LotS/The Story/Scaean Gates/With Me or Against Me
With Me or Against Me
It begins with a funeral...
Your career as Imperial Jian.
When Wu Tenchu first expounded his plan, laid out the machinations of a mind as wrathful as your own but far more cunning, you found this part abhorrent. To use Illaria's death as a weapon, a political tool... But she would have demanded no less. Duty. Cold, grinding duty. This is what it means to rule, as she was born to do and you're now compelled to do.
Grand Fabricator Marek offered you the use of any of TALOS' worlds for the ceremony. He promised to have thousands, humans and robots alike, toil night and day to build a replica of the imperial mausoleum -- a place to house the bodies in splendor until they could be moved to their rightful resting place on Sian. Other friends of the empire made similar offers. But you declined each in turn.
It was Master Wu who proposed this place, a decision born of both love and hate.
Earth. China. The cultural motherland of the Sian Empire. A shrine built by the imperial family as part of a public works program funded to glorify the settlement in which Daedun Qin was born.
A fitting substitute for the homeworld, but much more as well. It's a reminder of the ancient ties which unite humanity, the very same shared history that the Centurians are so vehement towards.
There are untold thousands outside, vast masses of humans bolstered by contingents from dozens of other species. Some have come to mourn, others to show their respect. Many are there simply for the sake of the spectacle, the knowledge that they're witnessing an event of historical import. You can't blame the lattermost group. Such is human nature. And their presence will be valuable, lend to the event's magnitude.
Those sat within this hall are no different. Every human faction save for the Centurians has sent their representatives, as have numerous alien powers. Heads of state and government, monarchs and commoners, generals and civilians, diplomats and warriors. All mingle upon the pews or stand waiting to make their way forward for a private farewell.
There are those who could justly call themselves friends of the Emperor or Princess, who may have encountered them on the turbulent tides of interstellar politics but formed bonds personal as well as professional -- drawn into friendship by his wisdom and honesty or her intelligence, compassion, warmth, and charisma. On their faces, though some conceal it beneath a façade of impassive strength and diplomatic detachment, you see echoes of the grief wound in crushing coils around your chest. With these you feel kinship, even as you recognize -- with more arrogance than envy -- that the friendship they had, the sorrow they have, are just faint shadows compared to yours.
Other men and women here assembled were never blessed enough to claim friendship with Illaria. Cheated by circumstance, kept away by political realities, they couldn't penetrate into such fortunate circles. But they admired her all the same, respected her talent and her courage. So they've come to mark her passing from this world, with honest if inadequate hearts. To these you feel gratitude and pity.
Then there are the interlopers. Just like the gawkers and spectacle chasers outside. No... worse. For they've had the audacity to trespass among those who loved her, so that they can sham pain, fabricate grief, that they might be seen to be here alongside the others. Them you despise. But they're necessary.
And your hatred is salved, left to smolder instead of blaze, by the knowledge that this ceremony isn't for you. Not for your friends and companions. You already said your goodbyes.
Things before...
Two coffins. Side by side.
At first you'd bristled at that, emotion drowning reason. He murdered her. Killer and killed. Slayer and slain. To look upon her was difficult enough. But him?
Yet Master Wu was intransigent.
"They were separated for long enough," he said. "I won't allow them to be parted again."
Then the wise mandarin's eyes softened. And you knew that their gentle but piercing gaze saw into your mind -- understood the deeper, darker reason for your resistance. His voice slipped from its firmness as he continued.
"He wouldn't have wished to live. Not after what they made him do."
He knew... Of course he knew. It hadn't escaped his sharp eyes and potent mind. The choice you made. The eyes...
The words brought unexpected comfort. Not for the idea they proffered. That was a mere bauble, a thought that had already entered your mind and failed to scratch the surface of your guilt. But from him, from the man who could claim the deepest ties of understanding and friendship with the late Emperor... Your secret was shattered, exposed and soothed -- at least for a time.
So both coffins rested in the little private shrine within the Sian embassy. A private funeral, far removed from the teeming spectacle that would take place on the next day. A moment for unguarded sincerity before the machinations you knew must follow.
