NationStates Jolt Archive

Aladima IV was a large planet, but not a particularly dense one. Less a planet than a strange mega structure, which somehow had a liquid, water, interior, and continents floating atop it. Overall, this gave a surface gravity of a touch under terran norms. This was, ironically, one of the least strange properties of it. On the surface, and in the nearby space, most technologies selectively failed.

A city constructed by unknown aliens some millennia ago, was inhabited by the city’s elite. In this holy city, dwelt the Princesses, and their Handmaidens, their enforcers. A semi-feudal, semi-theocratic system existed, where Democracy was held sacred.

In temples

In the temple-city, the Constructors’ technology existed. Machines for creating princesses, cloning devices, essentially, and a water supply that contained agents for countering the effects of consuming the local diet, which induced in the population, a state of extreme docility. There were many other machines, but the city’s inhabitants understood none of them. They simply knew that there was a difference between them and the peasants, and that leaving the city for too long, turns one into such a peasant.

As such, the handmaidens were regularly rotated back to the holy city in order to keep them from turning soft. This was a relative thing, of course. As the very idea of drawing blood would make the most hardened Handmaiden enforcer blanch, and possibly cry.

The Princesses were universally young and attractive – cloned from a few lines, and shuffled off to an unknown (and likely sinister) fate when they reached a certain age, replaced with a flash-learnt brand new copy of their own lineage. Handmaidens were recruited at eighteen, and shuffled off to peasantry when they hit thirty-five. Peasants of course, were widely deemed revolting by the Princesses, though few had ever actually seen a peasant.

And so, we join Princess Elai (Nine thousand thirty six), in her garden in the holy city…


Elai frowned as one of her handmaidens, whose name she forgot, hurt her a little, cleaning a nail, but magnanimously decided to ignore this transgression, for she was a paragon of princess-al virtues, including mercy. After all, to be unquestioned mistress of ten thousand people, you had to have mercy, didn’t you?

Of course you did, the books were filled with cruel tyrants being deposed by men – not peasant men, mind, the other kind, with armour, and shiny sticks. Kuh-nik-uts, she thought them called – and it stood to reason, that as no such heroes had appeared recently, the regime run by her and her sisters was just, fair, and most importantly, democratic!

“So, Áthlaé,” she said, turning her attention to another of her handmaidens, an old woman of about twenty-nine. Not really old, but as far as Elai knew, áthlaé was ancient. Handmaidens usually ‘retired’ their own superiors in the middle of the night around thirty to thirty five, before a princess would banish them for being ‘ugly’ – princesses could only stand to have beautiful things around them, after all, how else would anyone respect them were it not for beauty? For that matter… why?

“Yes my lady?” Áthlaé said. She was a strong but rather lithe woman with russet hair. She was the kind of handmaiden who controlled her mistress quite effectively, and a ‘veteran’ of a hundred missions to punish serfs.

“You were saying there was a rebellion of the serfs?” Elai inquired, biting into a peeled grape held by one of her other servants. There were two kinds of handmaidens, which were, in theory interchangeable. Áthlaé’s type, were the ‘military’ of Aladima, They were the majority, each princess had about six hundred. The others were servants of a more conventional type. The leaders among their kind, like Áthlaé, were often those with the most ambitious streaks among both sets. Handmaidens like Áthlaé, who often led them by the nose through life, controlled about a third of the princesses of Aladima.

“Yes my lady,” she said, “they’re saying that the levies are too harsh on them, the usual,” it was common enough, even with the docile population of Aladima IV, for the peasantry to grow malcontent with the burden of ‘taxation’ (which is to say, raids by handmaidens, in effect) that came to a total of over half of their produce, to support a tenth of the population in the comparative luxury of handmaidens, and the princesses of Aladima in their even greater luxury.

“Perhaps we could be a little more lenient with them,” Elai said, for she still dwelt upon ‘mercy.’

“I don’t think that would be wise, my lady,” Áthlaé said, “if you give them a leaf, they would soon want a tree. Best to increase our levies for the next harvest, teach them how inconsequential their wishes are.”

“I suppose so,” Elai frowned, “Very well Áthlaé, I charge you with going and teaching our peasants a lesson. Give them a good taste of democracy…”

Fleet Briefing Hall, onboard the Battlecarrier Cascea's Grace, Myth Aivar's Flagship, in orbit around an uncharted jungle world

The Fleet Briefing Hall was arranged in an amphitheatre style, with rows of seats rising away from a central platform. Suspended above that platform was a massive holotank which mirrored the smaller holotank that sat upon the platform.

