LotS/The Story/Politics of War

Intro=
Silence descends upon the room, a quietness so forceful in its totality that it seems as if the air molecules themselves are party to it – frozen in shock, unable or unwilling to vibrate and thus allow passage to waves of sound.

Talia’s eyes are wide. Telemachus stares with his mouth agape, his expression so piscine it would bring a laugh to your own lips were you not equally stunned into noiselessness. Ragnar has the beginnings of a lurking grin on his face, though it somehow fails to take hold – as though the rest of his features are threatening violence against those muscles should they dare to give way to such inappropriate amusement. Even Lu Bu’s impassive metal face somehow betrays a combination of amazement and awkwardness in its angle and bearing.

Your TALOS allies are faring no better. Wilex’s gaze is darting about the uninhabited reaches of the room – as though seeking for something to fasten itself upon. Ambassador Pellor, projected larger than life across the holographic screen, raises his hand to his mouth and emits a cough so slight it doesn’t even manage to scratch the surface of the silence, let alone break it.

In all the time you’ve known Princess Illaria, you don’t recall ever hearing her utter even the mildest of swearwords. If the thought of her doing so had crossed your mind, it would have seemed an absurdity – almost a blasphemy. Akin to an old master painting or marble sculpture of an ancient goddess coming to life and spewing forth a torrent of abuse. But the litany of profanities which has just poured from the Princess’ lips was equal to any you might have heard in the slums of Drekchester.

Had she so much as whispered those invectives at the imperial court, several of its sedate and sophisticated denizens would likely have spontaneously combusted. Others would surely have ritually disemboweled themselves on the spot, their ears and mind defiled to hear such words from their Princess. You can only imagine what the Emperor himself would say.

If Illaria is paying any heed to the effect she’s had, she betrays no sign. Her face is a mask of beautiful rage, her gleaming eyes those of a vengeful fury seeking some victim to eviscerate. And you can hardly blame her. The same anger surges in your breast at what Pellor has just related, though your incredulity at her words managed to eclipse it.

The ambassador, TALOS’ representative at the UHW Assembly on Earth, has been at the forefront of those making the case against the Centurian Collective. That diplomatic effort had been forced from your mind during your exploits on Drekchester and Hyperia. Even a tear across the very fabric of the Milky Way and the destruction of a million worlds would have seemed trivial to you while the Princess was in danger. But the moment Illaria came aboard the cruiser, her first thought was of the war and her people. She requested a full debriefing, and when a communication came from Pellor you all gathered to hear his report.

“What about the Besalaad alien?” the Princess asks. Her voice sounds cold and dangerous, like a weapon being drawn back in preparation for a fatal thrust. “How could they deny that when you presented evidence?”

“They…” Ambassador Pellor coughs once more. His diplomatic eloquence appears to have failed him in the face of her fury, as though she were some vengeful goddess about to smite him for his failure. But he recovers his voice at last. “The Centurians didn’t deny that the alien was aboard the Zenith. They couldn’t, after we’d presented footage from a robot’s memory banks.”

Lu Bu gives a slight nod of his head. And it occurs to you for the first time that everything he sees is stored within his computerized mind, as your memories are in your organic one. The difference is that his can not only be retrieved at will, but may also be distributed as with any other form of data. You’ll have to be careful not to do anything embarrassing around him…

“An examination would have shown it to be genuine rather than doctored,” Pellor continues. “But… Well, their ambassador said that the alien was simply Rahn’s personal bodyguard. The Collective claims to have no diplomatic relations with the Besalaad whatsoever.”

The Princess’ eyes blaze. Sounds of anger and incredulity come from around the table.

“That’s a lie!” Telemachus yells.

The words are superfluous. You know full well that the Centurians are trying to deceive the Union of Human Worlds. But the pure outrage in his young voice encapsulates your feelings. You never anticipated that they might be so brazen in the face of the evidence, and that irks you.

“The UHW can’t be that naïve,” says Talia. “What about all the advanced tech we found?”

“According to the Centurians, it’s the result of their own scientific research and their trading arrangements with other species.”

Pellor looks somewhat uneasy as he gazes at the angry faces before him. He’s probably glad to be so far away from you all right now, lest you attempt to shoot the messenger for bearing such frustrating news.

“I always thought politicians were a bunch of cunning snakes ready to rob people blind and take whatever they could get their grubby little claws on,” Ragnar says, with a cheerful disregard for zoological verisimilitude. “Turns out you’re just idiots.”

The ambassador frowns at this pronouncement. He opens his mouth for an angry retort, but you see him biting back his words as though they were physical things attempting to pass through his fence of teeth. Even from so many millions of miles across space, he doesn’t seem willing to answer back to the Niflung.

“The circumstances are somewhat against us,” he says after a moment’s pause. “Our attack on Rahn’s cruiser was an illegal act under UHW law. The Centurians are arguing that we’re putting forward these accusations to draw attention away from our own crimes.”

“The recording of Fabricatrix Vespasia…” the Princess says. But there’s resignation in her voice.

“Her dying words prove nothing, I’m afraid.” Pellor sighs. “The Grand Fabricator was convinced, under the circumstances, as were the rest of us. In the eyes of the UHW, however… Well, her mention of the Centurians was far from persuasive. And some of my counterparts rather disapproved of the way the information was acquired…”

“Acquired?” Talia asks.

“The… The Niflung gentleman was rather brutal in his methods… Some used the word ‘torture’ to describe his actions.”

“Torture?” Ragnar gives a bellowing laugh that undulates across the slabs of muscle on his chest. “They think that was torture? Give me five minutes with them and I’ll show them what real torture is!”

“Do we have any supporters at the UHW?” you ask.

“Some are sympathetic,” the ambassador replies. “The powers who have historically been opposed to the Centurians are naturally more ready to believe the accusations against them. And of course I’ll continue my efforts to persuade the others…”

“With the greatest of respect, ambassador,” says the Princess, “I don’t believe you’re best suited to that task. Most human factions distrust TALOS, and that places you at a disadvantage when it comes to winning their support in the Assembly.”

“She’s right,” says Wilex. “If the evidence we could offer isn’t enough, and it comes down to persuasion, we’re not in an ideal position.”

“Perhaps not,” Pellor replies. “But what alternative do we have? I’m working closely with the Sian Empire’s own ambassador, but the two of us are faced with a difficult challenge.”

“Then we need a more powerful weapon at the UHW.” The Princess meets your gaze, and for the barest fraction of a second a smile crosses her lips as you read her intention.

“What do you mean?” the ambassador asks.

“I’ll come to Earth, and make the case against the Collective myself.” |-|

Interstellar Ambush=
Interstellar Ambush

A stubby finger descends upon the grid, meeting its surface at an intersection where two dark lines meet. There’s a slight twitch as the digit applies pressure. It remains there for a moment longer, before rising once more – departing as though satisfied with its action. The holographic image of a black stone pops into existence in its wake. To the left of this newly spawned object is another that’s identical but for its whiteness. This white stone, now surrounded by the newcomer and three other black stones, flickers once. Then it vanishes.

“Another point for me,” says Telemachus.

Your own finger presses the board in turn, generating a white stone – one of many that dominate your side of the board.

“Careless,” you say. “You got carried away with taking a handful of stones, and ignored the territory I was carving out. From here you can’t possibly win.”

The young prince frowns, his eyes scanning the board and ascertaining the truth of your words.

“That’s a lesson worth remembering,” you continue, warming to the role of mentor and tutor. “Not just in weiqi, but in battle as well.”

“That’s the kind of thing my father used to say,” he replies, looking up and meeting your gaze. “Except he said ‘life’ instead of ‘battle’.”

You nod, and wait for him to continue. But the boy remains silent, choosing not to share whatever introspections cross his mind.

When the Princess told you about King Salastro’s fame as a weiqi player, you reasoned that he would have taught his son. So you offered to play him, to help pass the time on the long journey to Earth – and because part of you always feels guilty at what his life has become, so removed from that of other children. Since he met you, Telemachus’ days have been filled with danger and carnage. And as tough as he is, with a hardiness and determination well beyond his years, you’re sure he misses the carefree childhood he once enjoyed.

“One time he-”

The communicator on the wall beeps, interrupting him. He draws whatever he was about to say back inside, and you sigh as you detect the disappointment in his eyes. It only lingers for a moment. Then it’s gone, and you can almost sense the shifting within him as he once more submerges his feelings and prepares for whatever life’s about to throw at the two of you next.

You move to the wall, and press the button beside the communication display. Talia’s face appears in front of your own.

“We need you on the bridge, captain.”

“What’s happened?”

“We’ve picked up a distress signal… It’s the Emperor’s personal signal.”

You arrive at the bridge breathless, your shoulder bruised from a collision with the sturdy metal body of one of the ship’s robot crew members.