There were no speeches. It wasn't a time for oratory, however well-intentioned. None of you had the tongue for it. There was only talk and tears. And promises. The others knew what was to come, and they swore that they would play their parts.
Artemis Kess, who had traveled across the galaxy to see the Princess one final time, told you that she would fight at your side when you made your move -- that she'd tear Dule's face from his skull. But you remembered how proud Illaria had been, how much happiness she had derived from knowing that Kess was free from the murderous life that had ensnared her for so long. The assassin wept as you told her this, as you declined her aid and spoke of Illaria's wishes for her. But she understood.
Towards the end of the night, when only a handful remained, you felt the soft pressure on your back -- like the firm but gentle touch of a comforting hand. You turned round. There was no one there. But something caught your eye. Around Illaria's neck, beneath the reconstructed face that pained you with its perfection, a swath of diamonds glittered. The Eyes of the Cosmos.
It begins with a funeral...
Your vengeance.
Funeral Games
You've practiced the speech, given voice to its words so often over the last few days that they're inscribed on your memory. With each repetition it became more eloquent, more powerful, and less meaningful. But only you and Wu Tenchu will know of the latter, will understand that what you're about to say is a carefully crafted weapon, a stratagem -- rendered hollow of the true emotions it retains as a veneer. Such is the nature of political oratory.
And so the words come without hesitation. Master Wu and the others prepared you well. The sea of upturned faces, the ordeal of being thrust into a spotlight you would much rather shun, are no match for their tutelage. You were made to study the lives and backgrounds of each person in this hall. Their strengths and foibles, ideologies and degeneracies... These things are known to you, creating a false intimacy which renders them harmless. Their scrutiny won't perturb you.
Even the sight of the frozen, angelic visage within the casket won't make you stumble. The mandarin, with callous pragmatism, made you rehearse in her presence. Emotion is important. But it must be controlled, directed, mastered. You don't have the luxury of spontaneous feeling, of permitting a sudden burst of misery to overwhelm you. Those things are denied to the Imperial Jian.
The words flow. As they must.
You know without a trace of pride that your delivery is perfect. Effortless. So automatic and instinctive that you don't even register the sentences as they rise to the surface of your mind and drift out from your lips. It's as though another woman is speaking in a far-off place, whilst you're left to observe the effect of her words upon the audience.
First comes sorrow.
The woman who's you but not you speaks of Illaria and the Emperor. She tells of the love between father and daughter, between rulers and their people. She weaves a wrenching, draining tale. And you see the effect of her handiwork. Façades of strength are cracking. Simulated grief gives way to the genuine article with such subtlety that you sense the surprise within confused hearts. Tears are conjured like spirits made manifest by occult happenings.
A stronger reaction that you'd intended or anticipated...
Your eyes find the woman in the audience, masking the search as part of an orator's roaming gaze. It wouldn't do to bring attention to her.
There she is. Sat next to one of the empire's diplomats, masquerading as his partner. Her attire is prim and proper, her beauty tamed into elegance and sophistication. No one would know she's a prostitute from Cythera -- part of the eclectic assortment of men and women, humans and aliens, who gravitated to you and Illaria on your adventures. She joined you for her own ends, knowing that you were willing to pay a high price for her aid. But it didn't take long for the Princess' radiance to win her over. Now you're entrusting her with this most delicate of tasks...
Her eyes meet yours. She blinks, holding her lids shut for a just long enough to serve as a signal. She understands. You hope she can direct the others and reel it back in.
This is the aspect of the plan which thwarted your efforts at perfect planning.
Next comes righteous anger.
Your speech shifts, like a wandering child who's passed through tragic beauty and now finds herself in darker places. You speak of crimes, atrocities, of murder and conquest. You speak of alien menaces and those who would betray humanity for dreams of ideological supremacy -- who would yearn to see millennia of human culture scoured away, leaving only cold functionality in its wake.
And once again the psychics work their magic.
Aphrodite, the lady from Cythera, harlot and heroine, is the nexus. Her mind, her seductive, ensnaring, remarkable mind, guides theirs on the shadowy paths of manipulation. Like the Hellenic goddess whose name she bears out of either vanity or simple confidence in her powers, few can resist her.
