“What do you mean you can’t find them?!” Sika-dur thundered. With his new augmentations, his roar was nearly loud enough to stagger the lowly Swrun soldier standing before him. Sika-dur felt a small measure of satisfaction at the expression of fear that flickered across the soldier’s face, but it was quickly stifled by the rage he felt.
“You have been tasked with finding the location of the Bandits for months, yet you tell me there is nothing! We are Swrun! There is nothing we cannot do!” His fists were balled tight enough for faint creaking sounds to be heard as his muscles and bones fought each other. Resisting the urge to strike the soldier, which would both have surely killed him and resulted in some questions and paperwork Sika-dur did not wish to deal with. Instead, he vented his anger on the wall, punching through the hardened metal.
To his credit, the soldier did not flinch. “Sir, these Bandits know how to hide. We have not intercepted a single signal of theirs, nor have we even found a trace of their travels. The only evidence they exist is the carnage they leave behind. But, sir, I have a theory about them.”
Sika-dur waited patiently for the soldier to continue. When silence had remained for three seconds, he snapped, “Well? What is it?”
Clearing his throat, the soldier explained, “I think the Bandits are using a ship as their main base of operations. If you look back at when the attacks first started, they were all within reasonable distance from each other. Far enough apart to prevent easy location of their point of origin, but close enough they had to all be from a planetside base.
“Now, the attacks are all over the place. The Bandits have gone mobile, thus increasing their range of attacks to near infinite across the galaxy. Of course, they have avoided the major planets and military encampments, but we have gotten reports of shipyards and outposts going dark on opposite sides of the galaxy. Add this to the reports that the Bandits have stolen a Battlecruiser, and we’ve got a bad mix of dangerous and mobile.”
“That is no excuse, soldier. I expect them to be found within the week. The Emperor grows displeased with our lack of results.” Sika-dur leaned in closer, lowering his face down to the soldier’s, a difference of nearly three feet. Being the largest Swrun in existence could be quite the nuisance on occasion. “And I do not think I have to remind you what happens to those who displease the Emperor.”
Visibly gulping, the soldier shook his head, wide-eyed. Sika-dur’s expressionless face would have smirked if it were possible. The Emperor’s punishments were legendary among the few privileged enough to know about them. Even fewer knew Sika-dur was the one who carried them out. He wondered who would carry them out on him if he continued to produce unsatisfactory results for the Emperor. If they even could be carried out on him. Sika-dur’s new body provided a number of significant advantages over his old one, including the inability to feel pain.
Flicking his wrist, Sika-dur dismissed the Swrun soldier. Despite no longer needing to breath, he inhaled deeply, trying to use the familiar motion to calm himself. The scientist had told him the procedure would likely enhance his rage, but Sika-dur had not realized just how much. Rage was good, but only during battle. Before, it was wasted, a hindrance. And rage would not do when speaking to the Emperor.
Activating the view screen, Sika-dur stood at attention, waiting for the Emperor’s image to play across the screen. At the appointed time, the screen flickered blue and the visage of His Imperial Majesty Hye-otu-edk di Yth-Usa, Fifth in the Line of Yth-Usa, High Warlord of the Irgh Nation, Master of the Universe, and Purger of Earth appeared bright and towering.
“Your Majesty,” Sika-dur said, inclining his head deeply, barely keeping within the lines of propriety. He rarely bothered with them, but the Emperor was one whom it was best not to insult. “I am afraid I do not have much to report of Clint Stone and his bandits.”
Excuses could have been made, but Sika-dur did not like to use them. Excuses served little purpose in his mind. No matter the reason, mistakes had been made or objectives had not been met, and no amount of words would change that fact.
For his part, the Emperor did not seem too angry. At the least, his face did not betray his thoughts to Sika-dur. He was surely raging inside. The paltry group of undersupplied and undermanned rebels had managed to cause nearly as much damage to the Empire as the entire Kingdom of Kantimar. And in a matter of months, as opposed to the years it had taken to conquer Kantimar. Sika-dur had led that campaign as well, with much greater results. The thrill of the memory was enough to set Sika-dur’s heart racing, if he had still possessed a heart.