The Princess is gazing at the viewscreen, at the incandescent blur rendered there by hyperspace travel. Her face is hidden from you as you approach, but her bearing, the tenseness evident in her body, tell the tale. Talia stands beside her, and she turns as you enter. The Princess’ emotions are echoed upon the gunslinger’s face, and no doubt upon your own as well.

No word has been heard of the Emperor since the Centurians conquered Sian. He was believed to be a prisoner. But if he’s managed to escape, to flee the occupied planet…

The Princess looks to you as you appear by her side. Her face is almost childlike, radiant with hope. She’s spoken little of her father since the assault on the Child of Heaven, as though preferring not to dwell on the unknown. But her guard has slipped now.

“I knew our people wouldn’t let them keep him,” she says.

You nod, still not knowing what to make of this – but infected by her joy all the same. On Sian, untold millions would have been glad to lay down their lives to secure the Emperor’s escape. Had you been there, you would have done the same in a heartbeat. But if it happened, wouldn’t you have heard about it before now?

“The signal has been confirmed,” says Lu Bu.

Again you nod. The Emperor has his own distress signal, a special sequence used by him alone. All Sian captains are trained to respond to it immediately should they ever detect it, and thus know that the ruler of the empire requires assistance.

“Just the signal?” you ask.

“There was no message,” Talia replies. “Only the signal.”

“He wouldn’t risk alerting the Centurians,” the Princess says. “They might not recognize his signal, but if he sent a message out…”

Behind you Ragnar stomps onto the bridge, Telemachus following close behind.

“Think I broke one of your robots,” the Niflung says.

Wilex turns away from the viewscreen, as do you – Ragnar’s statement managing to capture your attention in spite of the situation at hand.

“The kid said there was something important, so I ran. It got in the way.”

The Chief Assembler is about to reply, but you both look back at the screen instead as you hear the sound which heralds a drop from hyperspace – followed a moment later by the Princess’ sharp intake of breath.

A blue-green planet has appeared against the star-studded blackness, in such clarity that it seems jarring after the blur which was there a second ago. An uninhabited and uninhabitable world, according to the information on a nearby monitor. But it’s not the planet which captures your interest, or caused Princess Illaria’s deep inhalation.

On the other side of the screen is a debris field, an immense expanse of metal floating in the void. A cursory glance is enough to tell you that you’re looking at the remains of an obliterated spacecraft.

You feel the Princess’ hand clasp yours, gripping it as tightly as she did when the two of you hung above certain doom on the Zenith. And you know that the dread she’s experiencing now is greater than anything she felt then.

“What do the scans show?” Wilex asks.

There’s an intolerable pause. Then one of the robots replies.

“It’s the wreckage of a merchant convoy,” he says. “The ships originated from the Boreas System.”

“You’re sure?” asks the Princess.

“Yes. I detected an intact ship code among the wreckage. The vessel is registered in the interstellar mercantile records, and was reported lost several weeks ago.”

The Princess exhales softly. Her hand slips from yours, leaving its warmth behind. She must have feared the worst, and the sense of relief seems to overwhelm her. But any relief in your own mind is fleeting. As you look over at Talia, and see the expression on her face, you know that you’ve both reached the obvious conclusion.

“Trap!” the two of you say at the exact same moment.

Battle Station

There’s movement among the debris, as though slivers are flaking away from the chunks of scrap, trembling back into life like the severed parts of a worm’s body.

Blips appear on a nearby display as the fighter ships power their systems up, and relinquish whatever shrouding devices they used to conceal themselves from the cruiser’s scans. Larger blips start to blink from the direction of the planet, heralding the arrival of more powerful craft.

The door to the bridge opens, admitting both the noise of the alert that’s ringing through the ship and a group of robots. The former is silenced as the door slides back into place. The latter make their way to the turret control stations.

Talia darts towards the nearest station, and vaults into one of its seats a second before an approaching robot can occupy it. The automaton remains there for a moment, his body language much like that of an outraged human. Then he moves along to the next position instead.

Almost as soon as Talia’s hands touch the controls, there’s an explosion on the screen in front of her. While you’re looking around for a vacant turret seat, you hear her cry of pain as Ragnar congratulates her with a hefty pat on the shoulder.

“Hey! Watch it!”

Meanwhile Telemachus is yanking at the robot beside her, trying to pull him out of his seat and finding his metal body to be immovable.

“Get out of the way! I want to shoot!”

“My computerized targeting systems render me far more capable of operating this station, small human.” The robot continues to fire the turret as he speaks, ignoring the pushing and pulling from Telemachus’ small hands.

You approach the station.

“I’m commandeering this seat,” you say. In truth you have no authority aboard a TALOS vessel, but with lasers flying it’s not exactly time to observe protocol.

“As I have just said, my computerized-”

“You should relinquish the seat,” says Lu Bu. “I assure you that you’re not more capable than this particular human.”

You’re certain you hear the robot muttering something as though under his nonexistent breath. He gets up, however, and with a gentle but firm grip on Telemachus’ arm you prevent the prince from stealing the newly vacated seat.

Enemy ships flit across the screen as you sit down. Your hands take hold of the controls, and your eyes begin to track your target’s path.

Plethora of Pirates

The Princess moves to the side of the holographic screen, and taps its surface. The screen shimmers for a moment, rippling around her fingers like a pool of water. Talia gives a yelp of annoyance at having her shooting interrupted.

The ripples disappear, and data appears on the screen beside the two ships displayed there – showing the results of scans.

“One ship has the insignia of the Red Skulls,” the Princess says. “The other has the symbol of the Sellundan Stallions.”

An instant later both ships are shattered, explosions ripping through their bodies. But the images of the two insignias remain for a few seconds longer before disappearing, as though to emphasize her point.

“Since when do the Skulls and Stallions work together?” Ragnar asks.

“It’s not just them,” you reply.

More ships fly across your screen, and each of their emblems is drawn out and presented to you in turn when the cruiser’s scanners obtain a clear view of it from amid the streaming lasers and high-speed maneuvering. There are at least half a dozen different pirate factions represented there.

If the use of the Emperor’s signal had left you in any doubt, the sight before you dispels it. A simple raiding and robbery wouldn’t cause these disparate groups to come together. Someone must have spent a great deal of money to set this ambush up, and the likely identity of that malefactor is hardly a mystery.

But the machinations behind the trap are of secondary importance. Right now your priority is to thwart it.

Scramble

A scattering of explosions, bursts of flashing light accompanied by generated roars of sound, dot the screen in front of you and Talia.

“Pretty sure I finished ahead, captain,” she laughs.

“We’re not done yet, I’m afraid,” says Wilex.

You all look round, and see him pointing at the main screen. It slows a zoomed-in view of an enemy ship, a larger craft than the ones you’ve been annihilating. A cloud of metal seems to be billowing from holes in its side. Then the image zooms in further, and you see the specs within that cloud in all their ominous detail.

“Drillers!” Talia cries out.

The tiny unmanned ships fan out like a wave of fireflies, each glow that of a laser-edged drill capable of boring into the side of a cruiser. And if these pirates are true to form, every one of them will be packed with explosives.

“They’re too small,” says the Princess. “The turrets won’t be able to stop them all.”

“No,” you reply. “We’ll need to deploy our fighters.

A split-second later you and Talia are out of your seats, and you hear a cry of triumph as Telemachus drops into one of them.

“Be careful!” Illaria shouts, as the two of you run for the bridge’s door.

“Careful doesn’t win spacefights,” Talia says.

The two of you are in the corridor before the Princess can respond, sprinting for the hangar. Talia’s pistols are twirling in her hands, the only indication of nervousness she displays.

If you can’t get out there fast enough to stop those drillers, there’s no telling how much damage they could do.

Interception

“Move!” Talia yells.

The wheeled maintenance bot swivels round, sees her running towards it, and begins to trundle out of the way of the airstair. Talia doesn’t wait for the bulky form to shift. She leaps into the air, kicks off its dome-like head with one of her boots, and springs into the cockpit.

Fortunately you don’t have to try and emulate her. The next fighter is clear, and you scramble into the cockpit only a few moments behind her.

“Good luck, captain!” she shouts from across the hangar. Then the canopy descends, and her ship begins to move.

A few seconds later you’re flying out of the exit in her wake, flung into the cataclysm beyond. Darting ships, flashing lasers, and booming explosions fill the universe on all sides. Fighting on the ground can be chaotic, but there’s nothing quite like the omni-directional pandemonium of a space battle.

You weave between the streams of weapons fire out of instinct, even as your eyes scan both the window and the displays for your main targets.

The drillers are close. You have to make every shot count.

Purple Lion

Explosions are sprinkled across the black mantle of space, accompanied by a chorus of twinkling detonations within your ears. Between the cruiser’s turrets and its fighters, the drillers were gobbled up like a school of minnows descended upon by a shark.