Standing on the platform, pointer in hand, was Lord Myth Aivar. The lights were dim to the point of near total darkness, and only the faint light from the holotanks lit Myth's face. This was significant because he wasn't wearing his helmet.

The pointer flicked out to indicate a single star, then tapped twice. The starscape that had previously filled the holotank was replaced by a view of a solar system.

The pointer then came to settle on a single planet and tapped it, highlighting that planet in a golden aura.

"Gentlemen," the term was understood to be gender-inclusive, "this is Aladima IV. Statistics and whatnot should be accessible via your datapads."

Myth's measured, even footsteps echoed throughout the hall as he circle the holotank. Then he tapped the planet's icon twice and a poor approximation of a planetary map filled the tank.

"As you can see, we don't have a particularly detailed survey available -- this map was derived from a wide-circle scan done by one of our scouts and delivered via message torpedo before he moved in to take a closer look. He never got a better look."

Again the circling, the stop.

"Apparently, upon nearing the planet his craft systems began to fail, beginning with the scanners and working downwards by level of complexity. However, from the fragments of information that we do have, I have been able to positively match this planet with a number of points of interest."

The pointer flashed, drawing a square in the holotank, and within that square, a portrait of a robed man appeared.


"This is Kereny Tiras. He was one of the foremost of Jedi Artificers, prior to his disappearance. As can only be expected, some stories have filtered back about him, one of which tells strange tales of a planet that wasn't a planet, where blasters failed, ships became hulks, and technology of all forms simply...stopped. Note the similarities?"

Myth drew another square, this one being filled by an image of an ornate amulet, a fat, glowing blue-tinted gem set in a cage of metals.

"This is Kereny's Lens. It was Artificer Tiras' masterwork, an artifact which served to focus visions granted by the Force. The Lens was lost with its creator...until now."

The pointer flickered and the two images appeared, leaving the planetary map unsullied. Then Myth outlined a single area.

"This area here bears the tones that we would identify with a city. This will, likely enough, be our eventual goal. However, I do not intend to land within this city. In fact, I do not intend to land at all."

Myth was using both hands, now, manipulating the map in such a way as to show a specific area.

"We will be deploying infantry forces only -- I do not want to leave behind grounded vehicles. Similarly, we will deploying in expendable drop capsules from a fair distance. I do not want to risk the chance of our landers being stranded. We will then pursue the artifact, and upon its retrieval, we will give the signal for retrieval."

Myth cleared the map for a moment, then brought up a series of images. The pointer rested on the first.

"This is a Drop Box. It was designed to allow for deployment of supplies to forces in the field, but we will be using them for retrieval. They are designed to be deployable from orbit, then retrievable by our Valkyrie landers. Similar idea."

He tapped the image twice, and a simple animation began to play, detailing how the boxes were retrieved by a stylized lander -- a swooping motion that involved first a tractor beam, then magnetic grapnels, then finally clamps.

The point was that a lander could retrieve the boxes without actually landing. The lander then only had to make it a very short ways on its own power before it could be snatched by a tractor beam from one of the Battlecarriers.

Myth then tapped the image again, closing it. The pointed moved onto the next image in line, tapping it, causing it to fill most of the screen.

"I will not risk a significant force in this endeavour, and as such our deployment is limited in size to what we can fit within one drop box."

The pointer flicked, and the prior image, the words 'force composition,' were replaced by a series of headshots.

"I will lead a team comprised of myself, my companions, and five members of my personal guard, for a grand total of ten individuals. We will be equipped with field kit for two weeks and an emphasis on melee weapons."

Myth turned to look out over the host of silent faces, a faint smile on his lips.

"Gentlemen, we will be playing the majority of this by ear...so. The fleet will enter Hyperspace in approximately one hour. Get to it."

At which point Myth would exit the stage via the floor door and return to his quarters to prepare. He would begin by blindfolding himself and meditating, seeking to see without the use of his eyes.

Myth was of a species of nocturnal predators, something indicated by the pronounced nature of his incisors and diminished molars, indicative of a more carnivorous diet. However, the primary disadvantage of his heritage was his eyes.

While Myth had magnificent night vision, his eyes were extremely sensitive to light. Simple daylight could cause his vision to white out, rendering him effectively blind. Bright lights triggered a reflexive blindness as his optical nerves shut down.

Normally, he wore a helmet that artificially reduced the ambient light to levels that he could stand. However, if this technology-wrecking field did exist, and evidence stated that it did, that helmet would be less than useless.

Thus, it was best if he began accustoming himself to not using his eyes most of the time. Otherwise, he did not expect to be significantly inconvenienced.