“Do not worry, my son. It matters little to our plans.” Sika-dur relaxed, loosening muscles he had not realized he had been clenching.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. It shames me to have failed you this long.” Sika-dur dropped his head further, sending an image of subservience. “Fortunately I have received word we shall soon have a location of the Bandits, or at the least a means to track them.”
“This is good news, Breaker General. But once again the Bandits must be put aside for the moment. A source inside the Rebellion has informed me of a most troubling development.” The Emperor paused, letting Sika-dur imagine just what that might mean. “It seems that Wraith is still alive.”
“Impossible!” Sika-dur interrupted the Emperor loudly, grimace attempting to force its way across his expressionless face immediately when he realized what he had done. Half crouching in a reflexive kneel, he gasped, “Please forgive me, Your Majesty, I did not mean to…”
The Emperor silenced Sika-dur with a snap of his fingers. “It matters not how this event occurred. The fact remains that the single most dangerous assassin this Empire has ever seen is not only alive, but has joined the Rebellion against us. As the disposal of Wraith and his team fell on the shoulders of the Home Guard, my displeasure has already been made clear to them. Do you know what the Guard General told me to explain?”
Sika-dur shook his head, trying and failing to think of an excuse Guard General Lur-paz could have used in order to keep his head.
“He blamed it on Kra-ort.” Kra-ort. The very sound of that betrayer’s name was enough to boil Sika-dur’s blood. He had been one of the finest Swrun Sika-dur had ever trained. Utterly loyal, totally devastating, completely fearsome, Kra-ort had been the rising star of the Home Guard and the Breakers. With a few campaigns under his belt, Sika-dur could have seen Kra-ort as the next Guard General. But then he had deserted and joined the Rebellion against the very Empire that had borne him, trained him, and owned him.
“It seems that when Kra-ort deserted, he took a few beings with him. Not the least of which was Wraith.”
Struggling to contain the blind anger beating in his chest, Sika-dur spat, “Just say the word and I will descend upon Kra-ort with the full force of the Breakers. I will rip his heart from his chest and present it to you on a golden platter. I will tear him limb from limb and scatter the pieces across the universe, into the mouths of black holes and infant stars. The pain I inflicted upon the King of Kantimar shall pale before that which I inflict upon the betrayer.”
The list of the vengeance he would extract from Kra-ort was cut short by the sound of chuckling.
“No, my son,” the Emperor admonished, “Kra-ort will be dealt with in time. For now, I wish you to track down Wraith and ensure Lur-paz’s failure does not harm the Empire further. Fortunately for your previous mission, it seems Wraith has thrown in with the Bandits. Find one, and you shall find the other. What words do our spies bring to you of the Bandits?”
Feeling a grimace trying futilely to form across his face, Sika-dur replied “That is our main trouble in locating the Bandits. We don’t have any spies amongst their ranks.”
For the first time since Sika-dur had known him, the Emperor looked surprised. “Truly? Surely out of our thousands, one could have found their way into Clint Stone’s army.”
“I’m afraid not, Your Highness. I did receive word that one had found a way into the Bandits, but the next message informed me of his death at the hands of Clint Stone. It shames me that we have not been able to place more among their ranks.”
“It matters little. Clint Stone would not allow them. And I am sure he would find a way to use them against us should he find any. You will just have to use conventional methods of discovery to find him and his army.”
Clasping his fist to his chest, Sika-dur nodded. “I will not fail you, my Emperor.”
A faint scowl flashed across the Emperor’s face. “See that you do not. Your last failure has…displeased me.”
Black covered the screen as the connection ended, not allowing Sika-dur time to respond. As soon as it did, Sika-dur spun on his heel, feeling a scowl unable to form across his permanently expressionless face, barking orders at the first Swrun he saw. It was high time to crush the Bandits and undo his failures of the last month.
Hospitals shared the same smell the universe over. Antiseptic, a tinge of air filtration, and death. People died all the time in hospitals. In truth, one would be hard pressed to find a place more full of death than a hospital, unless one visited a battlefield. The Librarian had visited plenty of those and had no desire to visit another.