But the battle isn’t over yet. A large blinking light appears on your scanner, as another vessel comes into range. A few seconds later its image appears on another monitor, and a low whistle escapes your lips.

“It’s the Purple Lion!” you say.

“How much did that cost the Centurians?” comes Talia’s voice, over the communicator.

The purple ship ploughs through the void, crimson lasers zapping from its many weapons. Atop its prow is the immense leonine head that’s struck terror across the galaxy, wherever its mercenary crew have ventured in pursuit of carnage and credits. The violet jaws are drawn back, the workmanship so realistic you almost expect a roar to echo from your aural implant. Instead there’s a crackling noise, as you see the energy coalescing there.

Flames rage across the purple armor, as though breaking free from the ship’s body to lap at the void beyond. The lion’s head is cracked and wounded, a section around its eye mutilated. The beast’s jaws seem to be open in a cry of pain now, instead of roaring a challenge.

There’s a surge of brightness at the craft’s stern.

“Pull back,” you say. “They’re trying to make a hyperspace jump.”

The other TALOS fighter ships follow your lead, flying away from the mauled vessel. It’s not likely to survive a hyperspace jump in that condition, and there’s a chance it might explode in the very attempt.

But as it happens, the ship flashes away – managing to endure the first step of its journey, at least. Wherever the mercenary vessel will meet its end, it’s not going to be here.

“Good work, captain,” says the Princess, her image appearing on the communicator’s screen. “If the Centurians are this desperate to keep us away from appearing before the UHW, that’s all the more reason for us to go to Earth.” |-|

Courtroom=
Courtroom

The cruiser remains on the periphery of the Sol System for some time, while UHW personnel confirm its credentials. They were informed of the Princess’ arrival in advance, in accordance with protocol. And judging by the ambush you encountered on your way, it seems that they were inept at best when it came to preserving the sanctity of that information.

At last you’re given permission to enter the system and approach Earth, in the midst of an escort. No group is permitted a military presence in the system other than the UHW itself, beyond embassy security and bodyguards. Hence there are firm restrictions on the movements of cruisers and other large vessels that have been equipped for war.

“So that’s Earth?” Telemachus says, gazing at the blue and green spheroid that grows larger with each passing moment. There’s wonder in his voice. A short time ago he had no memories of any world other than his native Gallea. Earth, the ancient homeland of humanity, must have seemed remote indeed.

“See that bit up there?” asks Ragnar, pointing to the northern reaches of Europe. “That’s where the original Niflungs lived. Heh. Looks just like a-”

He breaks off as Talia surreptitiously stomps on his foot, perhaps taking the hint that his vulgarisms aren’t appropriate before a child and a princess.

“It’s hard to believe all the humans in the galaxy used to live on that one planet,” says the young prince.

“There weren’t so many of us in those days,” you reply.

For several minutes you all stand in silence, looking out at the blue dot. It’s hard to grasp the antiquity involved, to envision people living savage lives for tens of thousands of years before one day rising up to take their place in the galaxy. Somehow Earth always seems almost magical, as though you’re looking upon a fabulous heirloom.

“You’re cleared for planetfall,” says a voice from the communicator, bringing your shared reverie to a close.

You head to the shuttle bay alongside your companions, an ill matched assortment of individuals who hope to sway the destiny of human space. The task before you will be difficult. But this is Princess Illaria’s domain. She’s been trained for politics and diplomacy almost from the time of her birth. If anyone can turn the Union of Human Worlds against the Centurians, it’s her.

As your vehicle descends towards the planet, Wilex’s cruiser is already moving away – being escorted back to the edge of the system.

You know there’s trouble the instant the hatch opens, and you step off the shuttle.

A group of men and women in the blue uniforms of the UHW’s security force are approaching across the landing pad, laser rifles in their hands. A short distance behind them are two figures in drab grey.

“Centurians,” says the Princess.

“No violence,” you say. “That means you, Ragnar. You too, Tel. Remember – we’re here for diplomacy. There’ll be plenty of time to kill Centurians later.”

Ragnar grunts in what you hope is acquiescence. Telemachus says nothing.

The deputation draws close, and when you see the smug looks on the Centurians’ faces you almost forget your own admonition. The temptation to draw your sidearm and shoot them off is almost overwhelming. But you stay your hand, and wait as one of the UHW people steps forward. Judging by her uniform, she’s a person of some importance.

“Princess Illaria?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Your Highness, I’ve been authorized to take you and the captain of your bodyguards into custody.”

The Princess raises her hand, forestalling the exclamations which were about to fly from your lips, and likely those of your companions as well.

“On what grounds?” she asks.

“For your unprovoked attack on a Centurian vessel!” one of the Centurians cries out.

You grab Ragnar’s arm as he starts to move. It’s like grasping hold of a metal pillar. But the Niflung stops all the same, refraining from leaping at the Centurian and tearing him limb from limb.

“You were given permission to be present at the arrest,” the woman in the fancy uniform says, glaring at the Centurian, “not to interfere. Keep quiet, or I’ll have you removed.”

The Centurian shrugs, the smugness on his face undiminished.

“The Centurian Collective has charged that a pilot under your command carried out a fatal act of violence against one of their ships,” she says, turning back to the Princess. “I’ve been ordered to take the two of you into custody while the matter can be adjudicated.”

The Princess looks to you, her face impassive but her eyes betraying her shock. A simple stratagem, but one you somehow hadn’t foreseen. The events leading up to the Centurian attack on the Sian Empire seemed to you so obvious a pretext, so blatantly an excuse to start a war, that you hadn’t even considered that they might attempt to bring such charges against you here on Earth.

You meet the Princess’ gaze, holding it with your own. She’s waiting for you to help her, as you’ve done so many times in the past. But you’re at as complete a loss as her. Your mind spins as you try to seize hold of something, anything…

“We refuse to comply with your request.”

Lu Bu’s elegant, cultured voice pierces the fog of your confusion. All eyes turn to him in surprise.

“Excuse me?” the officer says.

“Your request is not legally binding, and as such we are quite at liberty to reject it.”

The UHW soldiers begin to raise their weapons in anticipation of violence. But if Lu Bu notices the gesture, he ignores it.

“Heads of state are not obliged to allow themselves to be taken into custody unless they have been convicted of – not merely charged with – a crime of sufficient severity.”

“The Princess isn’t the head of the Sian Empire!” one of the Centurians cries out.

“I won’t tell you again – keep quiet!” says the officer, her eyes remaining fixed on Lu Bu as though trying to scrutinize and fathom the robot. “But he’s right. The Emperor is your head of state.”

“Under the laws of both the Sian Empire and the Union of Human Worlds, Her Highness is the acting head of state while the Emperor is presumed to be a prisoner of war, and hence unable to carry out his official duties.”

“I don’t-”

“If you doubt my understanding of the law, you’re free to consult with your superiors. They will bear out my argument.”

You glance at the Centurians, and see the look that passes between the two of them. It’s enough to confirm that Lu Bu’s right. They know they’re beaten on that score.

“What about her captain?” one of them yells.

“Remove those men!” the officer says.

A few of the soldiers break away from the main group, and approach the Centurians. The two men in grey look to be on the verge of resistance. But they comply without a word – clearly unwilling to risk jeopardizing their faction’s political efforts by resisting arrest and invoking the ire of the UHW.

“You’ll have to come with me,” the officer says, facing you.

“No,” says Lu Bu. “The captain is likewise immune from such measures for the time being.”

“On what basis?” The officer’s words aren’t hostile, and there’s no disbelief in them. It seems she’s beginning to realize just how capable the robot is in such matters.

“Lawyers representing themselves or other parties in such a case cannot be taken into custody until that case reaches its conclusion. As a legal representative in this matter, the captain must remain free until that time.”

“You’re not a lawyer,” the woman says, staring at you. “You’re a bodyguard… a pilot. What do you know about the law?”

“With the greatest of respect,” says Lu Bu, “the fitness or inadequacy of Her Highness’ legal counsel is none of your concern.”

For the next several minutes the officer talks into a communicator, reiterating Lu Bu’s arguments – presumably to one of her superiors. Her interlocutor’s words are lost to you, but when she severs the connection she simply arranges for you to sign the appropriate forms on her datapad, and tells you that you’re free to go.

“That was amazing,” the Princess says, once the officer and her soldiers have left.

Lu Bu bows.

“I’m grateful for your praise, Highness. But I’m afraid that further problems await us. The captain is now your official legal representative, and will have to serve in that capacity within the courtroom.”

That night, at the Sian embassy, you discuss the bizarre situation in which you find yourselves. Lu Bu assures you that the case the Centurians are bringing can be twisted to serve your own purposes. It will take place before UHW judges, and provide a perfect platform in which to make your accusations against the Collective. The Princess is impressed with this idea, and you have to admit that it’s a good one. But Lu Bu is less convinced that you can be turned into a legal mastermind within a few weeks.