It's no easy task. It wouldn't do to flood the chamber with the force of psionic compulsion, to reveal to even the dullest-witted that something underhanded is taking place. No... It's akin to complex surgery, intricate engineering. Aphrodite and the others have to exert their influence in small and subtle ways, to nudge and shape without overplaying their hands. They must make the audience respond to your speech, succumb to its urgings and invocations of emotion, in a way which would seem natural rather than the work of cunning artifice.
Each human mind is different, a unique creation of thought and memory. It was impossible to replicate the ocean of consciousness that rolls and seethes before you, that flows and thunders around the little beacons of psychic power. Aphrodite and the others couldn't anticipate the precise nature of the mental tapestries they now navigate.
And yet it seems to be working.
She's taken your warning to heart. This time the surge of feeling is less pronounced, less excessive. But it's there all the same. Anger. Cold, smoldering anger is growing in their breasts. Yes... You can read their thoughts as surely as if you were psionic yourself. Resentment towards the Centurians, evolving into hatred. Wrath. Vengeance.
Not all will succumb once the words die on your lips, the speech ended, the funeral over. Nor will everyone be able to convince the powers they represent, to thrust them towards the grim specter of interstellar conflict. But the seeds are being sown.
And this is just the beginning.
Parliamentary Politics
"If the leader of the opposition will simply do the honorable thing-"
"Oh, the honorable thing? The honorable thing, Madam Speaker! Lady Hollister asks us to embroil ourselves even further in a war that doesn't concern us, and talks to us about doing the honorable thing!"
The man sits down on the foremost of the long benches and wallows in smugness. Cheers erupt from the men and women surrounding him, jeers from those across the aisle.
As soon as the plush green upholstery meets his buttocks, Lady Hollister springs up from a similar bench on the opposite side of the large table.
"The Centurians are a threat to the whole of human space! They've orchestrated the murder of one of Novocastria's truest friends! The right honorable gentlemen's sympathies towards them are well known in this house, but there must be a limit to even his stupidity and cowardice!"
Again the cheering, this time from the government's benches. Again the jeering, from those clustered around the leader of the opposition -- the members of parliament ensconced in the places reserved for the shadow cabinet and his other closest allies. But the reaction from the opposition's backbenches is far more interesting. The MPs there are subdued, their silence like a vacuum in the otherwise boisterous chamber.
Lady Hollister sits, her elegant body slipping into her seat with such poise that one might think it had risen up to meet her halfway. Edmund Rochester, the leader of His Majesty's opposition, jumps to his dispatch box -- the movement and the wobbling of his jowls bringing to mind a bounding toad.
"Sympathies? I have no sympathies with the Centurian Collective."
Jeers. Cries of outrage from the government's benches and... yes, even from a few audacious members of his own party.
"Madam Speaker, are we to allow such slanders to be repeated?" he continues. "The committee found no evidence that my dealings with the Centurian Council were in any way improper, or that they continued after their withdrawal from the Union of Human Worlds!"
The speaker, a grey-haired woman who reminds you of a bulldog, scowls. She strikes her gavel down with such force that its sound seems to smash its way through the chamber and knock the noise back down its creators' throats.
"The honorable member from West Lothian is quite right," she growls. "The committee returned a verdict of 'not proven', and other members of this house will refrain from repeating those accusations."
Rochester winces slightly at the words 'not proven', the verdict which hovers between 'guilty' and 'not guilty' and bestows neither conviction nor credit upon those who receive it. But he recovers in the next moment.
"Novocastria has already committed thousands of brave men and women," he says. "Against my counsel, His Majesty chose to deploy all the forces which our Maxima Carta places under direct authority of the crown -- including the Crusaders and the newly styled Dragon Knights. And now the Lady Hollister comes to us asking for more, like an orphan begging for a second helping of gruel!"
He sits. Cheers. Jeers. Men and woman wave sheaves of paper in archaic emphasis, brandishing collections of blank sheets long since shunted into obsolescence by the datapads which rest in their pockets or on their laps.