Striding down the hallway, he attempted to breathe solely through his mouth to avoid the stench of death. He’d smelled enough of that to last a lifetime. Enough for a dozen lifetimes, in all honesty. The Librarian was thwarted by the biology of his current body. The species Nkuan obtained air solely through their noses, leaving the mouth free for consumption in reckless abandon.
They were the only species in the galaxy to do so, a fact that intrigued the Librarian. Intrigued him enough to choose the form of an N-kuan female for the day. Yet he had forgotten to consider that he was heading into a hospital, the one place he did not want to be breathing through his nose. Sighing, the Librarian glanced around, checking he was alone in the hallway.
Assured in his solitude, the Librarian closed his eyes and willed his flesh into a more suitable arrangement. A fierce tickling erupted in the back of his throat as the tissue twisted and morphed, removing the airway from the nose and connecting to the mouth. Banishing the tickling with a thought, the Librarian opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. No stench of death registered and he smiled. Loath as he was to change a body’s true character, exceptions were to be made.
With death sufficiently removed, the Librarian continued his path. The tap-tap-tap of his body’s hoofed feet filled his ears, echoing off the unfurnished walls and tiled floor. It was quite the interesting sound, reminding him of a time he’d spend several decades among what might be called an uncivilized tribe deep in the third galactic arm. They had produced music of much the same tone and rhythm. Though they had used hollow branches and severed skulls instead of conventional instruments.
Since they had been herbivores and almost pathologically nonviolent, the skulls had been procured from naturally killed animals the tribe encountered in their foraging. The most prized skull was that of the kchrerg, the apex predator of the Southern Forests. Kchrerg rarely died of old age, and so skulls tended to be in too poor condition for instrumentation. But on the rare find of an intact skull, after cleaning and proper curing, the skull produced such a sound that the forests stilled themselves to listen. A whole collection played a symphony the Librarian had yet to hear the equal of.
Memories of music and revelry were banished upon the sudden appearance of his destination. A simple white door framed by gentle blue walls, it was an unremarkable sight. Behind it was the single most important aspect of the Librarian’s life. Knocking on the door, he waited for a response. Not receiving one, he knocked again.
With the continued silence of the room, the Librarian opened the door slowly, as not to disturb the likely sleeping occupant. Stealing into the room quietly, the Librarian was grateful for the years he had spent among the clans of the Lyeai Guen, a people dedicated to silent movement. The art of stealth was almost a religion to them, and it certainly showed. Among the best of the Lyeai, one would be better attempting to hear a shadow or see a sound than detect a Hunter.
The Librarian was not nearly as good as the best, as they trained from childhood and he had only a few years, but he was confident in his abilities all the same. Shifting into the room on a shadow, he rose up beside the bed. As much as the Librarian pretended otherwise, he did like to act a bit childish at times. Acting proper and somber for a thousand years was quite dull. Childlike though he acted, the Librarian was anything but.
“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”
Only hundreds of years of experience kept the Librarian from leaping into orbit. The breath that was squeezed out of his chest was simply exhaling, he told himself as he turn to the doorway and whoever had spoken.
“Ah pardon me, I was simply visiting Tedix and did not wish to disturb him.”
Light flashed on, temporarily blinding the Librarian as his eyes adjusted. Nanite assisted, it took less than a second. The owner of the voice was revealed to be a slight Pthuni nurse, her large eyes staring disapprovingly at the Librarian.
“There is no one in this room. What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice a few degrees warmer than the void waiting outside the hospital.
“What do you mean, no one…” the Librarian trailed off as he turned to see an empty bed, clean sheets pulled tight. “Where did the occupant of this room go? He did not die, did he?”
The nurse backed up as the Librarian unconsciously moved closer to her as he spoke. “There hasn’t been anyone in this room for weeks. The last guy was discharged with a clean bill of health.”
“Weeks,” the Librarian mumbled to himself. Had it really been weeks? Time passed very quickly for him, but he was sure he would have remembered weeks gone by. “But–” No, there had been bit of research to conduct. It really had been weeks.