After your evening meal, the robot begins to brief you on the basics of the law, or at least its relevant portions – such as courtroom behavior. He’s barely into the proper forms of address one should use when the Princess is called away to answer an urgent communication.

When she returns, the look on her face speaks of disaster.

“The trial…” she says, as though she can’t quite believe the words which are coming out of her own mouth. “It’s going to start tomorrow!”

“Ah…” says Lu Bu. “A cunning move on the part of the Centurians. Demanding or otherwise arranging a speedy trial, as they know the opposing counsel will be as yet unprepared.”

“Great…” you sigh.

Courtroom Drama

When the doors open, and you walk into the courtroom, you feel like you’ve stepped into a dream. You still can’t believe you’re actually going to do this…

The first thing that meets your eyes is the raised bench at the opposite end of the court. Five figures in black robes sit there, the judges who will rule on the case. Each one of them comes from a different faction, representing five of the powers that make up the Union of Human Worlds. Their stares seem to pierce you like lasers, and you drop your gaze to take in the rest of the room instead.

Dozens of faces are turned to you on either side of the aisle – their eyes fixed on you as though they’re sizing you up and judging your worth. A large crowd fills the seats, as you’d expected. A case of this magnitude, set against the backdrop of armed conflict and the astounding accusations TALOS has so recently leveled against the Collective, has captured the interest of all the disparate factions of humanity. There are even a few aliens in the crowd, who apparently also regard this trial as being of some importance, or else believe it might offer an interesting spectacle.

In the front row on the right hand side, you see grey-clad men with mocking sneers on their faces. The Centurian lawyer and his retinue. Your adversaries in this battle.

You look over to the opposite side of the aisle, where your companions are sitting. The Princess’ smiling face is filled with confidence, though you can’t help but feel that it’s a mask for your benefit.

“Remember, I’ll be here when you need legal advice,” Lu Bu tells you as you take your seat next to him.

“And I’ll be here if you want someone to rip the Centurians’ spines out,” Ragnar says from over your shoulder.

You listen to your companions’ exhortations and well wishes, and Lu Bu’s last minute legal advice, without really hearing any of it. Only the Princess’ face adheres to the surface of your mind, its look of trust emblazed there like an afterimage of the sun. She’s relying on you. You can’t let her down.

A few minutes later the trial is underway, and the Centurian’s lawyer – Advocate Tulk – is standing at the podium delivering his scathing accusations. You keep your eyes focused in front of you, knowing that if you so much as look at him you might not be able to prevent a murderous expression from crossing your face. And you can feel the judges’ gazes on you, probing you, scanning you for a sign of any effect your opponent’s words might be having on you.

Finally he sits back down, and it’s your turn.

In Her Defense

At first you stumble, your words halting and hesitating. But you think back to the episode of the Centurian ship that initiated this entire mess, and of everything which has happened since. You see all the things the Princess and your people have suffered because of the Centurians. Then the words come like a raging river, a passionate torrent.

You tell the judges of what happened on that fateful occasion, when Centurian ships approached the Child of Heaven. And you’re sure you see some of them give slight nods. You continue, making your own accusation against the Centurians – arguing what you know to be the truth, that they orchestrated events to devise a pretext for war against the Sian Empire.

Lu Bu told you that the opening statement was the place to throw as much mud as possible, and so you do. You bring up the matter of Fabricatrix Vespasia and her arrangement with the Centurians, you invoke the specter of the Besalaad, and all that their alliance with the Centurians might portend. Of both you have scant evidence, but you know that the audience might be swayed even if the judges are not. And if the factions the judges represent are brought over to your way of thinking, could they themselves maintain their supposed neutrality?

When you sit back down, the look of approval on the Princess’ face shows you that you did well. Then it’s her turn, as she’s called up to be the case’s first witness.

From the moment she takes the stand, Advocate Tulk goes for the kill. He barks questions at her, yells condemnations, trying to break her beneath the savage barrage of his examination. Illaria looks to you, her eyes wavering, anxious for your support.

The Law Is A(n) Ass

You begin to rise, to call out your objection as Tulk hammers her. But Lu Bu grabs your shoulder. He whispers in your ear, and as you look around the courtroom you realize that what he’s telling you is the truth.

So you remain seated, enduring the pain of her discomfort, meeting her eye and willing her as much strength as you can.

There are murmurs around the courtroom, more evidence of Lu Bu’s legal savvy. As he told you, the audience – and perhaps even the judges – are turning against Tulk. Seeing a malevolent, almost lupine lawyer hound a beautiful young princess draws upon their emotions. Just or unjust, it’s helping your case.

And when it’s your turn you build on that. Your own questions are calculated to draw the best out of her, to show the world the kind of woman she is. Her sense of honor, of duty, her love and compassion for her people – all these things are woven into a tapestry before the eyes of those assembled in the courtroom.

By the time she steps off the stand she’s smiling, and her smile is echoed on many faces around the chamber. Justice may not be so blind after all, but as long as she sees things your way you can endure that failing with equanimity.

Next it’s Telemachus who takes the stand, and it’s your turn to ask the first questions.

Hostile Witness

You walk the boy through an account of what happened to his father, as the two of you hurriedly planned the night before. You ask your questions slowly, giving him time to steel himself – unwilling to make him suffer any more than can be avoided. But his grief is obvious, and will almost certainly invoke sympathy. As that thought crosses your mind, it occurs to you just how vicious and callous a profession the law is.

You mouth the words “thank you” before turning away and returning to your seat, knowing just how hard that testimony was for him. He gives you a faint smile in response. But it dies from his lips as Advocate Tulk rises.

The Centurian remains at his table, not approaching the stand. Perhaps he’s learned a lesson from the reaction to his questioning of the Princess, and doesn’t want to seem overbearing towards the young boy.

“Prince Telemachus…” The lawyer’s voice is filled with respect and deference as he delivers the title, and the insincerity makes you want to hurt him all the more. “…would you concede that your unprovoked and murderous attack on Centurian men and women was directly responsible for your father’s death?”

There’s a hush in the courtroom, as though the already present silence of the audience has somehow deepened into something almost tangible.

Emotions play across the young prince’s face. There’s anger, there’s shock. And you think there’s something else as well… Guilt. The Centurian’s barb has struck home.

“I…” His lip trembles.

“Objection!” you yell, rising to your feet. “This question-”

“-is entirely relevant,” says Advocate Tulk. “Did my ‘learned’ colleague not bring up the attack on Gallea in an effort to blacken the name of the Centurian Collective? So why should I not be able to delve into the reason for that attack?”

“Overruled!” says the judge on the middle.

You fall back into your chair, wincing as you see the look on the boy’s face. But he fights back his tears, and manages to eclipse sorrow with rage.

“You invaded my planet! That’s why I attacked you!”

“Our soldiers were in hot pursuit of known fugitives,” Tulk replies, “and would have been happy to explain the matter to King Salastro after their apprehension. But instead you slaughtered them, butchered them like animals. Faced with such aggression, such an act of war, what choice did we have but to defend ourselves and retaliate?”

“I’ll kill you!” the boy screams, shaking his fist. “I’ll kill all of you!”

“Really, Prince Telemachus,” he says, “such abuse is quite uncalled for.”

Telemachus screams a cry of pure rage, and jumps over the witness stand’s barrier, landing on the courtroom floor. You leap up in turn, and dash to intercept him as he charges at the Centurians.

“Let me go!” he yells, as you grab hold of him. “I’ll kill him! I’ll tear his heart out!”

He struggles and thrashes in your grasp, his fists beating against your ribs.

“Give him to me,” says Talia, appearing at your side.

She takes hold of the prince, and pulls him down the aisle.

“Get off me!” he screams. “They’ll all die for what they did! All of them!”

His voice dies away as the courtroom doors close behind the two of them. You turn to Tulk, your hands clenching into fists. The lawyer simply smiles.

“Hey!”

You turn around as you hear Ragnar’s voice, and that’s all that stops you from driving your boot through the Centurian’s head. You approach the Niflung.

“Call me next,” he says.

“What? Why-”

“Just call me,” he says.

Under the circumstances, you have to do something… anything… to keep things moving – lest you succumb to the advocate’s provocation. So you nod, and Ragnar is called to the stand.

It’s in the very first moments that the regret begins to sink in. The bailiff approaches him with a datapad, for the swearing-in ceremony which was a brief formality with the previous witnesses.

“Which book would you like?” he asks.

“All of them,” Ragnar replies. “I’m an omni-theist.”

The bailiff taps the datapad’s screen a few times, and holds it out towards him.