He sat down and folded his legs, then began to let his thoughts clear, his breathing steady, his mind drift. Time would pass quickly, as he chose it to, and soon enough it would be time. Now, there were things enough that needed accomplishing.

Áthlaé sat back in the saddle of her barana-beast, a creature of burden with a name unfortunately similar to a terran fruit, native to Aladima IV, and one which was surprisingly tame, for such a large creature. They could carry three people easily on their backs, or pull a heavy wooden plough for a league without stopping. Hers only carried one passenger, however, for Áthlaé was in the cavalry. Of course, there wasn't such an organised thing on Aladima, but rather, handmaiden patrols frequently rode baranas, for the heavy, slow beasts were useful for taxation purpouses. While they could not move quickly (actually, they could, but good look trying to ride one as it did so) they could cover great distances with immensely heavy loads upon their backs.

Áthlaé fingered the whip that sat by the side of her saddle, hanging from a cord, with a certain practised indolence. She and her riders had several such weapons, but between them, had not a single blade, let alone anything more sophisticated. They occasionally used these whips, for peasants could sometimes get ideas about passive-resistance that simply couldn't be tolerated, nor sufficiently dissuaded by shouting. Áthlaé never minded when they did so, of course, she enjoyed taking out her annoyance on the hide of some shirker. It gave her a feeling of profound relaxation to pour her own concerns out on some poor fool's hide, they deserved it, after all. Áthlaé didn't get out of work, nor much say in what she did, official say at least, for Elai was pleasingly compliant to her wishes, like a peasant in more ways than most Princesses, even other Elais, of whom there were several at any time. Why should those wretches think they deserved better than her?

Ignorance was the only possible explanation. The ignorant arrogance of the peasant who thought he or she knew and deserved better than Áthlaé! Just thinking about it annoyed her. They'd pay a proper price, yes indeed.

It was easy enough to quash the rebellion, for the peasants of Aladima weren't like those in the more adventurous kind of princess's picture books, who might stand up to their betters, with violence and insolence. On the contrary, Aladimans were a docile breed, both as a product of chemistry and as the result of a stagnant society that infused every level with an ossification of status quite unbelievable to many outsiders. Long whips cracked over the heads of the indolent dossers, and many scurried back to their homes, and then, as the Handmaidens entered their homes, for few indeed were the doors on Aladima furnished with bolts, most of the village's population was chased out into the field or workshops where it belonged.

Áthlaé had her women search the little village and its peasants, some thirty or so remaining with the workers as they did so, showering blows down on them from the backs of their mounts. The remaining mounts were loaded with the village's supplies, taken from its meagre warehouses and homes, and Áthlaé singled out what she thought to be a village ringleader for more punishment. Leaving the rebellious serfs, they rode on, not on a road, for such things didn't exist in Alidia; the princesses never permitted serfs to travel, and a great - for a peasant, at any rate - bounty was placed on a serf who would dare to walk abroad.

As they rode, four wide and thirty deep, one of Áthlaé's riders a girl of eighteen years called Ariné, cried out in fear and astonishment as a column of fire blazed overhead. Neither sun nor one of the moons, nor a star from heaven, it was like nothing any of the riders knew.

The Handmaiden leader would have ignored it, and pressed on to the next village, if she had behaved as was proper for her class. But she didn't. Her curiosity was aroused, and Elai would, as usual, do as she was told, and take no punitive action. The column turned, and began urging their shambling and dozy mounts on toward where the column had disappeared.

The Holy City

Elai smiled a little at Akelten, a slightly older woman decorated in golden and silver clothes, including a tight bodice worn simply because such things appeared in the picture books, rather than for any practical reason - Akelten didn't even know the purpose of such garments, merely that they were beautiful and that princesses should be beautiful too.

"I hear you have a peasant revolt," Akelten four-seven-eight said, smiling a little.

"I hear you have one too," Elai said, she didn't know any such thing, but they were common, and Akelten blushed slightly, nodding. "This is true," she said, frowning. By Aladiman standards, this was cutting political engagement. Not that they didn't like to maul one another, but there was only so much one could do when one's reading comprehension was limited to being able to recognise the word 'democracy.'

"THREE!"

Cascea's Grace's boat bay officer was a beast of a man, short, stocky, barrel-chested. It was assumed that he manually shifted the landing craft into position. He probably could have.

"TWO!"

The drop brick was mounted on an electromagnetic ram. Normally, drop pods were deployed from a dedicated troop ship...except that the dedicated troopships hadn't been built yet. So. They had to make do.

"ONE!"