“Damn it!” he exclaimed as he smashed his fist against the wall, leaving a deep fist-shaped dent. He had missed his son again. At least Tedix was healed from what the nurse had said. “Do you know where he’s gone?” the Librarian asked the nurse, keeping his tone light and cheerful.
“No, I do not,” she replied curtly. “If I did, I still wouldn’t tell you. We don’t just give out information on our patients.”
Grinding his teeth, the Librarian had to grudgingly agree that was a good policy for a hospital.
“Thank you, I suppose,” he said as he started his walk back down the hallway. Now he would have to spend the next month or so tracking down Tedix. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he stroked his finger down the length of the wooden splinter he carried with him. A shard of wood from his son’s crib, the Librarian didn’t really know why he kept it around, but he’d had it for so long it would have been strange to be without it.
“Where have you gone, Tedix?” the Librarian wondered aloud as a door closed behind him. “Where are you?”
“Hey kid, you still listening?” Malx Rhea jumped slightly as a fat Kantim waved her hand in front of his face. She had been droning on and on about the anterior interconnectors of this and that space craft, as if Malx hadn’t been working on everything that flew since he could hold a wrench. He nodded. The auburn furred Kantim–her name was Lemmuer, Malx recalled–seemed skeptical.
“Like I was saying, the anterior interconnectors are essential to the movement, most especially on the Model T Phourd…”
Malx tried to pay attention, he really did, but the subject was so incredibly boring and Lemmuer had a poor voice for lecture, more suited to singing a baby to sleep. This was the third hour he had forced himself to endure, dull though it was. Bor had implied it was a condition of become a mechanic for the Bandits, and Malx had not argued. Anyone who would feed him and not beat him and let him tinker as he wished–after he did his actual work–was immediately high on Malx’s list of people to please.
“Am I boring you, young man?” Lemmuer snapped, voice growing slightly less boring in anger. Malx jumped, immediately focusing on the floor in front of him and shook his head.
“No, sir–I-I mean ma’am. Very interesting. The interconnectors and the drive lifts all work together to produce the maximal amount of force to the hypertransveral axis.”
Lemmuer seemed taken aback. Running the lecture through his head again, Malx realized that she had only begun to talk about the relationship between the interconnectors and the drive lifts, let alone how they might combine to produce high amounts of energy and result in a powerful mechanism essential to the function of any craft larger than a land bike. Oops. He had meant to play along and act, well not dumb, but not as knowledgeable as he was.
“Y-yes, that’s right,” Lemmuer stammered in apparent shock. “How old are you?”
Considering if the question was loaded or not, Malx chose to answer truthfully. “About 16 standard, ma’am.”
“And you have a complete understanding of the principles of propulsion mechanics?” she asked, her eyebrows raised high enough to blend into a single furry strip across her already fur covered face.
Wrinkling his face in thought, Malx said, “If you mean I know how to get ships in the air and keep them moving, then yes, I do know how to do that.”
Blinking, Lemmuer took a few moments to process that her student was much more than she had been expecting before moving on. “So these last few hours have essentially been a complete waste of time, because you already knew everything I was telling you about?”
Malx reluctantly nodded. He didn’t want to leave the impression that he found Lemmuer boring–since she was one of the only people in the last few years to show him any kindness–but he also really did not want to sit through however much more of the lecture she had prepared. “You seemed so focused on your teaching and I just didn’t want to interrupt.”
Giving an exasperated sigh, she said, “I’m here to see what you know about ships, and to fill in the gaps you don’t have. As I’m sure Bor explained, Clint has a great need of support staff for his army. If you had told me you were this well versed in ships, I could have just assessed how much, and we could have skipped this whole ordeal.”
Malx glanced at his feet and shuffled in place, uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to show like I was being over confident.”
Smiling slightly and relaxing her tense stance, Lemmuer’s body language indicated she was not angry with him. Malx relaxed in kind, allowing himself a smile in return for hers. Then he stiffened again as he glanced up and noticed a dread sight walking towards him over her shoulder. Huge and terrible, the feral visage of Clint Stone was bared in a snarl that took Malx several terrified seconds to recognize as a broad smile, and was displayed as an expression of purest joy rather than the hate Malx had mistaken it for.
