NationStates Jolt Archive

Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis - The times change, and we change with them. (John Owen 1616-1683)

Present Day
Main Auditorium, Vanderbilt Prepatory Academy, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“Dad,” thirteen year old Erika Michelle Smith whined, “I’m bored.”

“Hush, ‘Rika,” Lesley told her daughter, while D’ron tried nearly successfully to cover up his laughter. Despite her physical resemblance to her mother, the second Smith child’s personality very much matched that of her father – a bit impatient and sometimes easily distracted. Especially if there was nothing in front of them to occupy their time, their mind, or at the very least, their hands.

The eldest of the two children seated with D’ron and his wife was between them, while Patrick Ryan, the youngest child present was carefully absorbed in his picture viewer. His personality seemed to have come from the five year old boy’s paternal grandfather and maternal great grandfather, both dead before D’ron had even met Lesley. The youngest, almost a year old, Jacqueline Alice, was with one of her godmother Cortana’s avatars back at Imperial House where she would not cause a scene or a fuss. There were no public images released of the newest Smith child, and with the number of recorders present at this event, it would likely be inevitable.

“My name is Erika,” the newly minted teenager objected, now attempting to move past what she considered the childish diminutive her parents had supplied her with.

“Of course, dear,” Lesley said softly. “Now hush. They’re starting.”

As the graduation ceremony for the Presidential couple’s first child began, D’ron thought back on the last fifteen years, which had seemed to fly by. As children were wont to do, Daniel had grown quickly, then Erika had been born. Patrick and Jacqueline had come later.

Mostly, peace had reigned. Blood feud resolved with Arda, peaceful trade conducted with a number of nations. No one had even bothered Mars in a long time. The reality dysfunction that seemed to have created this new reality was apparently stabilizing, though time had hardly seemed to be flowing at the same rate. He was sure that would eventually come as the fractals began to vanish from reality.

Countries still collapsed, though, and drawn to stability, their citizenry came to the Federation in droves, building the economy and the population. To deal with that, the Federation had fortunately found a pair of habitable sister worlds in a gateway system, as the systems with three or more active warppoints had come to be known. While most of the population still lived on Earth, in the Dor Lomin islands that made up the four original Commonwealths and Dominions, the margin was very small. The tenth anniversary of the founding of the colonies of Sentient Demeter and Sentient Persephone was coming up over the summer, and D’ron was scheduled to fly all the way out there for nearly a month.

He had never visited the two colonies, which had actually been founded eleven and nine years previously, respectively. He had, on the other hand, be present for the activation of Fifth Fleet, also known as the Deep Colonies Fleet, when it had been officially created before shipping out to relieve the Fourth (Colonial) Fleet task force on station there. With a relatively unchanged construction rate from the previous period of conflict, and no regular loss of shipping to significant conflict, the Space Navy had continued to grow, and with it, the other branches of the military, just to keep approximate pace. The absolute percentage of the total population had not appreciably changed, but it was a well trained military that was out there, trained in peace with officers forged in nearly five years of constant war.

Back before the introduction of the life-lengthening genetics treatments, most of those officers would have been approaching or already in retirement. Now they were able to accumulate experience for close to a hundred fifty years or perhaps even more, though none were hardly near that point. Admittedly, advancement would probably slow to a crawl if not for the massive expansion going on, but that was easily dealt with. The military would continue to expand at the same rate as the population grew and was accepted into it. As long as the economy stayed growing commensurate with the population, the military expansion could be supported, and it would be. The Federation loved its military.

Two-thirds of the holo-entertainment shows and programs that existed had something to do, at least peripherally, with government service, and nearly half of those had to military service. And on average, those exceeded the popularity of ones that did not by five percentage points.

But neither that, nor the slow replacement of arms exports instead of food and vehicles, was all that important to the Imperial President. Today he was just a father about to watch his son graduate from high school. D’ron raised the holocamera and grinned as they called out, “Daniel Connor Smith!”

OOC: Alrighty, let’s get something straight. This thread is for people who know who they are, those people who need to catch up on their storylines to get them coherent and ready for use once more. One post, multiple posts, whatever you feel you need, put ‘em here to get ready for what’s coming.

If you wanna get through the years
It's high time you played your card
If you live in this world
You're feelin' the change of the guard

--Steely Dan, Change of the Guard


Arkhan Edebali plods down the alley with his hands in his pockets. The night air was cold in these parts this time of year; Rhûn was notorious for its biting cold winters and hot summers, while warm air from the west usually kept neighboring Dunland mild year-round. It hadn't snowed yet in Bor'Hai but Arkhan could tell it would soon. Having spent many years in the city as a boy, he could see the telltale signs that visitors frequently missed. Storms could sneak up on Bor'Hai pretty easily, owing to the Skhadi mountains to the west. Before the advent of doppler radar, the city had a reputation for being wracked by particularly nasty, surprising storms. One such storm was on its way, and Arkhan assumed it was the reason for the widespread haste he was seeing. Around him, the city's deinizens moved with uncommon quickness; slowly unnerving the off-duty Vzj'Nakai.

Glancing across the street, Arkhan sees a running man stop and talk to another citizen for a moment. He can't make out what's being said but soon the second man is off and running too. He pushes his brows together. Something's going on; it can't be the storm they're worried about. Any Bor'Hai citizen would already know about it. Something else was amiss: Arkhan continues his slow march but starts to pay more attention to the agitated populace. It's late--almost one in the morning--but the city's streets were still fairly well populated by young lovers and sullen students. Cell phones start ringing in anomolously large numbers, which only adds to Arkhan's uneasiness.

Briefly the soldier ponders asking a passerby what's going on, but he's already close enough to the Barking Spider: whatever the deal was, it probably would be on at least one of the bar's many TV's and last call wasn't for another couple hours yet. Besides, Arkhan was off-duty and had been for a few months; Vzj'Nakai without living sons were traditionally barred from everything but guard duty, and King Victor had recently made cuts to his bodyguard staff. Arkhan was only twenty-nine, and Victor already had an established retinue by the time Arkhan had been accepted into Vzj'Nakai rank. Tradition called for him to marry at this point and produce a son: so far he had two daughters but his wife was growing increasingly unsatisfied with their situation and they fought frequently.

One of the sources of their friction was the establishment to which Arkhan was presently en route: a bar downtown called the Barking Spider. Arkhan's uncle owned it, so his history with the bar predated his marriage: in fact, he had met his wife there once upon a time. The all-too-common "you spend too much time at the bar" spousal complaint had been levied many times, but in truth Arkhan went there to help out as often as he went to drink. It was a popular establishment, and his uncle sometimes had a hard time keeping the place staffed, particularly on account of many of the area's youth being away on military training. Arda had a volunteer army, but all citizens went through what could best be described as a watered-down version of boot camp. Years of rule under Morgoth had stamped an indellible mark of caution on Ardan sovereigns, who almost universally insisted their populace be ready for anything. The last couple of years had been pretty hard on Arkhan's uncle, since for some reason Victor had been drilling the region constantly. Most thought he was preparing for possible Orc raids, since Bor'Hai was north even of Daturias and its outlying areas had seen an increase in Orc sightings since about the mid 80's.

Arkhan slips through the crowd that's gathered at the bar's entrance, evoking a murmuring chorus mixed with equal parts informal greeting and surprised agitation. "'Ey, Jan," Arkhan shouts at his uncle across the bar. His eyes flicker to the largest TV on the wall behind the bar as Jan turns around.

"The wife let you out tonight?" asks Jan jokingly. "Thought I wouldn't see you around here for a while after last night."

Arkhan shrugs and finds a barstool. They looked well-staffed enough tonight. Some student he hadn't seen before was bussing tables, probably in exchange for free drinks. "What's all this hubub about tonight? I noticed people running around and cell phones were going off left and right by the time I passed Midgard Road."

"Find out for yourself," answers Jan glumly as he gestures to the TV.

The Throne was in regular competition with the private sector in just about every business in Arda, including media. There was a state run media and many privately run organizations with which it competed to provide the news. Both had their advantages: the state media was usually much more reliable for international news, military reports, and statistics. The private outlets tended to excel at entertainment news, gossip, and (ironically) disagreements within the government itself. Jan had tuned into the state media channel, which struck Arkhan as odd. Whatever was happening had to be a Big Deal, since Jan preferred the private outlets for just about everything.

Reaching over the abr to retreive a beer for himself, Arkhan pops it open and takes a swig as he listens.

"Preliminary reports indicate that the Angsiyan was interred at Bluetree hospital at twelve thirty-five this morning after suffering an embolic stroke. Victor is in critical condition, and we are told a press conference will be forthcoming within the hour. Konrad, Victor's eldest son, would not answer our questions when he arrived at the hospital, but he is expected to..."

Arkhan had already ejected the contents of his mouth all over his uncle's bar in a surprised haste. Even though he wasn't technically on duty, it was always a Vzj'Nakai's prerogative to keep his finger close to the proveribal pulse of the royal family. Jan's surprised "Whoa!" faded quickly behind him as Arkhan flew out of the bar with far less effort than he had entered. His uncle knew Arkhan was a Vzj'Nakai, but his hurried departure probably puzzed the remaning patrons, who would spend the next few minutes speculating on what Arkhan was up to.

If the Angsiyan was truly at Death's door, it was Arkhan's obligation to return at once to the Serechav; the seat of Ardan government in Daturias. Victor may have placed him on extended leave, but Konrad might have different plans; and if Konrad was assuming the throne at any point in the near future, Arkhan needed to account for himself. Unconsciously his hands fly into his jacket pockets in search of his phone, to notify his wife. He's already halfway to the train station when he gets ahold of her.

"Hello?" a tired voice answers. "This better be good, I just got my daughter to sleep."

"Sorry honey," replies Arkhan with a wince. "You know I wouldn't call you like this unless I absolutely had to. It looks like I'm going to be gone for a little while. I've got to go to Daturias: the Angsiyan may be on the verge of death."

Silence for a moment. Arkhan pushes his eyebrows together. "Hon?"

"Y-yes, of course," she answers. "I understand. Please call me tomorrow and let me know what's going on once you know for sure." Her tone is distracted, disbelieiving. Arkhan can hear the TV come on in the background as his wife moves to verify what she's just heard. "Oh, god..."

"I gotta go baby, just hang tight. I'm already at the ticket desk; I'll call you after the morning session tomorrow. Unless Konrad redeploys me or my unit, I should be back by tomorrow night."

"Okay. Be safe."

We've given each other some hard lessons lately
But we ain't learnin'
We're the same sad story that's a fact
One step up and two steps back

--Bruce Springsteen, One Step Up


Clement Rohr strikes his gavel on the podium. "Parliament is now in session," he declares authoritatively, adjusting his spectacles as he sets down the gavel. "Madam secretary, please indicate our commencement at seven thirty-two in the morning of October the third."

A hush falls over the room as the various MP's cease their conversations and turn their attention to Rohr's central podium. "As we all know, Angsiyan Victor II passed away last night, and the throne has officially passed to High Lord Konrad IV. Custom dictates that Parliament oversee the execution of the Angsiyan's final wishes, which have been transmitted to us by House Althalon just this morning."

Rohr produces an envelope and holds it up briefly before opening it and unfolding the paper contained therein. "Our first order of business, it says, is to continue the buildup of the Northwatch. Civic training facilities are to continue their excersizes, especially in the Bor'Hai and Illikami provinces. These efforts are to continue under Guardis Imperica jurisdiction for the next 18 months, after which time command will pass to the Pax for more aggressive operations."

Rohr pauses to read the next section. "The Credit is to remain anchored to gold, big surprise there..." he trails off, his eyes scanning the document for declarations of greater import. "We're to advise Angsiyan Konrad IV on the continued restoration of Arda's sovereign institutions. He wants Konrad to set up civil courts, streamline the police system, and establish an emergency central banking committee. He also envisions more cross-training between Pax and Guardis Officer's Corps. Victor also hints that he wants Konrad to return Arda to the international scene."

At this a great furor arose. Victor II had enjoyed the support of Arda's conservatives, largely as a result of his continued policy of isolationism. Relations between the Althalon and Talicid houses had warmed during Victor's reign, but if Konrad brought Arda back onto the world scene this harmony was clearly in danger. The Talicids long held that the international community would not trust a rebuilt Arda, as every indication was that the international community wasn't entirely convinced that they had truly shed Morgoth's yoke.

"It looks like we've got our work cut out for us," Rohr declares forcefully, swinging his gavel again to silence the din. Parliament had little actual power in Arda, serving mostly as an advisory body to the throne. It could propose legislation, but only the Angsiyan could actually enact it. "The way I see it the issue requiring our immediate attention is the restoration of civil courts and the fortifications of the Northwatch."

A MP stands and clears his throat, and Rohr recognizes him. "The floor recognizes the honorable Sir Demaki of Far Harad. Speak your piece, sir."

"Thank you, President Rohr. This is a difficult time for all of us, and Parliament's mandate is clear in this situation. I do not take issues with my Emperor's orders, but it was always my impression that Victor tended to exaggerate the threat of Morgoth. It is understandable in light of the Reclamation War that Victor would be cautious of Morgoth, but it is this representative's opinion that the Orc strongholds in the north can't mount a serious enough attack to compromise the defenses we've already set up. Far be it from me to suggest we build down our army, but if we're to return to the international scene I feel our military priorities should lie elsewhere. The raids on the Northwatch have seen a marked decrease in both frequency and intensity since 1035."

"A worthy point, to be sure, representative Demaki." Rohr reflexively folds his hands atop the podium and leans forward a bit. "Canvas our chamber and establish a consensus on your issue. Form a small committee and draft a report. We are obligated to act according to Victor's wishes, but if there is any danger of contradiction we must advise House Althalon before too much time passes."

"Of course. I have every confidence in Konrad but Victor's will be large shoes to fill. It is our job to ensure he has the tools necessary to do so. Since Victor's last wishes will soon be a matter of public record, we must address this deployment issue as soon as possible." Demaki sits, and checks something on his datapad. "Ending our isolationism is a welcome move in my opinion. I do not yet know how soon it can or should happen, but in either case it shouldn't be taken lightly and a number of economic safeguards should be enacted before we get too carried away."

Another MP stands. Rohr winces once he recognizes the man; Alec Reaven was a prominent public figure who belonged to one of the Talicid cadet houses. He was very likely to be less than pleased with these developments. "The floor recognizes Lord Alec Reaven of Dunland. Speak your piece, sir."

"Thank you, President Rohr. The Reaven and Talicid families have labored long in service to the Northwatch, and it is largely by our efforts that the orc-raids have declined since the mid fifties, as the honorable representative Demaki has already pointed out. In order to meet with any degree of success, these efforts must continue in force if they are to bear continued fruit. Victor's decision return to the international scene and strengthen the Northwatch can only mean that the former is to take place later while the latter is to take place immediately. Victor always put Arda's interests first, and he appears to have put greater emphasis on the Northwatch than Arda's return to global politics. It is my belief that ending our isolationism is an ideal goal of Victors, but will depend on Konrad's actions in the interim since we are clearly not ready to open our borders and send diplomats abroad."