“What the hell is this? Do you think I can swear to my god on a stupid piece of tech? Bring me proper books, damn it! Good ones – none of your cheap junk!”

You look to the Princess, and see your confusion mirrored there. Even Lu Bu shrugs, not understanding what the Niflung’s playing at.

Then the bailiff returns, laden down beneath a huge pile of thick, metal-embossed tomes, and misgiving strikes.

“Oh no…” says Lu Bu, as the books are set down within Ragnar’s reach.

“I must protest!” says Advocate Tulk, getting to his feet. “The witness is wasting-”

His flow of eloquence is ended when a huge book crashes against his face. A moment later it’s followed by another. Then another. A volley of scripture rains down upon the hapless lawyer, heavy tomes smashing against him.

The judges yell, the audience yells… The entire courtroom is consumed by the uproar.

“Listen! Quickly!” shouts Lu Bu.

You run to his side, and listen to his hurried whispers.

Advocate Tulk

“Order!” roars one of the judges, a huge man with long black hair framing his rough, bearded face. “Order in court, or I’ll take my gavel to the lot of you!”

At last the shouting dies down, and silence rushes to fill the vacuum it’s left behind – punctuated only by the agonized groans of Advocate Tulk as he sprawls face down on the floor.

To your amazement, the judge seems on the verge of laughing. It occurs to you that he’s a Niflung, like your bellicose compatriot.

More bailiffs have appeared from some inner recess, and are converging in front of the witness stand. Ragnar rises to his feet, a grin on his face, and slams a fist into the palm of his other hand. The resounding clunk causes them to retreat a few paces.

“Bailiffs, seize-”

“One moment, Your Honor,” you say, as Lu Bu prompts you with a gesture. “UHW law clearly states that the only crime a witness is eligible to commit on the stand is perjury. Technically it’s impossible for my friend here to have committed assault, grievous bodily harm, attempted murder, or any other offence you may wish to charge him with.”

“That’s not what that law was intended to mean,” says the judge on the far left of the bench.

“Perhaps not,” you reply. “But I’m a lawyer, not a lawmaker.”

The judge sighs.

“Perhaps a brief recess…”

It’s at that moment that Tulk gets to his feet. There’s a gasp from the audience. Part of the flesh on his face has peeled away, revealing gleaming metal and the burning glow of a cybernetic eye. His expression is positively ferocious.

“Time to die, Sian dog!” he snarls.

Long metal blades flick out from the ends of his fingers, and laser energy pools around his artificial eye.

The courtroom is a scene of wrack and ruin. All around the chamber wood is scarred, burned, or smashed. Papers are strewn about, nuggets of legal wisdom lying trampled and unforgotten. Other than a few heads poking up from behind the audiences’ seats, you and your companions are the room’s only visible occupants – along with the Centurian lawyer lying motionless on the floor. Most fled when the fighting started.

But after a few moments of awkward silence as you all wonder what to do next, the elderly judge who was sitting in the middle gets to his feet behind the bench.

“Most improper. Most improper indeed. This trial is adjourned till tomor-” He breaks off as he surveys the utter destruction spread out below him. “Until after the weekend.” |-|

Bar=
Bar

“I like the part where you stomped on his face,” Telemachus says, as he plays the footage of the courtroom brawl for perhaps the dozenth time.

“What made you think it was a good idea to put Ragnar on the stand anyway?” asks Talia.

“An unorthodox strategy, perhaps,” says Lu Bu. “But it turned out well. We were fortunate that the Centurians’ lawyer was so easily provoked. His rampage should have successfully nullified any ill effect from Ragnar’s misbehavior.”

“Where is Ragnar, anyway?” you ask.

The Niflung wandered off shortly after you returned to the embassy, and he didn’t dine with the rest of you.

“Not seen him,” says Talia. “He’s probably off breaking something.”

“Good guess, but no.”

Ragnar comes through the doorway. He pauses for a moment, and looks at the screen Telemachus is watching. He gives a rumbling laugh as he sees himself headbutting Tulk, before turning back to you.

“I got thinking.”

“It’s about time you started,” Talia remarks.

“There are five judges on that panel. That means we just have to win a few of them over, and the trial will go our way.”

“That’s what the Princess is doing,” you reply. “She’s downstairs having a meeting with the Novocastrian ambassador. If she can persuade him, he might be able to influence their judge.”

“Good,” says Ragnar. “But I can do better than that. How would you like to meet Bjorn Bjorsson, the Niflung judge?”

“You know him?” Telemachus asks, pausing the footage and leaving Tulk’s face frozen in a comical distortion as it makes contact with Ragnar’s fist.

“No. But I asked around our embassy. Found out the address of the quiet little place he likes to drink at. He’s meant to be there now.”

“I’m not sure approaching a judge in a tavern would be a wise course of action,” says Lu Bu.

“Trust me,” says Ragnar. “I know the way my people think. And I heard some stories from one of the guards at the embassy. We go to the bar, drink with him a bit, and he’ll be on our side in no time.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” you say, remembering the Niflung judge’s suppressed mirth after Ragnar’s book tossing trick.

You get to your feet, and grab your jacket. Then you head off with Ragnar, leaving the others to watch over the Princess – wondering what you’re getting yourself into.

In Vino Socius

“Ah, the book-thrower!” Bjorsson says, as the two of you appear over his table. A broad grin appears across his ursine face. “Here to start another fight?”

“Plenty of time for fighting,” Ragnar replies. “First my friend here’s going to drink you under the table.”

Bjorsson looks you up and down, as though sizing you up, and his grin widens.

“Ha! You think you can out-drink a Niflung?” He looks Ragnar up and down in turn, and gives an approving nod. “Now you, son… You might be a challenge.”

“Wouldn’t be fair.” Ragnar pats his abdomen with a heavy hand. “When they put my cybernetics in, I made sure I’d still be able to get drunk. But I could drink every drop in this entire bar and still be able to walk home.”

“Well,” Bjorsson says, turning back to you, “let’s see what you’re made of.”

You sit down opposite him, wondering again what you’re getting yourself into. But Ragnar promised you that you won’t actually have to out-drink the Niflung. In their culture it’s apparently the thought that counts in such things. You just need to hold your own, and take advantage of your mutual drunkenness to present your case.

"Glass" as a Verb

Bjorsson’s bellowing laugh echoes around the bar.

“Then what did you do?” he asks.

“Shot him again!” you reply.

This time all three of you laugh, with the collective hilarity that only alcohol can bring.

Empty vessels in all manner of shapes and sizes litter the table. There are even wine glasses, though you’re sure none of you has been drinking wine. And when did that glowing one get there?

After a few more drinks, Bjorsson is telling you about how he’s always been suspicious of the “Centies”. You look to Ragnar, and read victory in his ferocious grin. He was right. This was a great plan…

“Well, look what we have here!”

It’s only when you follow Bjorsson and Ragnar’s gazes that you realize the words were directed at you. You turn around, the intervening distance flashing past in a blur, and see a man wearing a Centurian uniform of some kind. And unless you’re far drunker than you thought you were, there are more behind him.

“They let Sian scum drink in this place?” he asks, as though to the world at large.

You stagger to your feet, bumping into your chair and sending it crashing down behind you. Scotch splashes against the glass walls of the vessel in your hand, but manages to stay put.

“Enjoying a last drink before you and your whore Princess end up in jail?”

You grope around for a cutting insult, something to shut him up and put him in his place. But nothing emerges from the foggy depths of your mind. Instead you’ll have to use what’s to hand…

Barroom Brawl

The Centurian falls to the floor screaming, his hands clutching his ruined face.

But you only have a second to enjoy your handiwork, and lament the loss of your beverage. Then the other Centurians run towards you, and all hell breaks loose.

You have time to see Ragnar grab one of the Centurians, lift him above his head, and bring him down spine-first across his knee. There’s an amusing snap as his vertebrae pop. Then a fist crashes into the side of your head, and you decide to focus on your own portion of the fight.

Glass Cannon

“Come on then!” you yell, feeling like the hero of an ancient epic as you stand above the groaning forms of your defeated foes.

You look around for another opponent, your body coursing with adrenaline that demands its conversions into acts of violence.

Ragnar has two Centurians by their necks, and is bashing their heads together again and again as if they were a pair of cymbals. Hilarious, but no use to you. There has to be one left… Ah!

You almost cheer as you see one of the Centurians get to his feet, not yet beaten beyond the reach of consciousness.

“Come on!” you repeat, gesturing for him to fight.

He gives you one terrified look, however, and runs away. You take a step after him, but the world’s very blurry right now, and it occurs to you that you’ll never run him down. Instead you grab a glass from a nearby table, and take aim.

Robotic Rautha

The tumbler shatters against the back of the Centurian’s head just as he passes through the bar’s door, and even you can’t quite believe you made the throw. He topples into the street, and the door swings shut behind him.