Lady Hollister rises. The cacophony is reversed in direction but not mirrored in strength. Any fool can see where the chamber's feelings lie. That's what you're counting on, what your Novocastrian ally promised you.
"First of all, Madam Speaker, ever since we came to power and undid the atrocious welfare legislation of the previous government, orphans no longer have to beg for gruel. But to the matter at hand... My honorable friend -- at least until he's 'not proven' to be my friend any longer -- is quite right when he says that thousands of our warriors have already been pledged to aid the Sian Empire and defend our interests from the Centurians and their alien allies. But he neglects to mention that by refusing to acquiesce to the deployment of further forces he is placing their lives in jeopardy. Our deployed military must be at full strength!"
She sits. He rises. Cheers. Jeers.
"The voters of West Lothian elected me to carry out my constitutional duties! And the Maxima Carta states quite adamantly that the leader of the opposition has a say in martial matters -- to ensure that full-scale war is only entered into if both government and opposition believed it to be in the interests of our great nation. And I, Madam Speaker, do not believe this is in our interests."
He's not looking at Lady Hollister as he says this. He's looking straight at the camera, his gaze meeting yours through the monitor, meeting that of each Novocastrian and every outsider who deigns to watch the live parliamentary broadcast.
Edmund Rochester sits. Lady Hollister stands. Cheers. Jeers. And cries of what sounds like "Rhubarb! Rhubarb!" that seem quite inexplicable.
"The leader of the opposition has quite a nerve to refer to his constituents," she says. "We know full well that they plan to unseat him at the next general election. In fact, at least one hundred thousand residents of West Lothian have already signed a petition to have him tarred and feathered at the same time. And the petition was only put online five seconds ago!"
She brandishes her datapad.
Her next words are lost in the cacophony of support from her party and derision from her enemy's minions.
You look away from the screen.
"Time?" Talia asks.
"Time," you reply.
You don your helmet. She does the same, as do Ragnar and Telemachus. Were it not for your vast differences in shape and size, the four of you would be unrecognizable from one another -- concealed beneath identical panoplies of grey and crimson armor.
Lu Bu's eyes flash. Little nozzles, angled like miniature arms, slide out from various parts of his metallic body -- as though he were infested with some strange parasite that caused tendrils to sprout from his nonexistent flesh. There's a soft, sustained hissing, and an almost intoxicating odor. Then the tiny appendages withdraw, leaving your robot friend's frame in the exact same colors and patterns as your adopted uniforms.
You survey your companions, nod your approval, and head for the door. A moment later you've left Lady Hollister's parliamentary office behind, and are working your way through the oak-paneled corridors.
Clerks and other civil servants stare as you pass. Heads swivel on all sides. A group of ordinary individuals wearing these uniforms might pass unheeded. But Ragnar looks like a metal-clad gorilla, Telemachus an armored midget, and Lu Bu... Well, he resembles a painted robot. In spite of this, however, or perhaps because of it, no one tries to stop you.
Soon you're at the big double doors.
A man and woman stand on either side of the portal, clad in shining silver armor inscribed with intricate inscriptions both verbal and pictorial. They nod at you.
"Her ladyship said you'd be coming," the man says.
"Give 'em hell, love," the woman adds.
You push the doors open, revealing the long chamber you saw on the monitor. Hundreds of men and women cease their cheering, jeering, and rhubarbing. All eyes follow your path across the floor, towards the large table that separates government frontbenchers from their opposite numbers. There's surprise on most faces. But not on those around Lady Hollister. On theirs you see only anticipation and excitement.
You reach the table a few paces ahead of your companions.
"May we help you, Lady Knight?" the bulldog-like woman asks.
"No, Madam Speaker, but this man can."
Edmund Rochester regards your pointing finger as though it were an arrow aimed at his throat. His anxiety is released as a soft gasp when you pull your helmet off and set it on the table, displaced by anger.
"This is an outrage!" he yells. The leader of the opposition scrambles to his feet, grabs hold of the dispatch box as though it were an altar granting sanctuary. "The leader of the Sian Empire has no right to intrude into this house and interfere with Novocastrian politics!"