Rohr reflexively glances to another seat, but the man who was sitting in it had already stood and was demanding the floor. "Don't be ridiculous," admonishes another Dunlending representative in a common breach of decorum. "Arda has risen to every chal--" he's silenced by the bang bang of Rohr's gavel.

"The floor will recognize you in a moment, Sir Adelheid." Dunlendings tended to be noisiest in Parliament whereas their Easterling counterparts had picked the courts as their collective soap-box. Three of the four speakers so far had been Dunlendings. "Please continue, Lord Reaven."

"Thank you, mister President. I do not have much to add except that we must as always move forward in a measured and prudent manner. King Victor does not openly call for an end to the isolationism that has served us well so far: instead, he speaks of it broadly and in idealistic terms. He does not compel us to advise Konrad to enact this wish immediately. Victor was the best wartime leader our nation has seen since James IV and always had Arda's future prosperity in mind: it only makes sense that he would speak so favorably of an eventual end to isolationism, but its not something that need be rushed considering the current state of our economic and military affairs." Reaven sits, indicating his yielding of the floor.

Rohr's glance slides back to Adelheid, who is still standing. "Representative Adelheid, you may speak."

"The honorable representative Reaven is way off base here," asserts the young MP. "Arda's economy has never been stronger, and most models suggest it is strong enough to compete with the rest of the world. Wealth and productivity are up leaps and bounds over the years, but both are in danger of stagnating if we can't expand our markets. Right now our retail and financial sectors are growing, but only to accomodate local needs. Arda is self-sufficient, but could be so much more. Isolated from the rest of the world, we begin to fall slowly behind. A few decades of national introversion is prudent after a calamity like Morgoth, but should be done away with as soon as we are able. Representative Reaven would have you believe that there is a lingering mistrust abroad, but even if that is the case we will earn no merit by keeping to ourselves: it will only increase the suspicion and mistrust we incur. We may have a hole to climb out of," he peers at Reaven. "But I'd rather give us wings than lead shoes. Arda prevails."

Applause was rare in the chambers of parliament, but there it was. Adelheid acknowledges the support with a wave and takes his seat again. Rohr's head swivels to representative Reaven. "Any response?"

Reaven cracks a grin and holds up his hand, pam outward. "Not at this time, mister President. I will canvas the chamber during our next recess, while Demaki and Adelheid likely do the same. I will submit my report as my comrades do, after we have established a consensus."

This is a new style of life
Leaves fall in October, stages burn
I’m doing it my own way

--Backstreet Law, Stages


Old man Tenzing had been around for a while. He quite unfondly remembered Morgoth's rule and knew Konrad's father Victor personally. He was sad to see him go, but with Konrad assuming the throne he couldn't help but examine the possibility of marrying a family daughter off to the newly minted sovereign. Impulsive and ambitious, Gan Tenzing had also tried the same with Konrad's father, but Victor had already found a wife before Gan was able to establish contact with him. Konrad's mother was of obscure stock, which Gan hoped would mean Konrad himself would be all the more inclined to seek a prestigious eastern marriage.

Gan had spent the last 36 hours in a calculated haste, cataloguing the family's unmarried females. He perceived Konrad might be more inclined to seek a marriage in his native west, so he had to move quickly. Daturias was easily accessable from the Tenzing stronghold of Yenrai in the near east, and Gan had no intention of missing the Angsiyan's coronation that was sure to take place in a few weeks. It would be gauche, Gan knew, to make obvious gestures to the throne before coronation; Konrad likely wouldn't be paying attention to any would-be prospects anyway. The weeks between an Emperor's death and the coronation of his successor was usually very hectic for the new sovereigns, who tended (unless under extreme circumstances) to not deal with political or military issues until he had formally accepted his station. Still, he knew the Talicids would be there with their daughters, and probably those bastard Edwali too.

Gan whistles and snaps his fingers in the direction of his open study doors. A servant enters obediently a moment later and Gan is already speaking to him as he bows: "Please send this out at once," he commands, producing a sealed envelope. There were easier ways to contact the Serechav of course, but a hand written note was nonetheless traditional. "Convey our warmest congratulations to Konrad IV and ask when I might be able to see him to present the family's gifts."

Gan's servant bows. "Of course. I'll keep you informed of the Angsiyan's response."

"Thank you." Gan steepled his fingers and stared blankly at an elaborate painting on the wall in front of him. His granddaughter Nyima ws probably his most likely candidate, as she was one of the few daughters the family had that were both the right age and possessed the features popular in the west. He was already in contact with her via e-mail, and tentative travel arrangements had already been made. A university student on Arda's far eastern coast, Nyima was likely to get the next day or two off on account of Victor's death. Gan would bring her to Yenrai and spend as much time as possible picking out a suitable dress and perfume for her to wear during the proceedings. Gan had no intention of making his intentions painfully obvious, but nonetheless it was an opportunity to make a favorable first impression, which Tenzings seldom passed up.

A small communication screen on his desk flickered, and Gan hastily punched the message up. "Hello Mister Tenzing, this is Throne Airways confirming Nyima Tenzing's flight to Yenrai tonight at 1900 hours," explains a holographic recording. "Security checks are underway and Nyima has checked in with the other passengers. Please be at the airport no later than 2030 hours to check in and pick her up at the terminal."

Gan checked his watch. It was six thirty now, which meant he had a few hours before he really had to get moving. Nyima would have to go back to school before the coronation, but she'd have time off again for the ceremony which Gan intended to use to his best advantage. For now, sleep was probably a prudent move. Putting up with Nyima was taxing enough, to say the least, and he doubted he could do it in such a fatigued state.



****


Vincent Adelheid was a MP on the payroll of the Roark family, one of Arda's leading houses. They had been prominent in Ardan politics for a while, even as far back as the late middle ages, but they never drew much water until the continent industrialized. Before this, they had traditionally been influential commoners, and weren't ennobled until late in the Talicid dynasty. Nonetheless, relations between the Talicids and Roarks were traditionally icy. Although they rarely compete within Arda's economy, the Roarks had recently made their entrance into military life and the Talicids didn't like it one bit. It was a Roark who threw the Talicids off the throne shortly after Arda's industrialization some centuries ago, and of course nether family has forgotten. Ever since this, the Talicids have been very wary of Roarks who chose to become soldiers--it was rare, but the ones who went seemed to have a way of becoming powerful. Getting a large inheritence from a Roark father was rare, as their house leaders tended to make their children fend for themselves. As a result, they had a historical tendancy to be forceful and shrewd personalities, more akin to the Talicids than either family would be willing to admit.

Vincent Adelheid was currently meeting with the Roark patriarch, Frederick, in Adelheid's Parliament offices. Frederick sat on a couch on one side of the coffee table at the room's center, looking down through his reading glasses at the meeting's transcript. "Interesting stuff in here," he muses, passing the folder off to his daughter, who stands behind him over the couch in the charcoal gray dress uniform of Arda's Guardis Imperica officers.

Vincent lifts a brow as he comes around with two small glasses of scotch. He nods politely to Frederick's daughter, the up-and-coming Lieutenant that the media seemed to love. She was present, Adelheid guessed, as a reminder of the Roark's military ambitions, and this point was not lost on the representative. It reminded him of the line he had to toe with the Talicids in both parliament and court, as they still remained Dunland's most prestigious military house.

"Reaven held his tounge at the end but only because he's saving his best stuff for the next session," suggests Vincent.

"Probaby," answers Frederick with a shrug. "But there have been increased calls to end isolationism for a few years now. Some from us and some from the Edwali, who were surprisingly silent during most of the proceedings."

Vincent gulps down a mouthful of scotch. "I'm more interested in the Demaki at this point. They've been pretty quiet for a while now, and are known for only speaking out on the matters closest to their hearts. I've always had something of a fondness for them on account of the Demaki having filled the halls of parliament with a minimum of hot air."

Frederick picks up his glass but doesn't drink from it yet. "The Talicids won't give a shit what happens in Parliament. They'd just as soon roll over in there and use their clout in the military court to get their way."

Vincent's eyes slide momentarily to the woman standing behind Frederick, whom he guessed would have something to say about the Talicid military court. Frederick laughs a bit after taking his first sip of scotch. "Yes, I'm sure she has quite a few stories to tell about how our friends the Talicids are handling themselves. But that's not why we're here."

More scotch for Adelheid. She was pretty, but he didn't really like Frederick's daughter Nadia. Her presence was beginning to wear on him. "Of course. I've canvassed the Edwali affiliates in Parliament..." he trails off as he hastily gets to his feet and retreives a document from his desk. "And they appear to be on board." He sits down and hands the paper to Frederick, who peers at it interestedly. "Right now things are looking pretty good that we'll be able to draft a proposal alongside the Talicids. The only problem, asyou mentioned earlier, is how we plan on contravening their plans through the military court." Again Adelheid peers at Nadia. "Is that why she's here?"

Frederick shakes his head. "No, I don't think there's really anything we can do on the military end of things. My guess is that our proposal will be enough for now. Even with the Edwali behind us, we won't be able to get enough support amongst the Generals, especially in the Guardis where we need it the most." Frederick discards the document on the coffee table and leans back a bit in his couch. Behind him, his daughter shifts her weight subtly to one side, but continues her apparent policy of standing in a silent parade rest.

"At the very least, it could be political leverage later, if their policies backfire." Vincent takes another swig from his glass.

"That's what I was thinking," confirms Frederick. "And even if they don't, we have to remain consistent."

"Should we meet with the Demaki and Edwali?" Vincent crosses his legs and rests his glass on his knee. "We'll get their signatures anyway but it would be a good idea to get on the same page with them."

Frederick tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, clearly thinking about it for a moment. "I'm not sure that's necessary just yet. I kind of want to let the Talicids make the first move or two in military court, if only because they won't be expecting any counter-maneuvers from us. I'm betting their generals will try to reassign some officers from the Pax and put them on Northwatch duty in Bor'Hai or Illikami, as Victor's wishes seemed to indicate. Nadia is headed there herself; it seems Victor's death was just the excuse our Talicid friends needed to take her off staff duty and put her up in the Northwatch--no doubt they expect her to fail so they have grounds for a discharge."

Vincent looks at Nadia again. She was a tallish woman--about 5'10"-- blonde hair and eyes an unusual shade of light brown. The whole time she had stood almost motionless and it freaked Vincent out. This was a private meeting between her father and a MP--no military decorum was required here yet she was quite clearly observing it. She acted almost as if she were on duty and Frederick was her commanding officer. Maybe she was just doing it because she didn't like Vincent any more than he liked her. A reasonable assumption.

"I don't know," offers Vincent tentatively. "I still think we might be able to get our way in parliament. If the Angsiyan perceives enough support for our foreign policy goals--"

"Don't be stupid," Frederick cuts him off. "The Angsiyan is free to ignore Parliament and I'm sure Konrad will do so many times. I'll grant that now may be our best chance but Victor surely taught Konrad to be wary of the ambitions of Arda's other houses. If we act too boldly, Konrad may perceive that we are too ambitious and you know how ruthless Althalons can be. We offer our suggestions through the proper channels, and leave the paranoia to the Talicids. Now is the time for caution, not audacity."

Vinvent narrows his eyes. "What's that sound?" he asks, but he's only halfway through the question by the time he notices Nadia is reaching for something at her back. Producing a small comms device, she looks down at it and presses a few buttons.

"I've got to go," she announces simply. "Excuse me." Briskly she makes her exit and Frederick stands up as well.

"That'll about do it for now, Vince. Keep me informed. I'll be in Daturias until after the coronation, so feel free to contact me any time. Let me know what Rohr says about the proposals when they finally go through."

"Sure thing."

The Regent frowned as he scratched the paper against the skin of his forearm with languid boredom. The flesh of his body was perfectly normal, when he had the resources to spare, as he did in his current position, its physical death was no problem. Rather, the rate at which he burned through his bodies was horrific to behold. Down the centuries he had learnt great power, but its use came at some cost. The body could not keep up with the spirit, and each body faded into nothingness.

He sat, overcome with boredom, in the Cathedral of The Watchful One, the greatest, sprawling religious complex in the heart of the Regency. The great balcony from which he was observing peoples was hung with his crimson wolf banner, but it was nothing in scope compared to the shining flame-windows.

The priest was speaking of the omniscience of Sauron, though he did not use that name, for it was commanded that none should speak it, save the Regent alone. The name was an insult, and yet the Regent took positive delight in using it, simply because it was forbidden to others. Of course, in all public displays and records, the Regent used only the phrase Tar-Mairon to describe his master. All others could only describe him in such euphemistic phrases, or as the Eye.

The omniscience of Sauron was a terrifying thing to the tens of thousands of people before him. Before the Regent had been imposed here, the marauding armies of orcs and fouler creatures had committed what was, to the Regent’s knowledge, the greatest butchery in history. A hundred million people in this land had been slain in an orgy of terror, in a few days.

Thus, even in private, the name of the Dark Lord was not spoken. For it was the prevailing folk belief of the people that to speak the true names of Sauron was to bring his attention upon you. Frequently, people would betray their neighbors for the crime of speaking the forbidden word. Once, the Regent had made a study of those who were reported for such; more than two thirds of them had actually indeed done so, with only a minority being reported to the secret police for false heresy. The belief that to intone the name was to draw its attention was a dark terror to many.

It was not, the Regent knew, an entirely baseless belief.

Eventually, the interminable festival ceremony ended, and, with the cameras off him, the Regent ascended to the landing pad on the roof, where a sleek covered skyway worked its way across, suspended on cables, to his palace. It was guarded by two white and silver sentinels that the uninitiated might think were ornamental, armored knights, standing as still the thousands of statues that proliferated across the landscape outside the armored windows. Statues of leering, horned and winged figures rose behind them to over twice their height, life-size depictions of something neither their artists, nor even the Regent himself, had seen, demons of terror.

The knights moved into fluid, synchronous motion, walking behind him, joining two more that had stood alongside him in the ceremony. Their narrow, pinched helms gave them a cruel look, even despite their shining, heroic image. As he walked, the Regent looked from the windows upon the sprawling, rebuilt metropolis beyond. Light aircraft wove dangerously between its shining towers, which stood upon the cramped island. The mighty metropolis he had built dwarfed the previous settlement that had been there, and ruined by the invasion of Sauron.

On all sides, the city’s harbors extended out to the sea, a desperate and failing attempt to service its billions of people with food from abroad. These harbors were not up to the task, and blue-green towers also created foodstuffs, the work of Doctor Nerallim. Beyond this shining prosperous existence, the Regent knew living spaces were ever delved below, where great pumps worked night and day to keep them from flooding. The troglodyte existence of those beneath did not bother those who lived in the peaks of the towers he could see. Skyways held up countless motor vehicles in gridlocked impotence between then, testament to the determined independence of those who could afford them.

Any walk along this route was spectacular, but though it was less than a mile, he found it exhausting, more evidence that he would soon need a new corpus.