Despite having residing among the Bandits for several days now, and having seen the human existing among the other fighters on board, and having learned a brief history of the Captain’s history, Malx was still filled with primordial fear with every glance of Clint Stone. Every time he moved his prowling bulk, Malx was reminded of those fists of metal and Stone crashing into the skull of Malx’s last Captain–who was admittedly a Dread Pirate and had been no bastion of righteousness, and who’s orders had resulted in the deaths of Malx’s entire family–and driving the rest of the pirate’s body into the metal floor of the ship. Each word from the Warfist’s mouth, no matter how soft or gently spoken, was twisted in Malx’s mind to fit the voice Clint had roared at Zathyre before obliterating him from existence, every word dripping with malice and utter despise.
Clint Stone scared Malx, there was no other way to say it. Scared him right down the marrow, reaching down into the deep part of his brain where his instincts came from, the ones that told him fire hurt, to run from danger, and the dark was something to avoid. Those instincts all told him Clint Stone was the single most dangerous thing Malx had ever encountered, and if he was smart, Malx would put a galaxy between himself and the horrors of the universe made flesh. But Malx forced his instincts down, as they were the same ones that told him he was not meant to fly–and Malx knew in his bones he was meant to fly–and so they were clearly not infallible. Clint Stone was a good man, so said everyone.
“Lemmuer, how goes the training?” Clint’s voice boomed out over the hangar, and sounded as if it came from directly in front of Malx, even though its owner was still in the distance. Not even waiting for a response, Clint continued, “Are you learning everything well, young man? Or do you know everything already?”
Taken aback at Clint’s incredible joviality, Malx did not form a response until the human was standing in front of him. “I, uh, I do know a lot of it, yes.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint corrected him. It was not a harsh rebuke, and Malx could tell it was meant in a kindly manner, but the memory of “You killed her. You will die.” darkened Clint’s words in Malx’s mind. Malx nodded, and repeated, “Yes, sir.”
Nodding, Clint resumed the conversation with a smile, his teeth flashing. Malx did not like watching that. “What all do you know? Show me.”
“I, uh, well,” Malx stammered, trying to think of a place to start.
He was saved from that difficult choice by Lemmuer cutting in, saying, “I was actually about to have him run through the full diagnostic and see what exactly he knows. Perhaps that would work?”
Beaming, Clint nodded, teeth flashing in his hard face made of lines and angles. “That would work well. I need skilled support staff for the Bandits, and I’m told you should be a nice fit. I’m a gearhead myself, so I’d love to help out, but these days I find I’m too busy to just relax and tinker.”
And so began an hour long process, where Malx ran through literally every diagnostic test and function he could think of, and fixing the little things he found wrong and noting down the bigger things he would need to fix later, or could become an issue. It was funny, Malx could remember every minute detail about a ship or craft, even for years after he had last worked on it–for instance, he could remember the way his first ship had the carbiuatinate system with a slight hitch to the left whenever the engine fired up, or got over a certain temperature, and how to kick the side just right to fix it–but he couldn’t remember what he had to eat the other night. It was a problem on occasion.
For his part, Clint mostly watched quietly, making the odd notes of agreement or approval. Malx did feel increasingly more relaxed as he went, hearing nothing negative from Clint. And with his back turned to him, Malx could begin to forget just who stood behind him. Then Clint spoke, shattering Malx’s self imposed illusion.
“What’s that you just did?” the harsh voice asked, the sound of slaughter filling Malx’s ears.
Twisting the adjustor in his hand in the reverse he had just done, Malx asked, “You mean this?”
“No, before that. When you changed the angle.” Lemmuer made a soft noise of surprise. She mustn’t have noticed it.
“Oh, that? It just a trick I picked up. It increases the amount of control the operator has on the craft.”
Stepping up beside him, Clint rubbed his metal hand across his Stone jaw. He looked genuinely interested in what Malx had done. “Huh. Where’d you learn that? I’ve never seen it done before.”
“Just something I discovered myself. But it only works in conjunction with the other–“
“Yes, yes,” Clint said, waving his hand absently, but with great curiosity displayed on his face. “I see now. What other little tricks do you know?”