“Looks like we’ve run out of Centurians,” Ragnar grunts.

“Should go to Alpha Centauri,” you mutter. “Just go there right now and beat the crap out of all of them.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

You’re still expounding on your desire to brutalize the Centurians in their home system when the door to the bar opens once more, revealing a figure adorned with bright red lights.

“You! They said you were here!” comes a familiar voice that you can’t seem to place.

There’s a whirring and clanking noise as the figure comes towards you, its blurry outline sharpening to reveal a robotic body with a jar where its head should be. It takes you a few moments to recognize the face swimming in the colored liquids and gasses beyond the glass.

“Time for payback!” he says, grinding his metal knuckles against his equally metal palm.

“Didn’t we kill this one?” you ask, turning to Ragnar.

“He must have got better,” the Niflung replies with a shrug.

You look back at your enemy, who seems rather perturbed at being spoken of in such a way, relegated to the third person.

“Better kill him again,” you muse.

“Bashed him good,” you say, gazing down at the wrecked metal body. You sway slightly, as though you’re looking over the edge of a cliff instead of at the floor.

You feel a pillar support your weight, and realize that it’s Ragnar.

“That was a damn good fight!” says Bjorrson.

You look over, and see that he’s still sitting at his table, a fresh drink in his hand.

“But I think you’d better get this one home,” he continues.

“Sure,” says Ragnar, half-leading, half-carrying you towards the door.

“See you in court!” you shout back over your shoulder. |-|

Centurian Embassy=
Centurian Embassy

Light assails your eyes, and a dull ache your head. For a moment disorientation is total, and you wonder if your ship crash-landed somewhere. Then memory makes its belated arrival in your mind.

“Oh…”

You sit up, the contents of your skull protesting as you do so, and glance around the room. Your gaze falls upon the holographic display on your bedside table, the time emblazoned there in accusing digits. It’s late. You should have been awake hours ago.

Next to the clock you see a glass of water, and beside that a couple of green capsules lying on a piece of paper. You pull the paper towards you, sending the pills rolling away to rest against the clock’s base unit. The words ‘Stop slacking, captain!’ are written on it, in a fist you recognize as Talia’s.

Later, your head cleared by the glorious wonders of chemistry, you enter the lounge you and your companions have annexed for the duration of your stay at the embassy.

Telemachus is in front of the screen, as usual. This time he appears to be playing a retro-style videogame, in which a pixilated version of himself is jumping on the heads of some indefinable creatures. The others are sat around a low table, its surface littered with papers and datapads. A few holograms rise up from this mass of material, one of them showing Bjorn Bjorsson’s face. There’s a big tick mark floating in the air next to the image.

There’s a lurking grin on the Princess’ face as you meet her gaze, and you rack your mind as you try to remember if you encountered her last night whilst in your intoxicated state. But that portion of your life is now a complete blank, a sliver of history as inscrutable as the fate of a prehistoric civilization.

“About time you woke up,” Ragnar says. There’s nothing lurking about his grin. It’s so wide it almost threatens to tear his head in two. “If we Niflungs stayed in bed every time we had a couple of drinks, the entire dominion would grind to a halt.”

“We’ve been waiting for you, captain,” says Talia. “A note came for you this morning.”

She picks something up from the table, and passes it to you. It’s a disposable datapad.

“It was delivered to the guards outside the embassy,” the Princess says. “They weren’t sure whom it was meant to be addressed to, but one of the secretaries realized it was probably intended for you.”

You turn your attention to the pad’s screen, reading the text displayed there.

‘Human lawyer who fights with glass,

I can assist you in your struggle against the pitiful Centurian Collective. Meet me at the location attached to this message.

- Another puny human’

The enclosed location appears to be in a nearby park, a short walk from the Sian embassy. But no time, or even date, is mentioned in the missive.

“I believe the contents of the note are far too moronic to indicate a Centurian trap,” says Lu Bu.

“Agreed,” you say. “Let’s go there, and see what this means.”

You look to the Princess, and a soft smile appears on her face as she understands your thoughts.

“I’ll be at the embassy all day, surrounded by some of the empire’s best guardsmen. Take the others with you. I’ll be quite safe.”

As the result of a well-intentioned but somewhat absurd attempt to represent the multicultural flavor of the UHW’s member states, the park in question is a strange mishmash of different aesthetics. Trees and flowers which nature hadn’t seen fit to place on the same continent, or sometimes even the same planet, are arranged side by side, among a forced marriage of lampposts and decorative ornamentations in a variety of different styles.

The meeting spot itself is a gazebo shaped like a multi-tiered Chinese pagoda, that stands in the middle of a copse of Scandinavian conifers. A single figure awaits you inside.

“You are late!” he says as you enter, in a curious accent you can’t quite identify.

The speaker is a man so thin he seems emaciated. Even with a thick brown overcoat wrapped around his sparse frame, he’s still less than half your girth. Above his collar is a large head that’s rather out of proportion with his body. It’s as though someone squeezed his body like a tube of nutrients, and drove his contents up into his skull. Big square glasses adorn a pale face, the upper edges of their rims scraping against the brim of the large hat that caps off his absurd appearance. There’s a look of anger on his face, so excessive that it seems unreal – more like a mask that a true display of emotion.

“Late?” you reply, realizing that you’ve been silent for a few moments while staring at him. “You didn’t tell me what time to come.”

A look of surprise appears on the man’s face, with such suddenness that you’re sure you never saw the transition between one expression and the other.

“Ah… I see,” he says. “It must have slipped my puny human mind. You know how stupid we humans can be.”

“You don’t sound like a human,” says Telemachus.

“Yeah,” says Ragnar. “You talk funny.”

“Nonsense! I am a perfectly normal specimen of a human stink-beast!”

“Human stink-beast?” says Talia, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“This person is clearly a Rylattu,” says Lu Bu.

“Wretched machine! Only a robot could have penetrated my masterful disguise!”

Telemachus takes a step towards the strange being, as though inspecting him close-up. Then he draws back his foot, and kicks him in the shin.

“Stupid human!” the bizarre individual yells, hopping on one leg.

His pale face undulates, wobbling as though it were liquid. Then it sloughs away, leaving behind dark green flesh. The Rylattu stands revealed, looking even more comical now in his human clothing and glasses. And it occurs to you that his face is familiar.

“I’ve seen you before. You were in the courtroom.”

“Yes! And I was there in the bar, when you engaged in the typical human pursuit of drunken violence.”

“Your note said you could help us against the Centurians,” you say.

“Perhaps your inferior human mind wishes to understand why a mighty and superior Rylattu would care about your pitiful struggles?”

“I reckon I could rip him in half,” Ragnar muses. “Can I try?”

The Niflung steps towards the Rylattu, who scurries away towards one of the gazebo’s exits.

“Call off your beast! Call him off!”

“Ragnar,” you sigh, “leave him alone.”

He grunts, but stops advancing. The Rylattu, after apparently taking a moment to ascertain that he’s really not about to be torn in half, comes away from the exit.

“I am Kweeg Sul Plon. I serve as ambassador to the filthy…” He trails off as the Niflung glares at him. “… to the humans of the UHW.”

“So you’re here on behalf of the Rylattu people?” you ask.

“Yes. The Centurian Collective has earned our wrath, and we wish to help bring about their destruction.”

“The Rylattu used to sell weapons to the Centurians,” says Lu Bu.

“You are correct, metal stink-beast,” Kweeg replies. “But some time ago they ended all trading agreements with us, scorning our powerful technology. When your TALOS allies came before the UHW, we learned why.”

“Because they were getting their tech from the Besalaad instead,” says Telemachus.

“And now they’re going to pay!” the ambassador says, shaking his clenched fist.

“The Rylattu are going to join the war?” you ask.

“What? Are you brains infested with oozing parasites? Our mighty race would never go to war for humans. But we can help you all the same. Our agents hacked into the pitiful security systems at the Centurian embassy, and learned of critical data which we believe would be of great value to their enemies.”

“What data?” you ask.

“We could not access it. Our spies believe it’s stored in a terminal that isn’t connected to their network. It can only be accessed from within the embassy.”

“Then what good is it?” growls Ragnar. “We can’t just march into the Centurian embassy and kill everyone inside. I already asked, and the Princess said no.”

“I can get you inside their embassy,” Kweeg replies. “You just have to follow the plan constructed by my infinitely superior intellect…”

Remote Control

“We’re in place,” you say into the communicator.

You look around at Talia, Ragnar, and the Princess. Each of them nods in turn to indicate their readiness, though Ragnar squirms slightly. Accustomed as he is to being bare-chested, the tight-fitting garments you’re all wearing are apparently causing him some discomfort. But that can’t be avoided. They’re a vital part of the plan.