White doors at the far end of the route swung open of their own accord at his approach, and he strode through guarded rooms, two of the knight-like Castellans stopping, turning and taking up position beyond the doors. Walking down a flight of stairs, he sat at one of the many computers in the chamber, and called up a list of criminals. All were male, young, and healthy. It was only really a matter of deciding which would suit him best.

---

Helicopters buzzed over the house. It was the only one in the city of its kind. Brick walled and slate roofed, it was old, the oldest building left, over four centuries old.

Soldiers swarmed on the streets, in smart deep blue jackets and red-trimmed trousers, greatcoats over their body armor, submachine guns hanging loose but ready from their shoulders. All but the officers wore black berets with the rampant white wolf crest of the Regent’s personal protectors.

A different man walked, in a slim black jacket, a change from his usual, almost clerical robes, from the helicopter landed in the street. Yesterday, this man’s body had been imprisoned on death row. Imprisoned by these constabulary. Now, the guards protected him. Would give up their lives to do so.

The door opened, and a man looked curiously at him, and invited him into the house. “Good evening, Regent… I hope the transition went well.”

“Good evening, Doctor,” he said, closing the door, his two ever-present protectors snapping into position outside. Doctor Nerallim, he trusted implicitly. One of the tiny few who had that distinction. “So, what brings you to disturb my family tonight?” Nerallim asked, with a jocular, faux put upon tone, waving a black metal hand as he did so. His original forearm had been lost in the invasion, and this prosthesis was a testament to that.

“What does this,” he said, taking a single piece of paper and passing it to Nerallim, “mean to you?”

“A map,” Nerallim said, “I think. Of the catacombs…”

“The old foundations?” In many areas, the foundations of the old city had simply been tarmaced over, making a nightmare for surveyors, but dealing with the more troublesome orcs by simply sealing them away.

“Partly. But also older underground structures from before the invasion, and before even the rise of the last regime. Dangerous, I’m most familiar with them because of the threat of subsidence. But I know there’s a hobby group who makes maps of some of the tunnels; this isn’t one of theirs, I wouldn’t think – too poor quality. Where did you find it?”

“It was taken from the effects of a subversive. It’s not the only one. We’ve found many over the last few months.”

“Fascinating… As I said, it’s dangerous in some of them. Who would have the nerve to consort down there?”

“I do not know…” the Regent said, “and that, alone, bothers me… I shall have my agents look into it. But for now, I’ve some questions about the other matter.”

Well there's a line that you must toe
and it'll soon be time to go
but it's darker than you know in those Complicated Shadows

--Elvis Costello, Complicated Shadows

Arkhan was standing guard outside of a Vzj'Nakai station near Daturias' Serechav complex which served as the Emperor's primary residence and the seat of government in Arda. Vzj'Nakai stations were not particularly large (owing to the relatively small size of the force), seldom consisting of much more than a commons area, a kitchen, an armory, and a few corridors worth of quarters for the troops, as well as one for the Emperor. On paper the Vzj'Nakai served as the Emperor's bodyguards, but frequently carried out combat operations with Arda's Mobile Infantry under both Guardis and Pax Imperica jurisdiction, although more frequently the latter. Arkhan had been a Vzj'Nakai for three years, but had spent much of that time on passive duty. He hadn't been to Relic Station since shortly after his training had been completed.

Arkhan's unit had received orders from the new Emperor that they were to supervise the southern quadrant of the Serechav in tandem with local Guardis Imperica military police. Vzj'Nakai were historically tense as the throne changed hands, even though most transitions had tended to go smoothly over the course of Ardan history. House Althalon had long benefitted by being one of the few families popular across the continent. Although Dunlending in origin, the Althalons both as Emperors and as soldiers have seen combat and administration duty across the entirety of Arda stretching back to the 6th century.

As a modern institution, the Vzj'Nakai had so far succeeded in protecting Ardan sovereigns from assasination or overthrow, although their precursors in Khand had fought their share of hopeless battles over history, particularly against the East and the Kingdom of the Harad. Since the rule of Victor II, the Vzj'Nakai had begun to move away from their hereditary roots in coastal Khand* and gradually they had recruited warriors from all over Arda to defend their Emperor. Their ranks had expanded somewhat, the public knew, but their exact number was always kept a mystery, although Arkhan doubted it numbered more than a few thousand. Only the Emperor and the aides of his choosing were aware of the true size and readiness of the Vzj'Nakai as a fighting force. Alongside these duties they very often served as political officers to their sovereign, and more than a few Emperors past relied on these abilities to keep them in power.

Arkhan's gaze slides to his right and he focuses in on his eyepiece's display to catch the time. It was almost eight, which meant his watch would up and he'd go groundside soon for 'relaxed duty,' where he was free to roam and do about his business in the city but with standing orders to keep an ear (and both eyes) out for signs of political disturbance. There were a few key locations on his beat that he was meant to visit at some point before returning back, but the lack of timestamps on those orders told Arkhan that there probably wasn't anything specific to look for at any of the locations. He would probably head northwest towards the Parliament building, the Albeius, check it out, and then maybe catch a show downtown.

Shortly after 8 pm, Arkhan's relief arrives. The two sergeants exchange salutes. "Orders for your relief, Seargeant Edebali. Report?"

"No activity. A car alarm went off about a half hour ago around the corner, but I checked it out and there wasn't a problem. Seems like most people are staying in tonight. Less street traffic than usual. About an average number on the street."

"Thank you Sergeant." The two men salute again and Arkhan plods back into the complex proper to stow his weapon and retreive his civillian gear. Even when on passive duty, it was a Vzj'Nakai's prerogative to remain armed and equipped to a degree. It was fall in Daturias, which permitted Arkhan the use of a trenchcoat and therefore a shotgun. This along with a pair of long daggers he appropriated for possible use. He would also wear a shielded satchel with a handful of other aids, mostly optical equipment and diversionary tools for duty in an urban center. Alone Arkhan was trusted to use his best judgement, but Vzj'Nakai had been known to subdue or destroy many targets alone or in pairs. Despite their distant and provincial roots, the force had evolved to specialize in close quarters urban warfare, as the modern Ardan Emperors they protected tended to ensconce themselves within a sprawling metropolis.

In another few minutes, Edebali is out the door and walking purposefully down the street with his hands tucked deep into his pockets. He can see his breath rising in front of him as he walks, but the wind protestingly carries it off to the left. After a few blocks he notices a small gathering standing in front of a newscasting station and decides to take a look. An inch or so taller than most of them, he can see above them with little effort. It's returning from an advertisement when Arkhan gets a good look at it.

"Welcome back to TBC, ladies and gentlemen, if you're just joining us, moments ago Arda's new Emperor Konrad IV announced a gag order on Parliament and politicians from all over the flat are in an uproar. The Albeius was ordered closed at 1600 hours tonight following a rare pre-coronation address by the new Emperor Konrad. Earlier today he held a press conference where he stated that Parliament's gag order was commanded by his late father, Victor II."

Arkhan shrugged. That made sense. Victor probably left vague and contradictory instructions for parliament and only ever told his son what was really going on. Konrad's gag order was probably intended to keep Parliament busy with one set of problems while he himself dealt with another without their advice. Still, it was an unprecedented move, and he guessed the media would deduce that Something Big Was Going On.

"The Angsiyan went on to declare that Parliament could return to session in three weeks. MP's may hold staff meetings but the Emperor has restricted their media accessibility and they are confined to Daturias until further notice."

Arkhan grinned as he turned away. This development might make his visit to the Albeius that much more interesting. The MPs were, as the anchor mentioned, still allowed to meet there, but they couldn't hold press conferences or give interviews without the Emperor's permission. They were likely to take advantage of whatever abilities they still possessed, so they'd probably be holding small, panicked meetings en masse. Parliament had 625 seats, not counting observers from the east, so despite the recess of the Albeius it was likely to be very busy there tonight.

For someone who wasn't in direct contact with the Emperor's office, Arkhan's training had allowed him to piece together the likely reasons for his new Emperor's moves. Recent intelligence seemed to indicate that there were various civilian and military service factions in the far east who were growing ever more dismayed with their relative lack of benefits and wage packages enjoyed by many of their western counterparts. Eastern generals who had worked under Victor during the rebellion became more vocal towards the end of his reign and although they never broke into outright insubordination, had repeatedly made it clear that their troops ought to have the same service length and benefits as enjoyed by the armed forces of Dunland, Rhûn and Near Harad. Victor had countered this argument by pointing out that troops in the west had seen much more combat action than their eastern bretheren, and this entitled them to a special dispensation from the Throne for a voluntary discharge a year or two after the war ended in 1021.

Arkhan wasn't sure whether Konrad would pursue or reverse his father's strategy, but his decision likely hinged on the east's reaction to his move to restrain Parliament. Kôrsi and Xhan, the emerging eastern power centers, had observers in parliament but no MP's. These observers would be free to travel back to the east and relay their accounts of events in Daturias, as Arkhan had no doubt many were in the process of so doing at this very moment.

The Albeius was just around the corner, and the coalescing crowd could already be made out by the Vzj'Nakai. He could see Guardis men posted at key points and guessed there were another Vzj'Nakai or three somewhere else on the grounds, with the same orders as him. Arkhan hangs back from the main crowd and takes a set on a bench, facing the fore of the Albeius from across the promenade to its right. Two fairly busy street intersections crossed in front of him, but on the ground level in this part of the city most of the traffic was above him, kept in traffic corridors by powerful magnetics and integrated EMP incapacitators in all vehicles. Their sound was dull enough that he could make out some of the din across the street, but that wasn't what interested him.

A quick reach into his satchel and Arkhan has retrieved a discreet eyepiece and his other hand almost magically comes up with a newspaper from inside his jacket. A slight nudge to the bridge of his glasses with a curled index finger reveals a munitions-sensitive field scan on the area in front of him. He couldn't pinpoint specific weapons, but anyone who was carrying anything with which to shoot out of those weapons he could see. THere were a lot of hits--no surprise, the populace tended to be well-armed--but it wasn't the returns from the crowd he was worried about. If anyone tried to make an ill-advised move in that area, a dozen different weapons with different interests behind each one would be levelled against him, and Arkhan's presence wouldn't be needed to distribute the proper justice.

No, what a Vzj'Nakai in his situation was more worried about were returns from the outlying areas: if an ambitious eastern politician wanted to make a move during this crucial juncture, he would need to find a way to isolate and (if necessary) disarm his target. Arkhan looks for hits on the perimeter of the building--nothing--then switches to an infared scan; pausing to look around him over his glasses as the new readout loads.

A few offices in the Albeius are occupied, and one of them has a beacon on it that could only have been placed by another Vzj'Nakai moments ago. The beacon's "author" is shown moving more or less directly towards it, from a distance of about 3 blocks. Arkhan was closer, and obviously there was something in that room that had caught his comrade's attention some moments before.

Arkhan is up in a flash, his newspaper dutifully deposited in a nearby trash can. He draws a black and gold clasp that identifies him as a Vzj'Nakai, and clips it to the collar of his overcoat. This would ensure him ease of entry into the Albeius, inside which his destination lay. He wasn't sure what the other soldier saw in there, but whatever it was, clearly Arkhan must meet him there and find out.

*NOTE: In modern times, Khand's borders have expanded to contain what used to be Mordor. The Vzj'Nakai trace their roots to a tribe situated somewhere along the western coast of the Sea of Helcar)

Gummed up, brain dead and can't decide
you can't pray enough, you can't hide
You can be cool or you can cry
Do it wrong
Not it all
Or do it right

--Seatbelts, Ask DNA



Ubi was a large city on Arda's far eastern coast; one of the largest settlements east of the Sea of Helcar, and the seat of power for Kôrsi, a civilian district of some prominence in modern Arda. For a long time the east had been effectively seperated from the traditional boundaries of Dunland, Khand and Rhûn, but when distance became less of a factor in the 3rd and 4th centuries, trade routes became more regular and emigration more common. Even so, it wasn't until Morgoth's downfall under the administrations of Edward VI and Victor II that "Old Arda" (as the east sometimes called it) unified with the east. With an enemy like Morgoth around it was easy to maintain continental unity, but with Konrad moving into the Serechav things were starting to get cloudier.

Ubi (and by extension Kôrsi) was heavily populated and the area around the city was excellent for farming. Situated on a low-lying coastal area, Ubi enjoyed a relatively warm climate but few hurricanes during the summer. Arda's east had seen relatively little conflict with Morgoth during the unification efforts of Edward VI and Victor II but nevertheless, their alliance with the west provided an important material and industrial reserve during the wide majority of the Reclamation War of 963-1027. Eastern leaders had signed the Articles of Unification under Victor when war with Morgoth eventually spilled over across the Sea of Helcar, and had been praised publically by the Angsiyan on numerous occasions for "incalculable aid" against Morgoth ever since.

Izo Otani and other leading personalities in the east had been in constant and excited contact in recent years, owing to their provisional agreement to the Articles. The west might not fully realize it, but eastern leaders had made it clear to their citizenry before and during the war that their true vision for the future was a pan-Ardan Republic. Recently, they were emboldened by occasional malcontent in local divisions of the Guardis Imperica officers' corps. Arda had a volunteer army, but service carried a lengthy contract with meaty benefits, most of which were reserved for western regulars. A few eastern officers were irritated at the Serechav for offering not only shorter contracts in the west, but shorter contracts with a pension that was, day for day, almost twice as valuable than an eastern pension. Two or three of them, now retired from service, recently published some pretty damning books that had a way of flying off the shelves all over Kôrsi, and Otani was encouraged by their contents.

Although the publishers couldn't possibly have counted on Victor II's death, its timing seemed to be fortunate for Otani's cause. The east was perceived to be a rising power, and even a small commotion being raised over the pension issue could possibly intimidate a new Emperor, Otani knew there was plenty precedent for that, even within house Althalon itself. Otani wasn't invested in Ardan nobility but he knew how to play the game. He knew that his region was at the height of its power, and if anything were to be accomplished to push Arda into a more satisfactory direction, now would be the time to do it. The east had provisional representation in Parliament, but even so the body was more or less impotent in the face of the powers wielded by the Emperor. Only he could enact legislation or amend the Articles of Unification, so Parliament's only present value was as an advisory body and that wasn't enough for Otani or his allies.

A few more things still needed to fall into place, and today might be the day that some of those components would start to arrange themselves.

A discreet beep from Otani's desk reminds him that the workday is over (for him, at least). Otani snaps his attention back to his computer monitor and clicks through a handful of screens to bring him back to his e-mail one last time; there was something he wanted to check in it anyway. "43 South Temple Street," Otani mumbles to himself after bringing up the pertinent message.

He checks his watch as he moves across the office to his coat rack. The meeting was still a couple hours off. He could go home, shower, and take a few more minutes to ponder the implications of the document he was on his way to sign.

***

Gan beams as his granddaughter steps out of the terminal and into the main concourse of Yenrai's gravport. "Nyima!" he shouts, extending his arm skyward excitedly. Nyima smiles, and breaks from the crowd to greet her grandfather with a hug, despite having a bag in each hand.