“Um, a fair amount?”
“Show me.”
And so what had been just a simple diagnostic run wherein Malx could lose himself and distract his mind, became a lengthy and nervous explanation of everything Malx knew about craft, and how he came to know it. Shockingly, Clint knew most of it, even the stuff Old The’kewa hadn’t known. And he had been working on craft since before Malx’s father’s father had been born. Each time Malx demonstrated something he thought for sure Clint wouldn’t know, the human did. Malx did not grow discouraged though, and took it as a challenge to find something Clint did not know.
Fortunately, it seemed the human’s knowledge was not limitless, and Malx managed to find three things Clint didn’t know. For reasons unknown, that made Malx very proud. But of course he was going to know at least one more thing than Clint, it was impossible to know everything. But still, he felt pride. Clint, for his part, was exceedingly excited, nearly giddy with the new knowledge Malx had given him. At least, that’s what Malx thought he was happy about.
Turning his front to Malx, Clint clapped a hand –the flesh one, though it felt nearly as hard as the metal one–on Malx’s shoulder, beaming ear to ear. “You know your stuff, kid. I’ve been hard pressed to find someone who I think I might trust with Susan.”
“You…what?” Malx asked. Who or what was Susan? And why did Clint need someone he could trust with it? Perhaps seeing the confusion on Malx’s face, Clint clarified.
“My personal ship. Her name is Susan. I’ve made more than a few modifications to her, and so far I’ve been the only one who can maintain or even work on her. No one seems to have the know-how. But here I’ve found you!” and Clint grinned even wider, lips spread wide revealing flashing teeth. But the smile did not extend to the eyes. Malx had not paid close attention to Clint himself, let alone his eyes, rather preferring to focus his attention elsewhere, but now he looked deeply.
Despite the warmth of the smile, the eyes above it were frigid and grim. There was no light in those green, merciless eyes, nor did it look there had even been. Malx knew that look. It was what stared at him from every mirror for years after his family had been killed. The Lady Night, the reason Clint had obliterated the Dread Zathyre’s head, had been someone special to him. And so Clint was hollowed out, like Malx had been. Yet, there was something behind those eyes.
Malx saw nothing in his own eyes, no light, no hope, but also no darkness, no despair. His eyes were of glass, empty of everything. Clint’s were full of a seething storm, raging just behind sight, just beyond perception, a shadow upon the soul of the man standing in front of him. Malx wondered what could drive every scrap of life and light from a being’s eyes and replace it with this…other he saw now. He quickly came to the conclusion he did not want to know.
Clint continued speaking, as if he had not noticed his gaze transfixing Malx in terror. “…here I’ve found you! You know even more than I do about craft, and I’m willing to bet you can be trusted to care for my ship. I haven’t had nearly the time I need to devote to her, and I think she’s beginning to tell. I want you to make sure she is always functioning in prime condition. What do you say?”
With great effort, Malx was able to pull himself out of that hypnotic and terrible gaze. “Er…yes?”
“Perfect!” Clint exclaimed, hand nearly driving Malx to his knees when clapped again to his shoulder. “We can talk details when I return! I have a friend to pick up. Bastard just can’t make up his mind to stay in or out of the hospital bed.”
Clint laughed as he walked away without so much as a backwards glance. Leaving Malx standing in confusion next to Lemmuer, who Malx just realized had been standing there for the last hour without saying a word.
“You…just had an hour long experience with Captain Stone,” she said in awe. “You must feel so important!”
“…I feel scared,” Malx replied. “Did you see his eyes? There isn’t anything there.”
Lemmuer gasped, sounding as if he had just insulted her family back up to the time her family tree took root. “Did…did you just say that? About Captain Stone?”
Her eyes hardened with dislike. “I will be forced to…” She trailed off as Malx felt a presence over his shoulder, looming. Turning slowly, he prayed it wasn’t Clint Stone returned for whatever reason. It was not. Though it was nearly as bad.
Bor My stood behind Malx, calm steady stare fixed to his face. “I’ll take it from here, Lemmuer.”