Myth, his eyes colored by a blindfold, calmly wrapped his hands around the restraints that anchored him to the drop bench. He didn't need eyes to see the discomfort on the faces of his companions..

"LAUNCH THE BASTARD!"

The drop brick was flung free of the Battlecarrier at some very fun velocities. This was awful unfun for the occupants, but necessary at this point.

Myth smiled grimly, feeling the vibrations of the craft transmitted into his very bones. There were various shrieks and whines about him, but he didn't blame anybody. He never blamed anybody.

The brick was slowed drastically by a series of parachutes and a repulsor field, thusly the touchdown was quite less than would have been expected.

The drop brick was a one-way transport medium, its repulsor field generator burning itself out on the way down. Upon impact, the walls of the brick dropped down to form the ramps. The restraints securing the occupants to the benches disengaged in the same action.

Myth Aivar rose to his feet, feeling the strange sunlight on his skin. It was slightly unpleasant, but not outright painful. Which was good. It wouldn't have been right, for some strange reason, if he'd had to go around with his face covered.

He checked over the rest of his party, ensuring that they were unharmed. Not because he doubted that they were, but because image of his concern was a morale booster.

After a few minutes, he had his party assembled and the thermal charge in the brick was armed. Scant moments later, the brick was mere scrap and Myth was getting his bearings straight.

Myth had his cane in his left hand but was otherwise unworried. The five Armsmen from his personal guard had their hands on the batons they carried at their belts. Of course, their primary weapons were the double-bladed vibroswords that they carried on their backs, but the batons were much faster to get into operation.

Myth tilted his next slightly to the side and let his mind clear. It was a lot like listening very carefully for some very faint sound. He let his surroundings talk to him. Everything had something to say, you see, one just had to listen.

"That way," he pointed.

Áthlaé made the sign of democracy as she rode closer at the typical shambling pace of the barana-beasts. The sign of democracy consisted of holding one hand horizontally to the chest, flat with the palm facing the one who made the gesture, and the left hand coming up, thumb pressed against the underside of the two forefingers , and moving it down behind the first hand symbolically.

She made the sign because of the pall of smoke that hung over a valley she couldn’t yet see over a small hillock. She wasn’t too familiar with any fires but camp fires, but she knew that this could hardly be good. She didn’t know why or how the landing craft had compressed the air into plasma and immolated the dry taska reeds that lined the inland slopes of these costal valleys at this time of year. They burn readily and are often used by peasants as fuel, though gathering them is sometimes time consuming. Some breeds are also cultivated as cereal crops, producing long ears that could be threshed like grain, though their nutritional value was low, though it grew readily where there was little water or fertile ground. Hence, most everyone ate and was warmed by the taska reed, one of Democracy’s Blessings.

As the barana beasts rounded the base of the hill – they didn’t like climbing very much, and were even more reticent than usual when they perceived that they were being made to, taking frequent naps – Áthlaé could see her first glimpse of out-landers, people from another world.

She couldn’t say she was impressed, for she hadn’t ever seen the picture books of the Princesses, and so she didn’t know what armour was. Once she determined that the newcomers were for the most part human, or at least, what she guessed to be human, she discarded their fanciful costumes as useless.

It was tempting to charge towards them as fast as their mounts would carry them, or get off and run, but Áthlaé managed to resist the urge to make such a blunder, instead ordering her soldiers – well, her company at any rate – to dismount, and sidle up the side of the hillock to watch, whips and fierce glares at the ready.

Áthlaé meanwhile, continued to sit astride her riding beast, peering under her hand, using it to shade her eyes from the sun as she squinted at the new arrivals, whom she assumed hadn’t seen her.

She assumed wrongly, of course.

It was, perhaps, mildly odd that the blind man 'saw' the approaching natives before anybody else did. Then again, in retrospect, it wasn't all that strange. Myth's lack of sight forced him to replace his missing sense with the force, thusly he was more in tune with it than normal. Compound that with his general greater power in said medium than the other members of his party...and perhaps it was no surprise at all.

There was a flurry of almost monosyllabic conversation, Armsman Battle Language, something that Myth and his companions had struggled at first to learn but now spoke fluently, then action was decided upon.

They moved at a casual walk, hands close to weaponry, but not oddly so. Myth was in the lead, his cape flicking lightly in breeze. He carried his cane in his left hand, not bothering to use it to walk. The reason was that he wanted to be able to draw the blade concealed in said cane, should he need to.

Thusly they would approach the native cavalry, as harmless as a group of armed and armored warriors could look. Of course, they didn't realize that it wouldn't have mattered if they had advanced with blades drawn and screaming the bloodcurdling Julnari warcries...