You think of giving one final admonition to the Princess, telling her how risky it is – how she should be back at the embassy instead of taking part in this insane Rylattu scheme. But what’s the use? You’ve been through that already. And as she told you, if you’re caught or killed infiltrating the embassy, the result of her trial is a foregone conclusion anyway. So, she argued, she might as well share the risk up front if she’s going to have to bear it anyway.

“Go for it, Tel.”

“Activating it!” he replies over the communicator.

Some distance away is the Collective’s embassy, and before it a couple of their Centurian Sentinels – war machines used both on the battlefield and for security duty. It’s on these vehicles that all four of your gazes are fastened.

There’s a long second in which nothing happens, and worries of failure flutter inside your stomach. Then electricity starts crackling around the cockpit of one of the Sentinels. The canopy flies open, and the pilot leaps out – screaming in pain. He sprints away from the malfunctioning walker, and the other sentinel pivots round towards it to see what’s going on.

The pilotless Sentinel opens fire, its weapons ripping into its counterpart’s steel flesh. The surprised driver of the other machine manages to fire back, before its upper body explodes – leaving a mass of twisted metal atop its stocky legs.

Sirens sound from within the walls of the embassy.

“Good work,” you say. Then you issue your instructions, guiding Telemachus and his hijacked vehicle on their path of destruction.

Infiltration

A section of wall explodes in a shower of white rubble. The Sentinel faces it for a moment longer, as though admiring its handiwork. Then it lumbers off in a different direction, blasting at other parts of the embassy, firing streams of bullets at the soldiers charging towards it.

“Now!” you say.

You each hit the activation buttons on your suits, and watch as the holographic layers flood over you like a voracious plague devouring your bodies. In a moment four people in the uniforms of Centurian guardsmen are standing there.

“Move!” Talia hisses.

The four of you sprint from the trees, making for the wall and its new improvised entrance. If Telemachus can keep them occupied, this might just work…

Just Act Casual...

You slip through the gap, entering the courtyard around the embassy’s main building.

“They broke my Sentinel!” says Telemachus. The voice is quiet, the volume turned so low it would be inaudible to anyone without an aural implant to pick the sound up and enhance it. “I’ll grab another!”

A moment later there’s the sound of fresh weapons fire, and more explosions.

Guardsmen are running across the courtyard, towards the far end of the complex – where Telemachus continues to cause havoc. None of them pays you the slightest heed.

You dart towards the building, the others following close behind. In another moment you’re inside.

“This way,” you say.

Kweeg gave you detailed plans of the embassy, along with a likely location for your target. So you follow the route you mapped out beforehand, along corridors which are thankfully deserted but for a few panicked politicians and secretaries, who seem more interested in running around like headless chickens than confronting you.

Then you round a corner, and come face to face with a group of guardsmen.

Ragnar tenses, and reaches for his axe.

“No!” Talia whispers.

One of the guardsmen approaches you.

“What are you doing in here?” she asks. Her face is hidden behind her helmet, but you feel her stare sweeping across the four of you.

You can’t afford a fight, not here. You have to talk your way out of this…

Data Diving

“Why aren’t you out there defending the embassy?” the Centurian asks.

You hear a faint nervousness in her voice. If that means what you think it means…

“Why aren’t you out there?” you retort.

“We… we were assigned to interior security,” she replies. But her voice is even more troubled now. You’ve found your opening.

“According to protocol you should be out there anyway, responding to the threat!”

The nature of Centurian security protocols is as alien to you as Sussurran biochemistry, but her shifting body language shows that you’ve struck the right chord.

“To hell with that!” she says. “We saw what that haywire Sentinel was doing on the monitor. We’re not going out there to get chewed up!”

“Well, neither are we!” you reply.

“We didn’t see you!” the woman says.

“Likewise!”

Then she ducks into a nearby room, the other guards following – each one casting an anxious look towards you, like children caught pilfering. The door closes behind the last of them.

You continue up the corridor, and come to a sealed metal door. It’s thick and sturdy, evidently designed to ensure that the unwelcome are kept out. On the other side is the room Kweeg showed you on the plans.

“Locked,” you say. “There’s something important behind it, at least.”

The Princess draws out one of the data spikes the Rylattu provided you with, and slots it into the security panel beside the doorway. The barrier slides away, revealing the chamber beyond.

“Jackpot!” says Talia.

In the middle of the room is a large computer terminal.

“You need to hurry!” comes Telemachus’ voice. “There aren’t many Sentinels left for me to grab!”

Centurian Sentinel

“Found anything yet?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

You, Ragnar, and Talia are standing at the doorway – weapons in hand. The door doesn’t appear to want to close, and Centurians might appear at any moment. If that happens, you’ll have to start shooting and just take your chances.

“Nothing useful,” the Princess replies. She’s by the terminal, having wielded another data spike to gain access to its files.

You see a series of images flashing across the huge screen, before turning back to the door. A moment later you hear her gasp.

“Look!” she says.

You join her at the terminal, and as you lay eyes on the screen your breath is stolen from your throat in turn.

“Grab it!” you manage at last.

“Already downloading it,” she replies. She yanks the data spike out of the terminal. “Let’s get out of here.”

The four of you retrace your steps, and once again fortune seems to smile on you. The corridors are deserted but for the occasional head peaking out of a doorway.

“Is it safe yet?” a man’s flabby-chinned head asks.

Before you can reply there’s the distant boom of an explosion, and the head retracts like that of a tortoise, disappearing back into the room.

You come to the door you entered from, and head out into the courtyard. Then a hail of bullets showers the ground in front of you, and you dash back into the building – shoving the Princess to safety ahead of you.

You crouch down, and look round the corner to take stock of the unexpected and unwelcome threat.

There’s another Sentinel, its torso pivoting as its weapons blaze away at the ground and buildings around it in a seemingly indiscriminate fashion.

“Tel,” you shout, “hold your fire!”

“It’s not me!” he yells back. “I started jacking the last one, and the systems got messed up. I can’t control it!”

A Centurian soldier appears on the other side of the machine. He takes aim at the rampaging vehicle with his laser rifle. But before he can pull the trigger, a missile spins through the air towards him. A fraction of a second later there’s just a pair of legs where he was standing, tottering below an expanding red mist before collapsing.

“We’re going to have to smash it!” says Ragnar.

You nod. You have to get out of here, before you get caught.

There’s a piercing screech, the sound of metal scraping against metal, as the slender part of the Sentinel’s leg finally gives way beneath your fire. The machine lurches, as though trying to maintain its balance. Then it collapses, the damaged limb buckling beneath it. The crash echoes across the courtyard, followed a moment later by the repeated hissing of laser fire as Centurian guards converge on it – brave now that its weapons are useless.

In seconds the wrecked machine is a sparking, flaming heap of scrap metal.

You make a surreptitious gesture to your companions, and start to move towards the wall while the Centurians’ attention is entirely focused on the broken Sentinel. But you’re still several yards away from your goal when the voice calls out to you.

“Hey! You there!”

You sigh, and turn around, your trigger finger twitching in readiness.

“Good job,” the Centurian guardsman says – a captain, from the markings on his shoulders. “You’ll get a medal for this! What’s your name, soldier?”

Your mind gropes for a Centurian name. Unfortunately, the first one that happens to come to mind is ‘General Rahn’. But before it can fly from your tongue, the Princess intervenes.

“Medals are decadent symbols of archaic glory,” she says. “They should be expunged from our civilization, along with all other such relics. A medal! Why don’t we just give out laurel wreaths while we’re at it?”

“Quite right, soldier,” the Centurian says, with what sounds like genuine admiration in his voice.

He turns away, and walks back towards the downed Sentinel – yelling orders to the other guardsmen. The four of you slip through the hole in the wall, and you’re sure the other three are marveling over your good luck just as much as you are. |-|

Asteroid Belt=
Asteroid Belt

“The asteroid belt?” Wilex asks. “You’re sure?”

“We have the data right here,” you say.

The Chief Assembler’s face beams at you from the screen.

“Then we have them!” he laughs. “If the Centurians have a military installation in the Sol System, the UHW can’t possibly let them get away with it. If they did, there would be chaos! When are you going to present your findings?”

“After we storm it,” you reply.

The smile disappears from Wilex’s face, replaced with a look of utmost gravity.

“You’re going to attack?” he says.

“We don’t know how long it’ll be before the Centurians find out about their stolen data, and we can’t risk them destroying the evidence. We came back to the embassy to get what we need, and to meet up with Tel and Lu Bu. Now we’re going straight to our ship.”

“If this place is so important to the Centurians, it could be heavily defended.”

“That’s why we want you to meet us there,” you say. “We’ve already sent word to the Niflung ambassador, and the others we believe we can trust. They’ll pull some strings and keep the security forces off you long enough for you to reach the asteroid.”