Lemmuer busied herself with other business on the other side of the hangar as Bor stood in front of Malx, silent. Malx opened his mouth to explain, but Bor quieted him with a hand. The hryth stood in his quiet manner, simply regarding the young mechanic before him.
To Malx’s surprise, when he spoke, Bor did not chastise him. Instead, he said, “Clint scares me too. And it scares me that no one else is scared.”
Kra-ort marched heavily down the corridor, the miles of rock above his head a seeming feather compared to the weight dragging on his mind. Worry and anxiety, despair and anger all swirling around his head, birthed by the momentous task in front of him. War. War loomed huge on the horizon, a crackling storm straining against the restraints that held it back from sweeping across the galaxy, destroying all before it. And those restraints were weakening, ropes frayed from constant friction, and chains weakened by the heat and the fury. Soon, the storm of hate and terror and death would be free and nowhere would escape its wrath.
Soon, Kra-ort was to be one of those who unleashed that horror upon the galaxy. Soldiers would die, innocents would be slaughtered, children would be murdered. Cities burned, nations destroyed, and planets put to waste. And he welcomed it. Kra-ort welcomed the death, the fire, the cleansing. A thousand times over. It was the price he was willing to pay to see the end of the Swrun Empire.
A once great nation, spanning worlds and cultures and races, the Empire had been a beacon of hope and prosperity to the galaxy. But that was long, long ago. Now, the line of Yth-Usa had twisted the Empire, perverted it to their own sick desires and ambitions, warping hope and prosperity to desolation and ruin. Once a soldier in the Army of the Swrun, once a member of the Homeguard, once a friend of the Emperor, Kra-ort was now a traitor to everything he had once held dear and right and true. His folly had been revealed to him by the sick heart of Hye-otu-edk, Damned be His Name, Cursed Emperor of the Swrun, Defiler of His People.
And now Kra-ort used everything learned in his service to the Emperor, and used it against him. He took his elite training, gained at the expense of the Emperor’s personal bodyguards, and gave it to the Rebels. He took his iron will, beaten into him by his superiors, and turned it to service of the Rebellion. He took his knowledge of the military, of Swrun defenses, of the Emperor, and he used it for the greater good. He would use any tool at his disposal to end the Empire and the Emperor.
The great decaying corpse of something Kra-ort would have been proud to call his nation, had it existed in any form for the last hundred years, needed to be cut out of the universe and burned to ash, that the remains not poison the rest. The people who lived under the whip and chain of the Emperor and his armies needed to be freed. But that was no easy task, as the whip and chain were not of the body, but of the mind. The Swrun people were spoonfed the Emperor’s propaganda from the moment of birth, to the moment of death. “Only the Swrun are strong, only the Swrun deserve this universe. The Swrun will conquer all, the Swrun will rule all.”
His people were trapped by their minds to the Emperor, and Kra-ort would see them freed. But he could not do it himself, nor could he even begin to start. He was known across the Empire as a dangerous traitor and conspirator. Kra-ort could not walk on the street, let alone try and convince others that the Empire they had lived under for the entirety of their lives and provided them with everything was evil and must be destroyed. No, Kra-ort could not do that. But he knew of ones who could.
Reaching his destination, Kra-ort slipped into a small room, locking the door behind him. The sole feature of the room was a chair and table, upon which was placed a single communication device, a hyperspace relay transmitter. It was tuned to its twin on the planet Swrun, capital of the Swrun Empire and home to the largest single population in the galaxy. And more importantly, in the hands of Kra-ort’s close friend, Lun-ruh, the leader of the Rebellion chapter on Swrun. Only Kra-ort and Skuar knew of this chapter, because the Emperor’s spies were everywhere, and Kra-ort desired to keep the Swrun Rebellion as quiet and safe as possible. The advantages of spies placed in the heart of the Empire was incalculable, and so every care was taken to hide them.
The relay flashed twice, paused, then flashed four more times. Kra-ort sent back the correct response of three, pause, two and waited. The relay clicked and Lun-ruh’s immense voice boomed out.
“The final stages have been set. All we need is the signal.”
Breathing deeply, Kra-ort replied, “The time has come. We are at war.”