"Hey gramps," she says simply as they pull apart. Gan's servant appears a moment later and presents a cart into which Nyima deposits her bags. "Thank you."

"How was the flight?"

Nyima wrinkles her nose. "I hate flying. I wish I would have had the time to drive."

Gan laughs. "Yes yes, no time for that now my dear. I'm sorry for calling you up here on such short notice, but we must take every opportunity to prepare before Konrad's coronation. We'll need lots of things for you," he explains, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Nyima pushes her eyebrows together. "I didn't get anything like this for my birthday," she protests. "But the Angsiyan dies and all of a sudden you want to doll me up?"

Gan sighs. "Nyima, don't make this any harder than it has to be. This is a wonderful opportunity for our family and I can't afford to pass it up."

"What about Peter? What about school?"

"Peter? You can't be serious." Gan pinches the bridge of his nose. "You wouldn't give up Peter for the Emperor?"

Nyima fidgets. "No, I guess I would it's just that I don't like other people making decisions about my future."

"I can respect that," answers Gan with a hint of regret. "Normally I would never do something like this, not to you." Gan was lying. A notorious micromanager, he had an eye for detail and the impulse to busy himself with them. Nevertheless, he was never one to miss the big picture.

"Oh come on," Nyima gives him a flat look. "When Mai tried to get married last year, you picked the frosting on the cake. I can only imagine what you're going to insist I do."

A look of irritation passes over Gan's face. "I can do as much or as little as I want, I run this house and we are a house of Emperors," answers Gan. "My son and I labor constantly to maintain the wealth and prestige our name deserves, and you're just going to have to deal with our decisions if they should happen to affect you."

A brief pause and the party displays their identification and clearance at a security kiosk. "If you really don't want to do this, I can't make you: better to have a happy daughter than a spiteful Empress anyway. But is this really an opportunity you want to walk away from?" Nyima is silent for a moment as they walk through a large tunnel undoubdtedly performing security checks on them as they approached the private terminals. Gan had a personal transport waiting there, that would take the three of them back to the Tenzing estate on the south side.

"I guess not. It's just I don't want all my work up until this point to have been for nothing. Sure, I guess everyone wants to win the lottery or something, but I've really had to study my ass off for the last few years."

"It doesn't have to be wasted effort," points out Gan. "Lets say fortune wins out and Konrad accepts you as his bride. You could still finish your work and apply it to pursuits worthy of an Empress. Just because you may marry the Emperor does not condemn you to being entirely sedentary: if anything, it should render your pursuits easier and ensure they bear more fruit."

Nyima lifts her eyebrows and tugs the corners of her mouth down in the facial expressive equivalent of 'good point.' Gan and Nyima let the silence linger as they somewhat paradoxically help their servant stow their bags in Gan's private transport. A sleek and luxurious machine, Gan's 'Hibai Howler' zipcraft was an extrordinarily sought-after machine, a spiritual descendant to the sports cars that still glided along on the surface streets.

"You taking her to Daturias?" asks Nyima, hiking her chin towards the zipcraft as they close its storage compartment.

"I think so. I don't think anyone out there has gotten one outfitted yet."

Nyima laughs. "Well then that about settles it, doesn't it? The first man in Arda to get a Hibai Howler on the Daturias grid? Tell me you can resist that."

Gan cracks a grin. "I can, but I won't. Besides," he climbs in and aids his granddaughter in following. "I'm sure our new Emperor has got one already anyway. So I guess I'd be second," he says with a wink as they settle in. "It'll still look nice in the procession though."

"Fair enough," answers Nyima with a grin. "Where to?"

"Home, first. Still a couple days till coronation, I want to just grab some dinner and relax tonight. Tomorrow we'll get up early and get you ready for the ceremony."

***
"Hold! Fire on my mark!" Nadia Roark heaves up her rifle and takes one last quick down the line in either direction. Then in one motion she snaps her attention back to the fore and lowers her visor. In front of her, a cloud of dust rises: underneath it, a swarm of orcs. Her gaze darts to the upper right, as if investigating a rebel strand of hair. Instead she's watching a real-time rendering of the ordinance inbound to the hapless Orcs in front of her.

A few more seconds; Nadia counts them down to herself and then re-focuses her attention on the approaching horde. They're still too far away yet to be heard as anything more than a faint rumble, but the boom and flash of the artillery makes a fine contrast, and Nadia smiles. She brings her rifle up and looks down its sight, as most of the men on either side of her had already been doing since her order. She zooms in on the smoke from the massive artillery strike that was about to finish: none of the orcs had crossed the field of fire yet and they probably wouldn't until the strike was over in about six seconds.

"Not just yet boys!" she barks as the final shells come down. Her sights were still fixed on the smoke screen: an infared overlay approximates the orcs' distance and calibrates her reticle accordingly a few seconds before they enter weapons range. A green light flashes on her visor display, and an audible tone plays.

"Now!" She shouts, even though the Orcs are still over a quarter mile away. Their war drums can be heard now: despite the shells, the Orcs had pressed through with an impressive force and Nadia estimated that hand-to-hand combat was still a possibility. At 500 yards, she picks her targets and fires. Through her sights she watches the victims of her handiwork fall dead, their ichor occasionally making a satisfying splash as the body inexorably impacts the ground.

Soon the air is thick with the smell of discharged pulse rifle cartridges. The Orcs continue their advance, unfazed as usual by the heap of their own dead they had to trod over to do it. Now their wails can be heard, and the distinct characteristics of one or the other could be discerned by the ear. During an Orc charge Nadia liked to play a game with herself to see if she could identify and silence the owner of a scream before someone else did. After years of training and performance as a concert pianist, she liked to think she had a good ear. The last hundred yards or so of a charge were almost always her favorite. This was the only phase of the assault during which it was really possible anyway.

Once more her eyes sweep over the horde, and she draws in a quick breath. There would be no time for games today. Already some fire can be seen heading its way before the call comes out: "Trolls!"

"Lots of trolls," Nadia answers. The Guardis, in their constant want for readiness, regularly (some argued excessively) arranged system malfunctions of varying effect. Officers had to figure out what was being sabatoged and how to compensate for it before the systems would ever come back online. She had been around long enough to know what the problem was; as a First Lieutenant it was her role to act decisively if and only if everything was fucked. She would let one of the Second or even Third Lieutenants figure it out. If her experience was any indicator the latter were too freaked out by the action to really be thinking about it, and an enterprising Second Lieutenant would probably soon discover that strategic targeting was (and had been) disabled and that the solution was to mobilize a reconaissance suite.

The recon suite was a glorified ball of sensors, about the size of a softball, carried by one soldier in each platoon. They could only be used once but lasted for hours; proper usage ensured that a full company could function for up to 36 hours without passive targeting from Brigade level or above. The sensor blackout meant that the Guardis brass was watching someone in the unit (or, equally likely, the entire unit).

"Lieutenant Falik!" Nadia shouts, lowering her weapon and gently pushing her way past a few troopers as they fire off to her left. "Double space your men and tell the 12th to FFE on the mountainside again; don't forget to recalibrate or those idiots'll shoot the same damn spot again!"

Falik nods and salutes. Nadia whirls around and charges the other way. "Lieutenant Krais, come with me. Captain!" she shouts without waiting for an answer. "We need to get I-company on that west wall now!"

Captain Blarik Odina gestures Nadia to his huddled conference, while a befuddled Lieutenant Krais, called form his wall guard, waits in the wings. "What is it, Roark?" he asks impatiently.

Nadia turns her shoulders towards her captain as she pushes into the circle of Third Lieutenants clustered around to establish their units' links with the newly incoming recon suite data. "Sir, the west end is about to be fragged, I need to get over there right now."

"Mrrh," answers the busy Odina with a wave of his hand. "Dealwithit," he answers. Odina had been with the Guardis for fifty years and couldn't bring himself to get worked up over a few trolls. He cracked down when he had to, but as a Northwatch veteran, there was little action on that frontier that really bothered him; he tended to step in only when new officers really made a mess of things. The man, it was thought, could kill Orcs in his sleep and for all anyone knew, he really did.

"Lets get over to that west wall, open your comm to I Company and tell them to get their cushion-clenching asses over here. We've got about a dozen trolls to take down and I'll be buggered if I'm going to do it by myself."

There is a ritual, no one knows where the Harlequins got it from, no one can quite understand how such a thing was discovered, for the ability to create what the ritual creates was never theirs in a time when all the elements of the ritual existed. The ritual is a dangerous one, and a bloody one, it calls for the sacrifice of one of the leading lights of the Military, permanently, it calls for the summoning of one of the greatest servants of the great foe.

It calls for the use of the tools of the ancient foe, the bringer of death, rare for the Kionashi to have such items. It calls for single combat between the Daemon of Khorne and an Autarch using a weapon of the Nightbringer. When the Daemon is killed, should the Daemon be killed, the Essence of the Daemon is captured by a Spirit Stone, pulled from a Craftworlds Avatar of Khaine, and then bonded with the Autarch.

Then the Phase Sword, of the Nightbringer, is driven into the Autarch, and via the magic’s of the Council shattered into dozens of parts that spread throughout the mans being. His last agonising moments are spent stumbling, screaming in pain, to take his place upon a throne of Bronze within the heart of a Ship. A ship and a City.

Yvresse had conducted this ritual nearly six times now, creating the nucleus of new Craftworlds. Creating at their heart what would be one day, after many generations a new Craftworld, or so it is hoped. The Ritual takes the Rage and Hate, and War of the Daemon of Khorne, the expression of such, mixes it with an element of the destroyer, and joins them via an Eldar soul. It helps that in the end the Eldar is murdered by his people, in that the Murder of Eldanesh is mirrored, or so the council feels.

That ritual is not taking place here today, or at least not entirely.

During events now distant, a part of the essence of each of the long lost gods of the Eldar was recovered from the heart of Slaanesh, Vaul, Kurnous, Asuryan and the mother are now once more a part of the Eldar. The Council feels this should be represented. Galdern has spent years on this, pouring over texts, visiting many varied libraries, double checking his theories, and expanding on them. He feels confidant it will work, more than confident he is convinced. His conviction has persuaded the rest of the council.

Consideration has been given, not all the future Craftworlds of the Kionashi will have beating at their heart an expression of Rage and Hate, and War. No, some, a chosen few, will be dedicated to other aspects of what it is to be Eldar. Vaul is to be first, Vaul, the Smith. Vaul who was the defender of the Mother and the Father being the first to speak in their name. Vaul is, however, also the destroyer, he like all the Eldar gods, is not peaceful, his war is cold and calculating. His war is the War of machines.

The Daemon is summoned, not of Khorne through, and this is why the Council chose Vaul and not their Mother. Sympathetic magic’s are needed here; the expression of Chaos must be one closest to that of what is being created. Isha will never have her own Craftworld, for through they love her, Nurgle claims familial love, and no Eldar can stomach creating their Mother from anything dedicated to such a creature. The very thought sickens them, so their Mother shall remain without a Craftworld. Perhaps such is for the best.

Still for Vaul, is summoned a Changer of ways, far from perfect, but it does contain the spark of the genius of Vaul. For a start it has the ability to look at a problem from a different angle. A Bonesinger meets him. Such a contest would be over before it even began normally, but this Bonesinger has been allowed to bring aid, not people, but tools, weapons, anything created by his own hands. This after all is how Vaul makes war. Brilliant light fills the air; energy boils flesh from the Daemons bones, and at last the man springs his trap. Bands of energy seize for a few seconds the Daemons body, holding it against the floor, the attacks from his machines simply designed to weaken it enough for the trap to work.

He steps forward now; in his hands he holds a Phase sword. Not of the Nightbringer, not of Khaelis Ra, but of the Dragon. The Machine spirit, as he stands above the Daemon it breaks a hand free and swipes instinctively upwards at the man, gouging a chunk of flesh from his side, for a second he stumbles, not used to such pain the ritual seems doomed, but he catches himself and summoning all his strength plunges the blade downwards into the Daemon slaying it.

The circle is complete, and as with the regular ritual the daemon is bound to the sword, and the sword is driven into the wounded man, his eyes shrivel away rendering his few moments blind ones. He cannot walk now, but he does not need to, one of his devices scuttles forward and takes him to his chambers, a vault door opens, inside stand ready dozens of Wraithlords and guard, ready to protect their new lord. Or maybe to imprison him, Vaul was at the last the prisoner of Khaine after all.

This then is the risk of the Eldar of Yvresse, at the heart of each of the seeds they plant, is a man bound with the essence of a Daemon, and the hope that the ritual has cleansed it of the corrupting influence of Chaos, leaving only the Warp aspects they desire, and the link to their gods.

The stuff was most often called ‘greb’ which was a loveless name for an unloved product. It came from the great cylindrical algae vat above, pressed down into a solid paste the dripped constantly from the thousands of wound mesh anchors in which the genetically engineered bacteria thrived. When it did so, it was a tasteless paste of amino-acids, lipids and saccharides. Before the invasion, Martin had been studying food chemistry; he knew quite how sophisticated this stuff was, and he appreciated it for that reason.

The paste was colored (usually a healthy looking spinach-green) and flavored (they were always varying just how they did that, but it often had a potato-like taste to it) and then tinned, here. There were more additives, vitamins, minerals, iron-rich substances, almost everything one needed. The tins were constantly being recycled, and so there was a hot furnace area that processed old ones into new ones, which were moved on conveyors to sit beneath a hundred pipes, which opened valves to drop the food-paste in.

Of course, being a government-created staple, the sheer complexity of the processes happening over Martin’s head resulted in something taken for granted, and endlessly complained about. The genius of it, though, was that it was flexible. With added water, heated, one can made a soup to feed four. Compressed, strained and baked, it made a potato-cake that was decent enough, it also made passable pancakes, with some milk (if you could get it) you could make it into a rather excellent cheese, or a decent pastry if you had flour as well. The soup also happened to work nicely for stewing, and if you knew what you were doing, it made a rich gravy the virtue of which was that it hid the taste of cheap meats with even the slightest seasoning added.

And of course, as it was rich in sugars, and used by humans, it was also fermented, into both a form of beer and ‘greb-shots’, which were hot and strong enough to get one drunk with gratifying speed.

The plant Martin was standing on the upper rails of formed the main part of the diet of over forty million people. The speed with which it worked was astounding. Each of the hundreds of nozzles filled about five tins per second. For twenty-four hours per day, they rattled with horrific speed, tended to by a regiment of workers. This gantry was suspended between the nozzles, which ran from the floor above, for changing the pipes for sterilizing, a task that had to be done every two hours, and kept hundreds busy in itself.

If he’d not been quick in joining the ‘National Compliance Forces’ when the Regent had first formed them, he had little doubt that he’d be working in a facility such as this, probably in one of the control rooms on the upper floors. He wasn’t sure if that would have been better or worse paid, but he liked the uniform anyway; the overalls he wore at the moment didn’t match up.