“You’re asking us to take part in an attack within UHW territory, without official sanction?”

“Yes. Make your decision quickly.”

You close the connection, and go to join the others.

“How did the asteroid belt even get there?” Telemachus asks.

He was disappointed to learn that he won’t be able to see the belt stretched out in all its glory through the window. In fact, from his reaction one might have assumed that the laws of astrophysics had deliberately chosen to conspire against him. So instead he’s gazing at a monitor, at a zoomed-in map of the Sol System. On that, at least, the asteroids can be seen as a ring circling the sun – human ingenuity compensating for nature’s awkwardness.

“Most physicists think it was created when interstellar dust came together to form the rest of the planets,” replies the Princess. “They say that some of the dust wasn’t able to become its own planet, because of gravitational interference from Jupiter. So it formed asteroids instead.”

You feel the smile creasing your lips. One of the finest educations in all of human space, the result of dozens of the best tutors money could buy. And it’s being used to entertain a small child.

“People used to think there was once a planet there,” she continues, “and it exploded to create the asteroids in the belt. But no one really believes that anymore.”

Loose Lips Explode Ships

“It’s just empty space,” says Telemachus, frowning at his second astral disappointment of the day.

“The asteroids are far apart,” you reply. “Otherwise they’d collapse into a planet under the force of their own gravity.”

“Oh.”

“Check the scanner, captain,” Talia says, pointing.

Two blips have appeared there, just behind the nearest asteroid. As you draw closer, you see their images on another screen.

“Centurian vessels,” says Lu Bu. “Sentries designed to warn their base of approaching danger.”

“Then they’ll know we coming,” growls Ragnar. “Fine by me, but I thought you wanted to surprise them.”

“They won’t risk sending long-range transmissions,” you reply. “If the UHW picked them up, it would reveal the presence of the base. That’s why they’re flying away from us. They want to get close enough to send a short-range message. But they’re not going to make it that far…”

Open Sesame

“Those explosions won’t have gone unnoticed,” Lu Bu says, gazing out of the window as the last lingering sparks of a ship’s life are devoured by the void.

“I’m hoping Bjorsson and the others can keep the patrol ships off us,” you reply. “But we’ll have to make this quick.”

As if on cue, your target appears before you – a large asteroid floating against a scattered backdrop of faraway stars. Its simulacrum appears on a monitor in place of the map of the system.

“There’s the entrance, according to the data we stole,” Talia says, indicating the highlighted point on the image. It’s blinking, as though urging your fire.

You descend towards the asteroid’s surface, in the direction of that blinking area. As you approach, you see green blips on the scanner. Wilex and his people, converging on your location as you asked them to.

Now you just need to get inside. You doubt the Centurians would simply open the door and confirm their presence. But that’s easily solved.

Your thumb presses down on the fire button.

Into the Breach

There’s a slight vibration through the flight cabin, as the ship touches down on the rock – near to the hole you blasted in its surface.

“You found it?” Wilex asks, his excitement almost seeming to surge through the speaker.

“We’re looking at it right now,” you reply.

There, through the window in front of you, is the entrance to the Centurians’ base – its shroud of rock destroyed by your fire.

“Helmets on,” you say.

The words are unnecessary, however. Your companions have already donned and sealed their helmets, and are grabbing hold of their weapons in anticipation of the coming battle.

Telemachus grumbles as he puts his own bulky, ill-fitting helmet on, its collar resting on his shoulders. He presses the button on its side, and a transparent field spreads over his body. When he told you that the cockpit of his mech was safe for use in a zero-atmosphere environment, you asked him if he’d ever tested it. Upon hearing that he hadn’t, you demanded that he take the helmet with him. There were no child-sized spacesuits in the embassy building.

Almost as soon as the six of you leave the ship and begin to fan out – your steps firm against the artificial gravity generated from within the asteroid – laser fire comes from within the doorway.

Centurian Secrets

Streams of fire fly towards the entrance, from your companions and from the battle bots pouring out of the ships that have landed beside your own. It’s so heavy that it seems to drown out the fire coming in the opposite direction. The Centurians don’t stand a chance. The survivors pull back inside, heading deeper into the base.

You and your companions are the first to the entrance, having pressed the attack as soon as the enemies started to retreat. There’s a shimmer of light around your body as you step into the corridor beyond, and you feel a slight resistance.

“There’s air in here,” you call out.

“Finally!” Telemachus yells.

His mech stomps along behind him, operating on autopilot. The moment it passes through the field he yanks off his helmet, causing the bulging field to disappear from around his body. Then he clambers inside the cockpit. The look of elation as he fires up the mech’s laser-edged chainsaw is both disturbing and heartwarming.

“Don’t let up!” you say. “We need to take this place hard and fast.”

“My specialty,” Ragnar replies.

You charge down the corridor, its walls and floor made of rough metal plates fastened to the asteroid’s rock, its ceiling left naked and unadorned. Your weapons blaze as new enemies to mass at the far end – their red lasers flashing towards you. What is it with evil people and red lasers?

Warmaster Kardoc

It’s as though the asteroid plunged into an ocean, and the water surged through its entrance – filling every inch of space as it rushed to drown those inside. That’s how complete and unstoppable the devastation is. Battle bots fan out down each corridor, slaughtering every enemy they come across. But compared to the carnage wrought by you and your companions, their actions are as moonlight unto sunlight, as water unto wine.

With each passage, each chamber you seize, more Centurian corpses litter the floor. Some are riddled with bullets, where Ragnar’s machinegun tore into them. Others lie with neat holes burned into their heads or hearts, victims of Talia’s fast-paced gunslinging or else the Princess’ careful, calculated shots. Those slain by Lu Bu’s blade, Telemachus’ chainsaw, or the Nifling’s axe are far less elegant. In some cases the ruined scraps of their uniforms are all that render them identifiable as human remains.

The nature of the base is soon apparent. You pass through rooms laden with heavy machinery, others full of stacked armaments. This asteroid base must have been intended as a staging point for when the Centurians were finally ready to make their assault on the Earth. Even the most idiotic UHW politician will have to sit up and pay attention when they see the footage, and read the reports.

But the final touch to your victory is provided when you enter another room, a cavern with bare stone walls – furnished with only a single large computer terminal. In front of it stands a hulking form in thick armor, his back to you. Though the last such creature you saw was almost naked, its reptilian flesh on display, there can be no mistaking its outline.

The Besalaad alien babbles away in its unintelligible language. His interlocutor is hidden from you, the screen blocked out by the alien’s immense bulk. But his savage anger is clear. He’s reporting failure.

You gesture to your companions, urging them to take up their positions. The Besalaad’s day is about to get even worse.

He turns round as lasers and bullets scar his armor, a savage roar bellowing from his monstrous face.

“If you were working with the Centurians, you can probably understand me,” you say.

The creature thrashes on the ground. But Ragnar is pinning one of his muscular arms to the ground beneath his knees. The foot of Telemachus’ mech is planted on the other. The wounded alien is powerful, his muscles perhaps enhanced by the armor he’s wearing. But in his weakened and wounded state he can’t throw them off.

“That means we can make you talk,” you continue.

“UHW regulations are quite clear when they say that human beings aren’t supposed to employ torture,” Lu Bu says. “But they don’t say anything about robots…”

The Besalaad purses his lips, and gives a low growl as if he’s about to speak or spit. His jaws make a quick, frantic movement – as though he’s eating. When at last his mouth opens, it’s neither words nor spittle which comes forth. Something large and fleshy flies from his maw, and splats against your chest before falling to the ground – leaving a green stain in its wake. It takes you a moment to understand that it’s the alien’s tongue.

Sickly green liquid erupts from his mouth, splattering across his chest. Then his great body gives one last shudder, before lying still.

By the time you get back to your ship, word has already spread. The communicator bleeps with the news of jostling transmissions, as a dozen people try to reach you. You’re about to reject them, still too filled with adrenaline and elation to deal with babble from the UHW. But you see that one of the messages is from Bjorn Bjorsson, and you decide to accept it.

“Have you heard?” he asks, the instant his image appears on the screen.

“We’ve just come from a firefight,” you reply. “The only things we heard were lasers and explosions. Why? What’s happened?”

“The Centurians have pulled out of the UHW. As soon as word came that you’d stormed their little asteroid, they knew they were screwed. Some of them managed to get into space before the security forces showed up at their embassy. The others are under arrest pending the investigation.”

Bjorsson closes the connection after a few moments, and goes off to play his part in the turbulent events unfolding on Earth.

You look to the Princess, and see her bright eyes sparkling.

“We’ve driven the Centurians from Earth!” she says. “If we handle this right, if we get enough of the UHW behind us, we can take the war to Alpha Centauri itself! And we can free Sian from the Collective’s grasp.” </tabber>

LotS/The Story/Politics of War

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