LotS/The Story/Politics of War/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.