A whistle sounded above the sound of machines and the underground-conveyers that rattled past to supply the facility with its goods and take its products away. Shift change, what he’d been waiting for. He put the tools he’d been pretending to inspect the electronics system with back into the bag, carefully sliding them under the submachine gun he held there.

He slung the bag, and stepped onto the ladder, clambering down as the rest of his unit coalesced from their postings. He watched, eagerly, the workers around him. Apparently the mission came direct from the Regent himself, and that was enough reason to want to find something on the first go. The Regent was well known for his generosity to those who succeeded on such missions. The opposite was also true, though.

Then he saw it, a small knot of people drifting to the door that led to into the stairwell to the lower levels of the compound, where spare equipment was kept. He’d familiarized himself with the layout of the compound; they shouldn’t be going out that way.

He nodded, drawing attention of the others to the group, and they drifted off in ones and twos toward the doorway.

There were three underground levels to cover, so the four-man patrol broke up into groups, Martin taking the lowest. He reached into his bag, grasping the pistol grip of the pre-war submachine gun; the models used today just weren’t as solid, he thought. The L-3 might strip down into a passable ‘compact carbine’ but the pre-war model had much more stopping power. Rumor had it that the Regent’s personal protectors regiment used these guns instead of the new ones, so it was damn well good enough for him. The country made only two guns – albeit fairly good ones – that one soldier could use, and he wasn’t terribly comfortable with either.

There were no lights on here, and he didn’t have the infra-glasses he’d like, (they’d mark him out as obviously an intruder) nor could he use a torch to give away his location. He slipped inside the rubber swing doors, and held himself in the doorframe, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, before passing between the shadows of looming boxes.

For a time, he didn’t see anything, as he walked down the narrow avenues between the looming crates, cursing each footfall, until he came to a meshed off area with danger signs around it. A narrow shaft of light fell from a hatch on the wall, behind this electrical sub-station, powering the machines above.

He crept closer, finding that there was no lock, and crouched, listening intently, he heard nothing, and clicked his radio once, then once more, to signal that he had contact on the lowest level. It struck him as crazy to climb behind this thing, but if it was safe for them, it was damn well safe for Containment Forces.

OOC a recap of whats on Earth because erm it might be important I guess.

Galdern's ‘Palace’ was often a hive of activity, beyond the outer layers of the structure that dominated an Island near the coastline of Menelmacar, where Aspect Warrior shrines and often engaged in training exercises, both live fire and simulated, mostly the former. A posting off the Craftworld proper was for those in the latter stages of the path, and mock engagements where frowned upon by the Exarchs as not providing a suitable sense of real combat.

The shrines doubled as defences for the structure proper. This was a massive research centre, although for mystical rather than mundane purposes mainly. The various peoples that studied ‘Xenos’cultures where based here. Deep within the bowels of the place where holding facilities to hold subjects (None sentient for the most part, beings that showed an instinctive command of 'mystical' forces) for more exhaustive testing, including to destruction. The Kionashi where not easy on such subjects. Of course such harsh measures where actually rare. Used only on subjects that seem to react in some noticable way to such emotions beyond what would be normal for creature in great pain. Only once had such measures been used on a sentient creature, a Dark Side Force user. Sentient Subjects where volunteers and paid handsomly for their co-operation, the worst they could expect was inconvienance.

Such a facility required ways and means for such subjects to be delivered, beyond the Webway the Island also housed several large hangers, usually filled with various craft, both of a civilian purpose and a military one. The central such craft was Galdern's personal vessel. Really more an extension of the structure itself, it contained it’s own holding facilities, room for capture teams, near real time contact with Outcasts across Sol and potentially further away so that he could arrange the procurement of such subjects.

Galdern had at anytime twelve teams out watching potential subjects of study, It was Galdern's observation that those people of interest to him at some point or other usually found themselves in trouble. His teams would then intervene, and offer the subject a place of safty, and rewards. Such offers where genuine, and Galdern was even willing to share the fruits of his research with his subjects. Occasionally he was not above helping such situations along.

Of course the most notable subject of the Isle was Galdern himself, injured long ago he was permanently contained now within a walker based partly of the allied Protoss of Yvresse’s Draggon design, and added to by various designs of Galdern’s own to augment his powers. It clicked and clacked across Wraithbone floors pausing to examine details of various experiments. To b truthful Galdern had found little to complain about for his current state, little had changed for him. He still had the ability to conduct the research that drove his very being he still had access to the Immaterium, the loss of usable arms and legs, seem a minor thing. He did not miss his flesh.

Above Galdern’s Island, was the last part of it’s defences, high within a Geo-synchronous orbit over the Island, it formed the nexus of several satellites that orbited Earth. The Terra-Badbaltrias Network. Each Satellite was capable of a limited self-defence and more importantly each satellite had a Webgate within it, and the ability to launch troop transports, along with the necessary escorts. In theory for as many as Yvresse had available to it, more likely for as long as a foe allowed them to stand. It’s purpose through was usually served within the first hours of a war, for it allowed the Kionashi to theoretically invade any Earth Nation with little warning and have ground forces in place before a full mobilisation of the target was possible.

It symbolised the key tenant of Yvresse Military thought, surprise and speed.

Mars, there are several ways to view the world; a troubled spot now hopefully settling down some is often used by those being honest. Others a dump where only the insane bored of life would go, another isn’t actually all that different a view, just less derogatory. That was why Kher Shereth had come here. An Outcast from Tor Yvresse he had hopes of finding work, or more exactly trouble, within the Yvresse holdings on the Red planet, or in others lands, mercenary work was not hard to come by on the Red Planet, especially for those less interested in asking why?

Kher Shereth through was concerned, he was seeing odd patterns around him on the planet. The Yvresse view all races through a system of worth, and one of the highest placed of these races was that of the Protoss, amongst the Yvresse they where held as Kin or near Kin, far above that of the humans. The small community of Protoss enjoyed this prestige, and did not waste it, they kept themselves away from those held in lower esteem, except for business dealings, and they where held in public offices.

So why was he watching Protoss meeting with Humans deep within the bowels of the planet. In any case where the Protoss arranging for the humans to transport something from off world for them. The Protoss had no reason to do so, if they needed something transported not only did they have their own means, but also they could gain access to the Webway. Which would be far easier and cheaper than this surely.

Even an illegal good would not be an issue; the Council had long ignored the acts of smugglers within its lands, as long as they knew what was being smuggled. Outcast, and Protoss, ‘Criminals’ operated semi-legitimately, while nothing was publicly admitted everyone who mattered knew if you wanted something brought in no questions asked it could be done.

The only reason then to hide the transport of goods onto the Colony from these agencies, was to hide it from the Council. The only reason to do that was because it was more than illegal, it was potentially rebellious, and something aimed at disrupting the Councils control of the colony.

That disturbed him, yet he had no evidence, if it where humans he had caught, truthfully that would be no issue. A hundred humans could deny his word and Kher Shereth’s testament to the contrary would be enough in such matters, but with Protoss… He needed something tangible. He needed something to show, so he would follow them, he would watch them; quietly he shifted under his cameo cloak and waited for the two groups to finish their talks.

To the Protoss of Mars the Eldar had come to be aped by many of them, admired and looked up to. Some had taken it to extreme levels; some had prospered in this by virtue of their relationship with the Kionashi. Of these Irlannch Menovir was perhaps foremost, in the past, and in potential futures to come she was a companion to Farseer Darvins. She had travelled the webway with him, seen things, and experienced things impossible to imagine on Mars.

She was famous, and well cared for, wealthy to the point where wealth held little meaning anymore to her. Like the Farseer she took other lovers when on Mars. Through she knew when he showed up again she would leave with him without a thought. Truthfully most of her lovers knew and enjoyed this too. Her latest through something was off within.

She could not place it, at first. So she lay awake after another more than satisfying coupling with the Protoss male and watched his sleeping form. Trying to understand what it was that was off about the him. Slowly it came to her, she shifted her legs and the man shifted away from them, she moved her hands closer to him and his sleeping form moved his body unconsciously away from the hand. Thinking back, she slowly realised, she could recall no time, when awakening first he had been even touching her.

His attraction was an act, small tells, and incidents sprang to mind, unimportant on it's own but revealing a pattern, if he so hated her through why be with her? Suddenly she was very much afraid; suddenly she looked at the man and wondered what she had brought into her bed. Then she sneered, whatever he planned, he thought her fooled; he thought he was the most dangerous person in this bed. She had travelled with Darvins, and she had not been a human girl swooning at the sight of the Farseer. She had been his companion, and they had gone to places darker than the mind of this fool, now she was aware of his little game she would play it back, and teach him exactly why Darvins was so enamoured of her.

Present - 14.5 years
Mus uni non fidit antro
Offices of Koepp Transportation, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“Good morning, Mister Koepp,” the man said as he stepped through the door to the office.

The white haired man sitting behind the desk concentrating intently on his computer looked up in surprise, his face instantly clearly to that of a professional. “Mister Clegg, I presume?”

The younger man nodded with a smile. “Indeed. I understand that you have some property that you’re interested in selling.”

The older man rose with a fluidity that belied his advanced age – a benefit of the Federation’s advanced medical science. “Yes. I have three warehouses just outside the boundary of the ITC. What precisely is it you’re looking for?”

Clegg moved to the side as the older man walked to the wall, touching a series of controls which brought up a number of diagrams, clearly displaying buildings. “Something not too large, but not small either. A number of my acquaintances are considering starting a new militia, and we’ll need storage space for roughly three hundred units of kit, including small arms and squad weapons.”

The older man nodded. “I was in the army,” he began, “so I know how much space you’re talking about. Though that was some time ago.” A rough chuckle accompanied that qualifier. “Any vehicles or heavy weapons?”

Darien shook his head. “Not at this time.”

Koepp twisted a control on the wall, bringing the smallest of the three warehouses to the foreground of the display. “I imagine this will do. There is plenty of room for expansion, plus it is long enough you could set up an indoor range if you wanted to, on the far side of this partition.” He indicated where he was talking about with his fingers.

Clegg examined the diagram for a long moment. “It looks like it would work.”

The old man, quite the experienced businessman, heard the unspoken ‘but’ in Clegg’s voice and frowned slightly. “What?”

“I would be more comfortable if I could examine the location in person.”

“Of course,” Koepp said, a smile returning to his face. “Too many younger people rely on computers exclusively. You should always examine property in person, especially when renting it for the long term or buying. I happen to have some time this afternoon, we could go for a walkthrough then.”

“That would be splendid. What time exactly?”

“Around 1400 hours.”

“I’ll be back then, possible with one of my associates. I’m not sure on his schedule today,” Clegg agreed.

“Excellent. I hope to see you both then.”

Hidden Cave Base of Jason Cusbetti, Ameranada Wilderness Reserve, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“How many total locations do you think we’ll need, boss?” Flint Petroski asked, a former drill sergeant in some nation that had gone off the deep end when it was dislocated into the current reality. He had come to the Federation in search of something better, and had been astonished to discover he would have to serve in the army again to be able to vote. The thought of once more going through that had completely thrown him for a loop, and he had been a lost, wandering soul when R-Bloodied 5Razor found him.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I’d like a secure location in each of the Earthside capitals, plus a few more scattered about. Ideally, if we can get people in the colonies, a couple of locations in each of those would be excellent.”

A cool, nearly frightening voice, cut Jason off before he could continue. “That is extraordinarily unlikely. In contrast to Earth, there is very little property not under constant surveillance from Justice Monitors in the colonies. We have ten surveyed locations that have a low enough density of monitoring equipment to satisfy our purposes as long as the individuals attending to them remain discrete. Nine of them can be adapted to serve a secondary purpose, though this one,” the last location appeared on the monitor with no visible or audible command from the EI, “is next to useless, other than as a domicile.”

Jason shrugged. He was the one who had surveyed that location. “Sometimes, living in a cave just isn’t enough in the way of creature comforts, ‘Razor.”

“Immaterial. It is flashy, relatively useless, and creates an unnecessary risk of exposure.”

The human leader scowled. “When you put it that way, it sounds like it would be a bad idea. But I think we need it. It can help add some legitimacy to the organization and a public location if we need it. Just because we own it doesn’t mean we have to use it.”

“True. Shall we purchase all ten locations, then?”

Cusbetti looked at Petroski, who shrugged. “You’re the boss. I think they’re all good, though.”

“I agree. ‘Razor, buy ‘em.” Jason turned to Petroski. “Are you comfortable enough with the interface yet to get started on our militia registration?”

The former sergeant nodded. “I believe so. Are we still going to be purchasing from external sources? The weapons will be more expensive.”

Jason nodded. “Yes, but much harder to trace.” He turned back to the EI. “If you can make it look good, ‘Razor, perhaps buying Federation weapons overseas and shipping them back will work. If not, buy some Menelmacari or Midlonian gear – something ubiquitous that can be acquired anywhere.”

“Of course, Jason.” The EI smirked the human face he was wearing. “I’ll do my best.”

Present - 14 years
Non omnia moriar
Mindscape, Tel’Domeduathea Compound, Ered Lithui, Dominion of Vanderhill, FSP

He drifted among the stars, seeking… something. He knew not what it was he sought, what brought him back out here again and again, beyond the physical, beyond his mind, into the depths of another reality, one laying atop the one perceived with the regular five senses.

Minds – souls. Lights in the darkness, spreading it thin, into a grey haze that covered everything, formed everything, was everything. He reached out, tendrils of thought, of will, connecting with gleaming lines to an object, manipulating, learning it, its history, its owners, their emotions while using it… yet not the object itself.

So powerful, yet to be fully given over to the mindscape was also limiting in its own way. You lost your connection to the physical reality, including all sense of time passing and your own body. Which could be highly dangerous if one remained too long. For the inexperienced, death from starvation or dehydration was approaching frequent. Even for the highly accomplished, it remained a constant danger.

With enough practice, one could tell how long one had been present in the mindscape by counting thoughts, counting encounters. Since it was larger and more expansive than even the universe of reality, it was rare to encounter anyone else truly exploring the mindscape, except for the occasional being that was there naturally. Immaterial, noncorporeal creatures tended to have a significant presence on the mindscape… as did nightmares and dreams.

For it was here and only here that they had power. Even then, it was only the power to hurt or help those who dreamed them into existence, unless you were foolish enough to enter another mind unprepared. Or encountered something you did not expect.

Nae saian luume’, Val’istar.

Amin n'nowa ikotane, thaurer. He covered the shock easily, more than two millennia of life giving him ample experience in hiding his emotions. The grey had faded into black. You’re supposed to be dead. He did not want this foul thing contaminating his language.

Come now, you didn’t really believe that, did you?

No.

But you did want to. Which is why you are here, is it not? To see the true master.

Lle naa haran e’ nausalle. He could not help but fall into his native tongue when confronted like that.

Cormlle naa tanya tel’raa. You should have fled.

Antolle ulua sulrim, thaurer. Mankoi naa lle sinome?

Because this is where I am strongest, Val’istar. As if to demonstrate, searing pain screamed through the elven mind, as if a million needles were strung beneath his skin and torn free, over and over again.

