-level command center, and every single one of them heard Lukas' outburst.

Multi-tiered pherical command centers/ship bridges were a peculiar facet of Zustandan military culture. They were a hold-over from the days when primitive holographic technology required projectors in a pattern around all angles of the projection. The particular style had found its way into the hearts of every new generation of Officers and Architects of the fleet, and though technology no longer required the monstrous sperical constructs, the bridges remained anyway. So, the projectors had been moved to the poles of the cavernous rooms, and a massive hologram depicting astrogation, ships' status, intelligence, orders, crew conditions, and so on had remained standard in nearly all military vessels and installations.

Lukas was the only person on the Third Level, he alone charged with monitoring all extra-Federal spatial anomalies during the Night Watch. The section of the massive central hologram nearest to him had been displaying various systems on the outer arms of the galaxy, the anomolies there being nothing more than comet impactions. However, this new disturbance in the System of the Ancestors...

...would seem to be an uncontained spatial tear. The energy signatures, though, are too powerful, thought Lukas. The computer, unlike Lukas, instantly recognized the signature.

"Energy signatures are compliant with core specifications for Federal Black Fleet, Jäger class Frigate. Anomaly identified; target transferred to Tactical/Intelligence. Awakening Admiral Schumacher." The feminine voice of the computer was somehow harsh; no feeling at all behind it. For reasons unbeknownst to most of the Federation, the Synthetic Sentients who had previously been assigned to various stations and vessels; but this was a thought for another time.

Lukas couldn't believe he'd actually had such great luck! The Black Fleet was undetectable. Not even system-wide quantum sensor nets could detect them. Their enigma had stuck many times into the heart of the Federation, each time returning to their separatist Republic victorious. If a Battlegroup could be assembled quickly enough to catch the lone frigate, it was likely that a battle would attract the rest of the Black Fleet; this situation was likely to blossom into a full-scale fleet-against-fleet encounter. And, even more importantly, the destruction, or better, the capture, of the Black Fleet would serve as a major victory for the ailing Federation.

The issue had been transferred out of his hands, but he continued to monitor the disturbance anyway. It was difficult to tell on such long-range sensors, and with such interference from the spatial tear, but Lukas thought he could make out the gravitational silhouettes of other fleets nearby...

------------------------

Atheos Prime Naval Command, Capital District, Atheos, Federal Capital-World of Atheos

High Admiral Fritz Schumacher was in the Command Center on Atheos Prime (Ah-tee-oos, no inspiration from atheism) within three minutes of the alert. Not in the usual fancy Dress Robes of the Admiralty, there had been no time for the high fashion of the Fleet. Tugging on a standard grey-white tunic with his left hand, his burly right leaned upon a non-descript railing just before the hologram. Action had to be quick; The anomaly was still not under control, which meant that the Frigate's Captain hadn't managed to get the core recontained. Schumacher had placed the crews of the Battlefleet of Auzeg on alert, and had activated the Flotte-Befehl Aufgabe with orders to rendezvous with the Battlefleet before Folding to Sol.

Just for show, as the Federation was wont to do when it came to extra-governmental diplomacy, he had ordered the Battlefleet to dock within the Aufgabe before folding. Fritz had seen first-hand the psychological impact of a two-hundred-mile-long behemoth vessel spewing forth thousands of warships and attack craft from its internal docking bays. The crews of any nearby vessels, when the Flotte-Befehl de-Folded, would never forget the sight to come.

Standing up, the Admiral quickly ran a hand through his unkempt mass of auburn hair. I need to get a hair-cut, he thought to himself, as he moved to a nearby console. His hands flew across the holographic keypad, and within seconds the orders had been given.

-----------------

Bridge of the Fleet-Base Aufgabe

Captain Langer stood erect, shoulders back, hands clasped behind him in the small of his back. Surveying his bridge, an enormous hundred-and-one-tier sphere, bustling with nearly a thousand crewmembers. Readying to make way in a ship this massive required an enormous number of people. The Federation still didn't trust computers to control everything, and so the crew initiated and oversaw all operations, the computer serving to 'check the math,' so to speak.

The order had come through only minutes ago, but the veteran crew of the Aufgabe had hurried to their stations, rumors of battle with the Black Fleet worming through the rushed crew.

A quick Fold was made into high orbit above Auzeg; A single minute was all that was necessary for 2050 ships, a quarter of the Battlefleet of Auzeg, to Fold into dock in the Flotte-Befehl. Opening the bay doors to facilitate manual docking would simply have taken too long.

With a bright flash, the Aufgabe was gone.

--------------------

Debris Field, Iovis, Systema Solarum Sanctus

A similar flash erupted from space itself as the Aufgabe appeared in the Systema Solarum Sanctus. This time, however, the massive bay doors along the lateral lines of the Flotte-Befehl began to open. The thousands of vessels of the Battlefleet began to emerge, at the same time those vessels with attack craft began to unload them also; This cloud of gleaming metal took up formation around the Aufgabe and proceeded to move towards the disturbance.

"I am Captain Langer of the Fleet-Base Aufgabe. We have detected a rebel vessel in this area, and would warn all nearby vessels not involved in this action to remove themselves from the area; it is likely that rebel reinforcements will arrive, and the destruction will be great." The Captain had immediately noticed neutral vessels near the Frigate, and had directed the first message towards all ships. To the Frigate itself, "Jäger class Frigate of the Black Fleet of Normandeicht, you will immediately surrender to Federal boarding parties, under order of the High Admiral of the Federation. You have three minutes to comply."

Ding, dong, the Thread is Dead...