Snarling, the archmage gathered himself and struck back, pushing aside the pain first, as he had been taught so long before, and unleashed his most powerful attacks, one after the other. Caela ie'lle!

Lasta lalaithamin. The dark presence’s reply was completely unnecessary, for not only could the elven archmage hear the laughter, he could feel it, shaking through his very being. Lle lava?

Lle auta yeste’! the angry, ancient elf cried in reply.

As if in response, the darkness swelled up, threatening to engulf the elf’s presence. Rima, yaarear!

Without waiting to reply, the elf ran, abandoning the field. He knew it was hopeless at this point, for the darkness stretched ahead of him on either side, easily able to cut him off at any point. But it would not, not any time soon. The darkness was reveling too much in his fear, his pain. He cried out, one last useless hope. Kela ‘ksher!

A single word was his reply. Qualmava!

Darkness.

OOC: Some of you may be interested in the actual conversation.

It has been too long, Archmage.
I don’t think so, abominable one. You’re supposed to be dead.
Come now, you didn’t really believe that, did you?
No.
But you did want to. Which is why you are here, is it not? To see the true master.
You are master in your imagination.
Your heart is that of a lion. You should have fled.
Much wind pours from your mouth, abominable one. Why are you here?
Because this is where I am strongest, Archmage.
Have at you!
Listen to my laughter. Do you yield?
You first!
Run, ancient one!
Be gone, evil one!
Die painfully!

Present – 14 years
Ad captandum vulgus
Office of the Minister, Public Information Directorate Tower, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

When the door whispered open, it caused just enough noise to get the Minister of Public Information, Rebecca Cameron, to glance up to see who her guest was. More out of habit than not knowing, of course. The building’s AI, Puddy, would not have let anyone in she was not expecting except for Bruce, and he was out of the country at the moment, and her boss, the Imperial President, and the AI would have announced him.

She smiled at the blonde. “Hello, Beth.”

The other woman flowed into the room, her gait smooth and nearly invisible like that of a hunting cat. But then, even the greatest feline predators were week and powerless compared to the creature which gracefully was lowering herself into the chair. “Hey, boss.”

Beth St. John was a vampire. Now, that tended to scare a lot of people in the abstract, but Beth was one of the nicest people Rebecca knew. So, while being sentient lifeforms, as they were able to reproduce in their own fashion, vampires were allowed to live in the Federation. Their numbers were fairly small, less than a million at most, and only a few hundred thousand of the type Beth was.

Beth and her husband Mick were Homo sanguinarius cruentus, which was a rather docile form of the race that was in fact capable of going out in sunlight for extended periods of time, though it weakened and would eventually kill them. Also, they were fairly tough to kill, as the standard stake through the heart method had no affect but to paralyze them. Like most forms, holy symbols (and water) had no affect on them either. The H. s. cruentus tended of the three legal subspecies of vampire to lean towards government service the most. H. s. nosfertus, the most common subspecies, where they worked for the government, was usually in the darker, more unsavory places – places they liked to frequent because the sun itself was in fact deadly to them. The total percentage of H. s. frigidus was a tiny portion of the total vampire population, and suffered no ill affects from the sun, other than a disturbing tendency to glow. While they were accepted as just another race by the population, the differences in their appearances and abilities set them apart from both their own kind and others. The final, and banned, subspecies was H. s. strigae, a vile breed, possibly of demonic origins, that, while fiendishly intelligent, was also quite incapable of following the rule of law and was, as a whole, psychotic. They were the kind of vampires that gave people nightmares and were vulnerable to all the traditional solutions, fortunately.

Beth had sat perfectly still while her boss ruminated on the different types of vampires, but it was rare she was asked anywhere and then had the person she was meeting with zone out. So she prompted, “What did you need, Minister?”

Blinking, Rebecca smiled and cleared her head of the extra thoughts. “I was wondering if you felt ready to take over the FPBO, including the daily briefings.” The vampire’s eyes widened in shock, but she sat quietly, knowing there was more to come. “With the President reassigning the Office of Federal Service to us, away from Education, I’m going to have less time to be present and will likely have to directly supervise the new office for a while until I can find a replacement.”

The Office of Federal Service, which coordinated the nationwide recruitment and testing of qualified individuals wishing to serve their country, and then assigned them to the different directorates’ training apparatus, had noticed a nearly ten percent drop in recruitment the last two years. While Deborah Johassen was a wonderful administrator of education, she had failed to maintain a close enough eye on her subordinate, who the Imperial President had removed. Well, arrested, really, but then, that kind of thing happened when you funneled government funds into private accounts and the Office of the Inspector General noticed.

The Imperial President had relocated the office, deciding first that Rebecca did not have enough to do all day, and second, that he needed this mess sorted out as soon as possible, and given Minister Cameron’s remarkable success in creating the Public Information Directorate from scratch, she appeared to be just the person needed for the job.

“I see,” Beth said, smiling. “So this would mean a promotion for me?”

Rebecca laughed. “Title and pay commensurate with your new responsibilities, of course.” Which, in Beth’s case, would basically be title and pay commensurate with her current responsibilities as Rebecca’s deputy. “What do you say, Director St. John?”

Beth grinned and stuck out her hand to shake that of her boss. “I’d say it may be confusing if I’m in the same room as my husband.”

“True,” Rebecca said with a grin.

Present – 13.5 years
Libenter homines id quod volunt credunt
Hidden Cave Base of Jason Cusbetti, Ameranada Wilderness Reserve, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Something shook the bed enough to make Jason come awake slowly, at which point he realized it was a new weight on his bed, tilting him over. Oddly, the two blondes he had been with before he went to sleep were nowhere to be found, but that hardly concerned him when he saw exactly who it was sitting on his bed.

Jessica Smith. The pinnacle of fantasy to adolescent boys and young men throughout the Federation, she was approachable, kind, smokingly hot in a girl-next-door way, and powerful. The younger sister of the Imperial President, she was almost a full generation younger than him – twenty-five to the President’s thirty-eight.

But to Jason Cusbetti she represented something else – power and control – his hatred of what he had become, his hatred of those who had forced him to such a position, and his enjoyment of where he had fallen to – a twisted, dark place fueled by rage and hate and the desire to dominate and destroy.

Her delicate, beautiful hand moved onto his bare chest and a single nail slid down his torso, a pleasurable pain as the digit left the tiniest of cuts to seep blood onto his pale white skin. “Hello, Jason,” she purred, leaning close enough he could smell her perfume, feel her breath on him, examine her body by looking down the top of the flimsy black garment she was wearing if he had been able to drag his gaze away from her glowing chocolate eyes. He gasped as she ran that single nail around his navel. “I’ve missed you so much.”

This could not be real, and Jason knew it, but it felt so real, so perfect, so visceral, everything he had ever wanted and so much more. “Have you?” he managed to say, semi-coherently, but she appeared to have no trouble understanding him.

“Of course,” she said, smirking slightly. “You think you’re the only one who resents my brother’s place, his rule, his laws?” The last word was spat out, disgusted. “We belong together, Jason,” Jessica continued, her hand working beneath the covers pooled at the young man’s waist, “and you know it.”

“Yesssss,” he hissed, pleasure and victory rendering him nearly at a loss as she took him in her hand. To him, Jessica was everything – victory, vindication – proof that he was right, that he had never deserved the wrong done to him, proof he would take however necessary, when he was at last victorious. She would sit by his side as her brother and his family burned, holding his hand and smiling. Or as his slave. Either way, she would belong to him and watch her brother die.

A smirk spread across those perfect features as her movement caused his eyes to roll up towards the top of his head, nearly passing out. “Ooooh,” Jessica cooed, pursing those soft, luscious lips, “I can see you missed me too.” Her lips fluttered along his jawline before she bit his ear, nearly enough to draw blood. “Do you want me?” came her voice from beyond his field of vision, husky, dripping with power, seduction and need.

“Oh God, yes,” he whimpered, turning his head to kiss her forcefully.

She drew back, smirking again, faster than a viper, preventing him from achieving his desire. “Ah ah ah. Not yet, Jason.” She let go of him to yank the covers off of him and then straddled him directly, his burgeoning need pressed right against the hottest core of her being. When he lifted his hands to touch her, she nearly snarled and pinned them down with a strength he had no idea she possessed. “What would you do to touch me?”

“Anything,” he moaned, desperate for fulfillment.

Her hands guided his up to her, letting him caress her through the thin fabric of her only clothing, teasing him with a prize he did not yet have. Suddenly, Jason pulled his hands out of hers and tore the fabric, ripping it from her body and hungrily gazed upon his prize. She was perfect, his every fantasy, open, yielding to him, his.

His hands were pinned again, this time roughly above his head, her body laying atop his, smooth skin gliding against him, the warm, heavy pressure of her breasts on his chest, the warmth of their bodies building towards a climax that would overwhelm them both. As she slithered upright, her body glistened red with his blood, highlighting the firmness of her curves, the desirability of her perfection and he whimpered as a slight tightening in her thighs lifted her off of him. “What would you give me, Jason, to have me?”

“Anything,” he cried, unable to move, unable to breathe, thinking of nothing but her, what he was so close to having….

“How about everything?” she asked, her eyes blazing brighter.

“Yes!” he cried as she sank down onto him, warmth and heat and fire….

Jason Cusbetti awoke in a sweat, just the way he had gone to sleep.

Present – 13.5 years
Ultra vires
Tel’Domeduathea Compound, Ered Lithui, Dominion of Vanderhill, FSP

Orodreth Sîrfalas looked over the scene with a frown gracing his too beautiful features. Well, too beautiful for a human, anyway. It was the same as the other two had been. He returned his gaze to the elf standing next to him. “Same as the other two, then?”

The rhetorical question got a reply anyway. “Exactly the same, Agent. The new archmage was meditating, probably mindwalking, and then there was single scream with a short range burst of psychic energy. When we came in, well, as you can see…”

And see he could. The golden locks that had once streamed freely from the archmage’s head were burnt away, and the flesh itself was melted in a blast pattern that indicated that it started somewhere in the brain. Not to mention the nearly clear, grayish fluid pooled around the body that the Bronze Watch Agent-In-Charge knew was what was left of melted neural pathways. Scraps of charred cloth stuck to the melted flesh, and completely intact eyes stared out of the completely ruined body. It was a horrific sight, but the third time the Agent had seen it in two years. “Has it occurred to you that appointing a new Archmage of Tel’Domeduathea is possibly not the safest job for anyone? The Council should not have any trouble running things until we can figure out what is going on.”

The councilmember chuckled harshly. “That’s already been decided. Also, mindwalking has been declared off limits until the situation is resolved.”

Orodreth nodded and ran his gaze over the scene. The team’s four member Slayer unit was stationed around the perimeter, looking tense, as a non-physical enemy was not something they dealt well with. If you could not shoot or stab it, they tended to be uncomfortable, though the presence of one half of his Mage unit backing them up was keeping them from fingering their weapons. The second mage, his telepath, and his medic, along with the EI, were all investigating the body of the third Tel’Domeduathea Archmage to die in the same fashion in less than two years, hoping against hope there would be some sort of useful evidence on this one.

Sighing, the elf leaned against the wall. This was hardly the only case they were working, but it was one of their most baffling. He removed the odd white hat that was part of his uniform and briefly considered why the Minister had decided that the Bronze Watch field agents had to wear such an absurd uniform. The white hat and trench coat were impossible to keep clean in field situations, even made from nanofabrics, though the unpowered body armor kept all but the most difficult things from bothering them overly much. In part, Orodreth concluded that Cortana had chosen the uniform as a contrast to the things they fought regularly, that tended to favor darkness and shadow. And as ridiculous as the outfit might seem, no one laughed when the ‘White Hats’ arrived.

Mostly, they just tended to run away.

And that, Orodreth could live with.

The mage who had been investigating the body, who was clearly not an entirely pure human, given the slitted pupils in her eyes, approached her team leader. “Nothing useful, boss. Same as the other two. The energy burst that slagged the body and the one that melted the brain seem to have happened at the exact same time.”

Orodreth nodded sadly. While he had never met the two previous Archmages to die in this horrific fashion, this one he had met. The whole team had, as this Archmage had been the Council representative during the previous two deaths. The telepath stepped up as well, followed by the other two. “The only difference I noticed was the psychic residue is stronger, meaning we either got here faster or the burst was more powerful.”

The EI tilted his head to the side. “We arrived approximately twenty-three minutes earlier, relative to the time of death, than we did before.”

The telepath shook her head. “Not enough difference. Reading the residue, I’d say that the Archmage fought back a little harder and then the breakthrough was slightly more powerful.”

Shrugging, the team leader looked around. “I’m not sure what else we can do here.” He looked calmly at the council representative. “We’ll do what we can, but as you know…”

The elf nodded to the White Hat. “If we discover anything, we’ll let you know, Agent.”

Orodreth laughed darkly. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you to be careful?”

Silvery hair flickered about her shoulders. “Definitely not.”

They say that love often passes in a second
And you never can catch it up
So I'm hanging on to you as though eternity beckoned
But it's clear that the match is rough

--Pete Townshend, A Little is Enough

Nadia's (http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f222/ganjmahal/nadia01.jpg?t=1235363132) breath comes in short, ragged bursts, punctuated by the small clouds of rising steam that heralded winter's approach. It was cold but not bitterly so: the area had seen its first snowfall but it was still only mid-October. She and Second Lieutenant Roland Krais (http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f222/ganjmahal/victor2.jpg) were about halfway down the southern face of the Bor'Ais mountain range in the Illikami province of Arda's northern expanse, about half a kilometer north of camp.

Nadia pushes her brows together and looks over her shoulder to Krais, steadying herself against a rock momentarily to regain her balance. She begins to wonder whether she'll make it before he does, which is something that didn't happen often. Krais was in good enough shape, but it was still something of a surprise. As she looks up at him he grasps at her swiftly and wraps a hand around her shoulder knots, restraining her by pulling them taut. Krais, not one one to let his companion get too far ahead of him, senses her tension and quickens his pace, bringing himself to finish as she does.

Krais was never one to make that much noise, but Nadia took every precaution under the circumstances: surely, her groaning crescendo could be heard at camp were it not for the wrapping of leather she wore in her mouth like a horse's bit. They used to hand them out to prisoners and undisciplined soldiers when regulations called for some kind of physical retribution: traditionally troublemakers were whipped but in modern times the army had come to prefer simple beatings. Since she had no intention of receiving one, Nadia elected instead to use the device to restrain herself to prevent discipline rather than to endure it.

Finally spent, Nadia spits out her brake and rolls over. Krais staggers back and collapses dramatically. Owing to Nadia's unique status as Arda's first (and so far only) female officer, there weren't yet any official fraternization rules on the books, but it was very likely the Talicid-controlled Military Court would come after the both of them hammer and tong had they any idea what was going on here. Her records were clean as a whistle and she had every intention of keeping them that way, but anyone in the Military Court who honestly thought they could send her to the wilderness for a year or more at a time without this happening had another thing coming.

Krais continues to lie in silence save for his heaving breath; Nadia hastily gets her uniform in order and gathers her effects. In very short order she puts her boot to her comatose companion's backside. "I wouldn't fall asleep like that for reasons I hope I shouldn't have to explain. Get up and get your shit." She whacks him lightly with the butt of her rifle just to make sure. And then once more for good measure.

Krais draws up to his knees and lets out a deep exhale. Nadia turns and peers back towards camp for a moment before reaching into her field bag for a pair of binoculars. "That was gr--" starts Krais.

"Shh. I know. Just try to keep it to yourself," she answers, scrutinizing a pair of camp sentries on duty at the exit nearest to them. "You've made quite enough noise already."

"We alright?" Krais finishes buttoning his jacket and peers over Nadia's shoulder towards the camp.

"I think so." She checks her watch and looks back up again, this time to the east. "John and Dag should be here any minute." She hikes her chin towards him. "Get that flashlight on and make your way up there," she gestures to some rocks above them. "I think they're closer to it than we are but in case it is over here somewhere, I don't want them to think we haven't looked around."

Krais quickly complies, and Nadia ducks under some brush and heads in the other direction. After a moment of waiting in silence, she can see a pair of lamps pop over a nearby ridge and soon after, their quiet conversation can be discerned. She slips out of the brush just before they reach her; close enough to startle, but far enough to evade any potentially violent surprise. Nadia guessed that if one or both of them were Konrad's Vzj'Nakai, they may make a move but would likely recognize her in time to avoid physical harm. It was a gamble, but she had to know for sure whether she was being observed by the Angsiyan's proverbial eyes and ears.

"Shit!" yells one of the men, as they both recoil in surprise.

Lieutenant Roark raises a quieting hand and smiles slightly. "At ease, Sergeant Theodore," she answers. "What've you got there? Did you find it?" she nods toward the other man.

"Sure did," answers the Sergeant. The other man dutifully presents the basketball-sized module but says nothing. "It was just over there about 60 or 70 meters northeast of that ridge," he reports, turning to gesture at the ridge Nadia had been watching earlier.

"Excellent, I'm glad we got this over with quick. I'm done with this cold."

"Have you got a lamp, sir?" asks Theodore. With a few exceptions--like Roland Krais, who in the distance was still struggling up the rocks Nadia had directed him to--men under her often had the nervous habit of calling her "sir." Along with being a prominent media figure both on virtue of her unusual military career and a prior career as a concert pianist, Nadia belonged to one of Arda's Käserin* houses: a triumvirate of old Dunnish families who had traditionally ruled over the land in Arda's northwest. Her family had once ruled a unified Arda, but that had been some centuries ago.

"Yes, but I'd shut it off once I heard you." She winks. "You know, to keep you fine fellows on your toes. Krais!" She spins around, her coat tails arcing behind her. "Get down here, they've found it!"

The three of them can't quite make out what Krais has to say, but he's clearly not pleased as he reverses course back towards them. Nadia smiles to herself and crosses her arms as she watches Krais slowly labor towards them, by now doubly exhausted. She wasn't about to let the Second Lieutenant sit back and be the luckiest bastard in the whole 11th: she fully intended to make him work for it.

Nadia and her subordinates wait in silence for Krais, who makes his way back to them quickly, but by now is almost a hundred meters away from them and uphill on jagged terrain to boot.

"I knew we should've done this in field dress," heaves Krais when he arrives at last, not quite doubled over but obviously fatigued. "Look at this shit! My uniform's a mess."

"Life is so hard," deadpans Nadia. "But we got the damn thing. Let's get back to camp. Odina will be pleased that they've found it so quickly."

The three men salute and follow their Lieutenant as she leads them back to the camp. She relights her lamp and shines it ahead, waving a signal to the sentries as her party approaches.

A sentry strides out to meet them once they're a short distance from the gates. "We're back with the lost module," reports Nadia. "Radio Captain Odina and let him know we're back."

"Sir!" Shouts the sentry with a salute, then turns and strides to the radio hut. Nadia turns to her men and opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by the sentry, already sticking his head outside the hut. "He's already on his way. Almost here, I think he knew you were coming somehow."

Nadia and Krais exchange a quick glance. "Excellent," she answers simply; momentarily flustered but hiding it well. Odina and some aides round a corner in front of them and Nadia gestures to Theodore, who has taken the module from the Private accompanying them. The four of them come to attention and salute Odina in unison.

Odina salutes back and gives a signal to one of his aides. "Excellent work, I'm please you've found this thing so quickly." His aide takes the module from Sergeant Theodore and turns back towards the CP. "Turns out a lot of them have been going haywire like this but we were lucky it happened so close to the ground. Not many of the units have survived, so it's hard to tell what exactly went wrong." The Captain salutes to the two enlisted men. "You men are dismissed; Roark and Krais follow me to my office, if you would."

*****

The Talicids were one of Arda's most prominent families: traditional enemies of House Roark and the largest (and some argued the most powerful) of the three Dunnish Käserin houses. The Talicids had a strong military history spanning more than a few centuries and were known for championing an austere, soldierly political philosophy. They had been stereotyped by the other Ardan nobles as having insane tempers, but that attribute was not shared by all on virtue of the family's size if nothing else. Headed by Oscar and Emily Talicid, they dominated Arda's Military Court and boasted a long string of prominent generals and politicians stretching back to the Fourth Age.

Marie Talicid (http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f222/ganjmahal/Characters/MarieTalicid.jpg) was not a part of the Talicid military legacy, but she was a key player in a family-owned alchemic venture called Taliton. Religion forbade the use of alchemy for the purposes of warfare: indeed, to accomplish such a task one would be doing Morgoth's work. Modern alchemy in Arda had evolved along a different track and was used heavily in medicine and construction. Marie was in charge of the microalchemy branch of Taliton's construction venture, and had been working on a new carbon fusion beam for some time now. The thought that was carbon, being readily available in the atmosphere, could be modified using alchemy to form a hardening agent within wood beams, effectively giving them a load-bearing capacity superior to most industrial steel alloys at half the cost or less.

News of Victor's death, however, had brought Marie to the Talicid villa on the southwest side of Daturias, not far from the city's Dunnish quarter. The main structures were an unusual mix of classic Dunnish and modern Rhûnish architecture. It had appeared in several popular Ardan films, and was widely acknowledged to be the most luxurious and expansive private estate in the city, surpassing the Roark and Edwali estates but just short of the Emperor's Serechav in the heart of the city.

Marie makes her way up a short, gently ascending concrete stairway as her private zipcraft takes off and flies away behind her. At the top of the stairs waits Emily Talicid (http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f222/ganjmahal/Characters/EmilyTalicid.jpg?t=1235363547), Marie's grandmother.

"Hey Mu," says Marie simply, pulling a bag off her shoulder and handing it to a waiting servant. "How's things?"

Emily leans forward to hug her granddaughter. "Very well, thank you. The house has been in an uproar since Victor left us, I'll hope your presence will be a calming one as usual. I'm not sure I can take much more of this!"

"Oh come now, grandmother: it can't be that bad."

Emily smiles. "I exaggerate, of course. It's good to have you here; now we can really lay down some plans for our House to prosper over the coming years, no?"

Marie pushes her eyebrows together. "Yes, of course. I have reason to believe Konrad is reasonably impressed with our efforts through Taliton. He's invested in it considerably."

Emily nods. "Yes, we've noticed. I think you made an impression on him when he sat in on the Fröneg symposium last year. But we've been over that."

Marie laughs a bit. "Don't I know it, you've been crowing about that presentation ever since I gave it. I must say I really don't know what you're on about."

The Talicid matron shoots her granddaughter a sideways glance and gently pinches her arm. "Don't be so modest, it was great! I really think it's done nothing but good things for us. We're thinking about going public with that branch of Taliton, maybe splitting it off into a new venture of its own. Belfour-Roark still has the lion's share of the macroalchemy research and production."

Marie rolls her eyes. "I've told Erich to restructure that branch a dozen times but he never listens," her tone raises, "it's almost like he wants the whole damn thing to go right on dow--"

"I know, I know. You don't need to tell me. Oscar and I have been on him for weeks now. We keep losing investors because they're too chickenshit to see that Aralon will soon recoup its costs, but we still have to pick up the slack in the meantime which is troublesome. We told these cowards at the outset not to expect a return for two or three years, but the lot of them seemed determined to bail out after no more than a year and a half."

Marie shakes her head. "I really don't like that PR firm we hired. I've seen some ridiculous articles about us in the private media ever since they came along. I really think we should throw those horses' asses out on the street where they belong."

Emily grins. "Well, if things go the way we want them to, we won't need such silly services anymore. Come, Pop-pop and I have much to tell you. I think you'll be more than pleased with our plans."

*Dunnish: "Kingly"

The pen scratched across the page, its surface worn down to one side, to accommodate the writer’s hand. He had been writing, on and off for a few weeks now. The document, a long, eloquent but disorganized manuscript. The areas that covered the early part of his life were confused. He had forgotten so much of his early life, that his memories contradicted themselves. He didn’t remember his birth name, any more. There were many other things he didn’t recall either, of course, but that was the one, he had to admit, that vexed him most.

Herumor took the sheet of paper he’d been writing, lifted it, and briefly attempted to sort it into the correct pile.
____

The tunnels were freezing, Martin decided, and that made him very unhappy. Unhappy enough that if he caught these troublemakers he’d not really be looking for an explanation, so much as a reason to shoot them.

He was surprised just how much there was down here; they had passed under a number of buildings he knew, the thumping rumble of factories was audible in many places. Some of the walls of the tunnels were simply ply-board, where basements had been built by exploiting existing spaces. Frequently, steel and concrete pillars intruded, where they’d been sunk right through the catacombs to support building work far above. He counted them, it was almost like being in a forest of them! There were fulgurates of concrete in some areas, as the route went down, which to his inexpert eyes, suggested that the beams of metal they surrounded had been ploughed into holes in the earth, and then filled in; clearly someone had recently dug parts of these tunnels.

Always he and his group kept a little way behind their targets, following them. They’d dropped their tool bags in the disturbingly dangerous looking area – it had lamps set up with wires crudely clamped onto an open plate at the back; these rebels were insane – behind the transformer, and headed off at a stooped, loping pace to avoid the cobwebs that dominated the top of the corridor. Martin’s team did the same, taking their weapons and holding them at the ready; one never knew when the suspects might lay an ambush, after all.

At length, they came upon a doorway, clearly set new, between an arch of bricks and breeze-blocks recovered from the rubble of old buildings that filled the chamber. It was locked, and clearly these people were no fools. Martin and the rest of the squad paused, while Romin, carrying a compact version of the standard rifle, slowly shuffled forward.

It’d be comical to watch him move from one knee to the other like that, if it weren’t for the distinct possibility that someone might be looking through the lens they could see high on the door. That necessitated keeping down as much as possible, and skirting around out of its likely field of view. Romin knelt by the door, and took a compact stethoscope from his pocket, placing it to the door, and nodding.

Only he could hear what was going on, for, although the device could be linked up to their radios, he hadn’t, for all they knew, the rebels had some kind of detection equipment going. Instead, a cable snaked from it, to a tape recorder. That would gather all the evidence they’d need to prosecute anyone caught speaking.

Listening in, Romin could hear quite clearly into the room beyond, where only a single voice was talking.
____

Martin watched the coastline. He’d not actually seen the edge of the city before. It was beyond impressive. Grey and red and silver walls rose up vertically behind him like crenellated cliffs, aircraft and helicopters moving about them like overgrown seagulls. There was surely no city to compare to its teeming billions! It was hard to imagine that when the Regent had taken control of the city it had been reduced to vertical rubble. That rubble still remained in places, the great mountain of debris formed the southern spur of the island, a ridge of broken concrete and rusting steel, where wastrels congregated.

Now he wore the white-banded crested beret of a sergeant in the protectors, he had a job to do here. Here where great cranes hefted entire super-tankers into the air to move them to internal, high-air docks, the needs of billions of people packed into so tight a space meant that the coastline was insufficient. Martin didn’t want to know about the engineering behind these things, the massive suspension frames bristling with taut steel wires were intimidating and tough looking, but as a few accidents had attested, they were not perfect.

Here, the Regent stood out, looking to the east, and so his protectors had been assigned to clear the dock.

On the horizon, a dark mass of cloud reared like a twin to the island, the front of Hurricane Celia, which could already be felt. Martin had absolutely no clue precisely how what was to come worked, but he had seen the suited meteorologists pinning their diagrams and charts down, and talking with the Regent, clad in white ceremonial robe that billowed in the pre-surge winds.

As he looked out at the oncoming storm, he thought back on the events a few days that had granted him this posting, with such an unparalleled view.

The voices inside had been some kind of heretical prayers. It wasn’t the success of his mission that had gotten him transferred, though, but rather, the action he’d taken afterwards.
____

The sound of the sacrifice inside had been beyond what he could stand. The door shot inwards as a pair of boots struck it, the group stepping into a firing position. Romin took aim at the most obvious figure there, a tall, unnaturally graceful woman, holding a knife buried in a man’s chest over a scene of carnage. The figure staggered backward a step, but didn’t seem harmed. Fortunately, Romin remembered his training, and the next round shot straight through the elf’s skull. The Regent had, in the report, commented that this was a ‘Dark Eldar’ but the term was lost on Martin.

The congregation gathered around panicked, some had surged toward the door, and the group fired into the crowd, gunshots crumpling men and women to the floor. The carnage was immense, but their training took over, heavy stamps forward, rapid, single shots. A hulking orc armed with a heavy automatic rifle returned fire, more of the worshippers being felled by him than the intruders.

A neat shot through his shoulder stopped his fire, and a few more killed him, dropping a man in the way.

Martin had dreaded his report, but what they’d recorded earlier, along with the few surviving cultists, was enough for the Regent to be pleased, despite his fear. Indeed, when the regent played the tape, it was him who seemed afraid. The little room, dominated by a yellowing image of the Regent’s old appearance, the portrait not replaced yet, where the Regent had come to debrief them, echoed with the dead elf-woman’s words.

“Hear the prophecy of the Seer of Dawn! ‘The First shall return, to consume all about us and lay it into dust. Alone His chosen shall be spared’” the Regent had trembled, Martin wasn’t sure if it was in fear or rage, and pressed the stop button, ordering one of his Castellans to take it immediately to his innermost chambers.

He had ordered the leader’s body recovered, and then congratulated them. They had not stopped whatever ritual was involved, but he said that their intervention had been appropriate. His face seeming slightly drawn in the wan light of a solitary lightbulb.
____

Now, however, the Regent looked fearless and superhuman. Martin had seen this on television before, and not really believed it. Popular theory had it that this was really done with aircraft.

But the power he felt from merely being near the Regent now was all too real. He put out his arms, and shouted words into the wind that the observers could not hear. With terrifying speed, the still face of the storm seemed to change.
____

Herumor could not accomplish it alone, of course, and many storms had wracked the island in the early days of his rule. So he had trained others, all those he could find with any talent to hone, to aid him. Thousands joined in the song of sorcery, demanding to utter, and rendingly painful to both him and his thousands of aids in its casting.

Even that could not break such a storm alone; a clique of meteorologists were always on hand to observe storm fronts, their skill determined how and where the spell was used to nullify the storm and parts of the weather systems propelling it.

The dramatic effect of clouds falling into chill precipitation upon the horizon was only part of it, the storm would re-form as high speed winds, but thanks to the right contortion of the storm-front, the whirlwind would miss the island and batter the stony blue coast beyond.

Herumor stood upon the pier, arms outstretched, utterly focussed, the burning weariness of his arms and legs growing minute upon minute into a barely tolerable ache that seemed to melt the bones of his appropriated body, not normally subject to tiredness at all.

At long last, after hours, it was done, and he fell forwards into a blissful sleep, seized by the Castellans beside him, their armoured gauntlets lifting him, and passing his somnolent body to blue mantled nurses.

Dreams of green fields and barren slopes haunted him, of the great fortresses he had built at times, and then broken as he fled. He seemed to step in a moment from the verdant grasslands and clean houses of his youth, to the palace of corpses built on the site of the Cathedral of the Watchful One, built by the Easterling.

He dreamt of the way he had dealt with the recent captives too, and that brought him pleasure. The thought of the confessions he had wrenched from them with duplicity, offering them a seemingly quick death for themselves and their companions, by his own hand. When he had actually shot them, the looks of betrayal and horror on their faces were priceless. He had explained precisely what the bullets he used would do to them, with a macabre glee; “You have dared sedition against me, and so you shall repay it with service. You will soon become Castellans,” he said again in his dreams, and he watched, as they looked upon his guardians and saw for the first time, beyond their shining armour and white robes. Their screams of horror were delightful.

Dreams of the past gave way into an exhausted fugue, where he lay awake, staring at the drab gray ceiling of this room in his sanctuary, too exhausted to move, but able to think. Soon, the new Castellans would tell him everything they knew once more, but what they had already confessed, along with the recording, was disturbing enough.

If their beliefs, stunted and unrealistic as they were, referred to what he thought they did, then he would have to act quickly. These rebels simply had to be wiped out, swiftly and certainly, without the populace learning of their treason. If a crisis were coming, then such a fifth column simply could not be permitted, his rule was unstable enough without their kind.

Perhaps there was a way to do just that. The Castellans standing at the foot of his bed stirred, and his nurse hastened to his side, as he managed, just for a moment, to smile.

Nothing is planned, by the sea and the sand
--The Who, Sea and Sand


Lieutenant Roark stares ahead in shock, unable to believe what she's being told. She opens her mouth to speak but abandons the effort after two or three attempts. She turns to her companion and they exchange a shocked glance as Marshal Kordiyeh (http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f222/ganjmahal/ezerhan.jpg) continues. "They want to ship you out tomorrow morning so I would gather your effects presently and be ready to depart at 0600 tomorrow."

Captain Odina (http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f222/ganjmahal/BlarikOdina.jpg) slides his jaw to one side and nods approvingly, compulsively clicking his pen. "You'll be put up at the Gerhardt for ten days starting just before the coronation."

"The Gerhardt..." Nadia manages feebly. She was no stranger to luxury, being a Roark heiress, but that the military would foot the bill to send her there was borderline outrageous: traditionally leave consisted of a stay in some shit-hole designed to make you miss the Northwatch. Few Guardis officers on active duty had the spare time to travel very much farther south than Ali'Staan before being called back, and as such the Guardis ranks were populated largely by Dunnish and Easterling men, while the Pax officers corps were much more diverse in their makeup. What little time off Nadia was able to negotiate likely had a lot to do with the prestige of her house, and she could only wonder if this decision to send her to Daturias for Konrad's coronation wasn't just more of the same.

"Yes, the Gerhardt," answers the Marshal with a grin. "You and Lieutenant Krais here will be representing the Guardis 11th at the Angsiyan's coronation next week." He pauses to let it sink in for a moment. "Front stage."

Krais furrows a brow. "Front stage? I thought front stage was for Marshals only. Why us?"

Odina shakes his head. "Not this time, apparently. Konrad wants to show solidarity with his junior officers. In the past he has been an open critic of the military court; he believes it's a corrupt and elitist institution."

"So... what, they just picked names out of a hat?" asks Nadia in a flat tone.

Kordiyeh chuckles. "I see what you're getting at, Miss Roark. You're right--the Serechav did ask for you specifically: Krais was selected by Odina and myself," Kordiyeh explains, gesturing to Krais at mention of his name. "Your unit has one of the highest bodycounts in the entire division. You've given the MI a lot of quality men and I would doubt that has escaped Konrad's notice."

"I.." she blinks, speechless once again. "I don't know what to say."

Odina grins and swivels his chair back to face the two Lieutenants. "Don't worry about it, you don't have to say anything. Just thank the Angsiyan when you meet him," answers Odina with a wink. He reaches across his desk and shakes Roark and Krais' hands in turn. "Congratulations."

"Thank you sir," offer the Lieutenants, not exactly in unison but close.

"G'wan," commands Odina, hiking his chin to the door. "0600 is only a few hours away. Go get some rest."

Roark and Krais stand quickly and don their berets. "Yessir," offers Roark, turning on her heels to make her exit.

"Oh, just one more thing..." adds Odina after a calculated silence. The two Lieutenants turn around to observe Odina wearing a shit-eating grin. "Seperate rooms."

**********

"We all seem to be on the same page, then," Narotama Rais declares. "I suppose the next order of business is to square away our finances and get the political shit out of the way."

Izo Otani nods thoughtfully. He never really cared for Rais, but the man was a diligent organizer: Otani and his companion Annan Liu were glad to secure his signature. "It won't be a walk through the orchid," asserts Otani, shifting forward in his seat and clasping his hands together loosely. "But whatever we do we should do it soon. I don't know if the Provinces will stay this prosperous for long if we don't. Unification with the West has been a one-way street for us and I think a major crash might be around the corner."

Rais cracks his neck. "I don't share your pessimism but I do agree that action should be taken soon. Public support could ebb back to Konrad if he turns out to be an effective ruler. Right now the people are on our side. Konrad probably knows this, and I would wager he's had more than one conversation with his father on the subject before his passing. I think it's probably fair to expect a continuation of Victor's policies."

"But he's not Victor," grumbles Liu. "The Articles specifically refer to a unifaction of the east under Victor. Legally his death voided our obligations to the West."

Rais' countenance takes on an annoyed look. "You think they don't know that?" Liu shrugs in response. "I can already see signs that Konrad is trying to placate the East. Just yesterday he put the Tenzings in charge of his coronation, and he's been seen in public with old man Tenzing's granddaughter. He's sending strong signals to the east already. He will likely marry Nyima and try to galvanize popular support in the east."

Otani looks surprised. "I hadn't heard that about Nyima, but I had thought the same thing when I read that the Tenzings were running coronation. Those are some pretty strong signals."

"All the more reason to move quickly then. I don't think it's wise to interfere with coronation under these circumstances, Konrad has already got us beat there. If we did something, it would undermine our credibility with the Provinces," answers Liu. "I think we should sit tight for a week or two and send this charter around to the other provinces. Then we can introduce it to Parliament once Konrad thinks everything is humming along smoothly."

"I agree," declares Rais. "I think it's important we take the high road for as long as possible. I don't think I mind firing the first shot under the circumstances, but if we can get Xhan and Upper Higari on board beforehand that would be ideal. I think they'll follow us but I'd rather they be in on it from the start than find out from the outside."

"What about the Nistaani?" asks Otani. "I have a lot of friends in that family. Good men."

Rais nods. "Yes, they ought to be another important ally as well. See if you can get some of them on board, we could use their offices in the south to our advantage. I'll make the trip down to Xhan in a couple of days with a copy of the charter. Liu, can you handle Upper Higari?"

"I think so. I don't have many contacts out there but the ones I do might be able to help us out a lot. The city magistrate at Arbolum is an old friend of mine."

"Arbolum will be pretty important. Can you go there first?"

"Sure."

Arkhan Edebali and his companion stand in the doorway to the office of Tai Kurusagi, the provincial whip for Arda's eastern provinces. "So what's this all about?" asks Edebali as he erases the flag Sergeant Alaric had placed in his console. "And why didn't you just use the radio?"

"My contact doesn't know I'm a Vzj'Nakai," answers Alaric. "Besides, it's not an urgent tip. He told me that this guy is planning something; maybe even in league with those troublemakers in the far east. Just wanted some help with the search is all. See if there's anything to this."

"He is their whip, after all," deadpans Edebali, picking up a snow globe and examining it. "It would make sense."

Alaric nods and moves to the desk, where he flings the drawers open and sifts through them while waiting for Kurusagi's computer to boot up. Edebali moves to the filing cabinets and starts at the top as a third man walks in. "What's all this, then?"

"Oh, hey James," says Arkhan with a glance over his shoulder. "We're just sifting through this guy's shit. Alaric says he might be a malcontent."

Master Sergeant James Baldwin groans. "Fuck that, that's a job for the political regulars."

"I got news for ya bud, we are political officers. Now more than ever." Alaric continues rummaging.

"Do we have any idea where this guy is right now?" asks Baldwin, removing is coat. "Why don't we just find him and work him over?"

"Konrad doesn't want any violence, remember? Coronation's tomorrow. It'd look bad if the Emperor's closest men were already out beating people up."

Baldwin tugs the corners of his mouth downward and raises his eyebrows in the facial expressive equivalent of 'good point' or 'not a bad idea.' "True enough." He tosses a small square device on Kurusagi's desk. "Comp's askin for a password."

"Varda's ****! I hate this shit" exclaims Alaric.

"Pfft, like it's hard," retorts Edebali. "Would you rather have a Heavy Weekend?*"

Alaric and Baldwin share a laugh, but Alaric's expression changes after he plugs in the device and nothing happens. It was supposed to crack into Kurusagi's system, but it looked like he had some kind of lock on it, which was a bad sign. All computers manufactured in Arda were required to have specialized hardware interfaces that could work with state law enforcement agencies. Citizens were free of course to encrypt their information to keep it secret from each other, but care had been taken to ensure that various law enforcement agencies could get the information they need. "He's got a block," announces Alaric, hastily unplugging the machine before it can erase its hard drive.

"Well there you go," says Baldwin with a grin. "That ought to be enough right there, eh? Let's haul the machine out and ask this guy a few questions."

Edebali and Alaric exchange a glance. "I don't know if that's a good idea," answers Edebali thoughtfully. "It's enough for right now to know that he's trying to hide something from us. We leave the office intact and report to Konrad to see what he wants done. He specifically requested we refrain from arrest under these circumstances. We'll have plenty of time to crack that machine after coronation: we can come back later."

Alaric begins putting Kurusagi's effects back where he found them, carefully removes Baldwin's data scope, and hands it back to him. "In the meantime we can check out a few more offices and see if this is a widespread thing. I don't think the Albeius has performed any such scans since March, and this block wasn't in place when they did."

Edebali closes the file cabinet and turns, thoughtfully tapping on his chin with his forefinger. "I'd be willing to bet there's a hard copy of this block program floating around somwehere. A savvy MP can without much trouble figure out roughly when the sweeps will be: I bet he removes it until the sweep and then re-installs it afterward."

Balwin laughs. "Right, but instead of looking for the damn thing ourselves we could just conduct a surprise sweep and see if it turns up. If it could block the data scope, it might be able to hide itself from regular system checks. If it doesn't turn up, we'll know he doesn't have to reinstall and can save ourselves what will surely be a tedious and possibly unproductive search. If it does show up, so much the better."

Alaric stands up. "Good plan. We'll head back to the Serechav and report, unless either of you have business to finish up somewhere else."

"This was my last target," confirms Edebali. "We thought it'd be busy out here today but there's barely a soul in this building. Outside, sure, but we've got other agents out there already. I can probably head back now. What about you, James?"

"I still got a couple places left to hit. Starting at 10 I'm in charge of the Haradrim quarter."

"Good luck with that," says Alaric as he moves to the door. "Come on Arkhan, lets go tell the Angsiyan what we've found."


********

The Talicid Estate was in an uproar. That the Tenzing family was coordinating the coronation ceremony was not welcome news to Emily Talicid, who had spent much of her day pacing anxiously on the patio, much to the (well hidden) irritation of her household servants. "Doesn't anyone give a shit about tradition anymore?" she hisses. "Konrad gave every hint that he was seeking to revive the glory of the Käserin houses: Dunland suffered the most during the Reclamation, doesn't he know that?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," offers her husband. "I think he's just throwing a bone to the east. Sure, he didn't tell us about this beforehand but that's probably part of his game. He's probably counting on your reaction to help him politically."

"My reaction?" Emily stops pacing and crosses her arms. "What do you mean?"

Oscar pulls off his reading glasses and folds his paper with a sigh, dropping it on the floor next to his chair as he stands up. "What I mean is he probably wants the east to see how pissed off this makes us. And it might be a good idea to oblige."

Emily blinks and pulls her head back slightly in surprise. "Oblige? Why? Wouldn't that just make it worse?"

"If we register our malcontent in public, it will show the east that the Angsiyan is putting their concerns before ours. I don't know how serious this business is out east, but it might be a good idea to just play along for now and do the angry thing. If we just say 'okay,' and roll over, the east will get the impression that we're all just trying to play them for fools. If we make a big deal out of it, they're more likely to take Konrad's move for what it is."

"And just what is it?" asks Emily, still skeptical.

"Like I said, he's throwing them a bone. Let him do it, it'll keep the east happy."

Emily rubs her temples. "But it's more than that--he's been seen in the company of that Tenzing witch Nyima," she snaps her fingers, "You know the one I mean, that girl who sang at Victor's birthday last year."

Oscar nods. "True, that part could be more of a problem. I've no idea how he latched onto her that quickly--but that might actually work out in our favor too."

Emily lowers her hand and looks up at Oscar. "This ought to be good."

"Well, it's pretty unusual for the Angsiyan to begin courting a lady before he's been crowned. If he's already married that's one thing, but this is supposed to be a period of mourning for him. If he's being seen with Nyima before coronation, it's probably just another signal to the east because he knows the western conservatives won't like it. He probably just wants to fuck her a few times and be done with it. Still, we might not find out until we see what kind of role he has planned for her at coronation. If she's up on the dias with him, we might be screwed. If he keeps her out of sight, our chances are probably better."

"But how's he supposed to meet Marie?!" exclaims Emily. "If he's traipsing around with this eastern witch what inclination would he have to see her?"

Oscar shrugs. "There's the rub. Gan Tenzing is a shrewd man; for all we know this all might be his idea. But if Nyima strikes out with the Angsiyan, he's sunk. The Tenzing family doesn't have very many daughters to offer; we've got plenty and he knows it. He just made the first move is all. That doesn't mean he'll win the game."

"I hope you're right." Emily points at her husband and shifts her weight. "Because our next Empress better goddamn well be Dunnish."


* "Heavy Weekend:" Vzj'Nakai slang for torture training.

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