"I must beg to differ," Lu Bu says. "Your laws state that people wearing the king's colors are welcome to put their case before this house."
"Quite so, my robot friend!" Lady Hollister says. "Quite so!"
"That refers to real knights!" Rochester says. "It wasn't meant to give carte blanche to invaders who've stolen suits of our armor!"
Ragnar grunts and steps forward. You wave him back, thus prolonging Edmund Rochester's continued existence for the moment.
"Madam Speaker, I can assure you that [Name] came into possession of those uniforms quite lawfully. They were gifts from our chivalry made to celebrate [Gender] courage."
"That may be," the speaker replies, "but I fear that the honorable leader of the opposition is right. Wearing a knight's uniform doesn't make one a knight. The spirit of the law is clear. I must ask you to leave this chamber, madam, or be removed."
"Yes!" Rochester exclaims. "Throw her out! Show these people that they can't bully our legislature like they tried to bully the UHW's courtroom on Earth!"
You look over at Lady Hollister. She doesn't meet your gaze. Her eyes are focused on the little datapad in her hand.
"One moment!" she says. She looks up at you, smiles, then turns to the speaker. "I've received word from His Majesty King Vencelas. [Name] and [Gender] companions were knighted."
"What? That's ridiculous! I demand to know-"
"Silence!" the speaker cries. The crack of her gavel echoes her demand. "Lady Hollister, I'm aware of no such awards being made."
"It happened rather recently, Madam Speaker. In fact, the titles had to be bestowed in absentia, since [Name] and the others are..."
She pauses, as a quiet bleeping comes from the speaker's direction. The bulldog face frowns as she reaches into the pocket of her robes and withdraws a datapad. She inspects the screen, then grins for the barest fraction of a second before stifling the show of merriment and smothering it with a more appropriate expression.
"Ah, a communication from His Majesty," she says. "It appears that the knighthoods were conferred within the last minute or so."
"This is unacceptable! Madam Speaker!" Rochester cries. "King Vencelas is forbidden from interfering in parliamentary matters, yet he sees fit to assist in this abhorrent trespass!"
"If I may be so bold..." Lu Bu says. The speaker gestures for him to continue. "I do believe that by custom your monarchs are supposed to refrain from watching parliamentary broadcasts. Surely you wouldn't accuse your sovereign of violating your traditions? Such an accusation would prove most unpopular with Novocastrian chivalry."
"What? No... But-"
"And if we accept that the king cannot be aware of present events, the timing of the knighthoods he's so generously chosen to confer on us must be a fortuitous coincidence."
"Sir Lu Bu is quite right," Lady Hollister says. "These knighthoods were rightfully earned."
"For what?" Rochester asks.
Lady Hollister glances down at her datapad.
"For disposing of a rampaging mechanical dragon, apparently. Oh... Yes, I do recall an incident of that nature. You were given a rather spiffing robot dragon of your own as a keepsake, weren't you?"
"We were," you reply.
"Very well," the speaker says. "Our new knights may declare their business before the house."
"We've come to answer the West Lothian Question."
There's a smattering of laughter at that phrase, one Lady Hollister insisted that you use. The holo-tabloids, all of which are suitably disdainful of Edmund Rochester, have taken to posing the question: "How long before Rochester stops behaving like a twerp?" That query has come to bear the name of his constituency -- much to the disgruntlement of its residents.
Ragnar cracks his knuckles. The Novocastrian gauntlets he's wearing fracture beneath the strength of his digits. The breaking of the metal sounds like the crack of doom.
"You plan to... to assault me?" Rochester's head darts from side to side. "You can't do that! Committing acts of violence in the house is a capital offense!"
"Actually, that isn't quite how the law is phrased," Lu Bu replies. "It declares that an attack carried out under the eyes of the government is a capital offense."
"Right on the wicket again, Sir Lu Bu!" Lady Hollister says. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think the next act writes itself, doesn't it?"
She turns round, so that her back is to the aisle, to you, and to the opposition benches. There's a mass shuffling as the rest of her party's MPs follow suit. In moments that half of the chamber is looking the other way. Most of Rochester's backbenchers do the same.
The leader of the opposition glares at you. Then his eyes fall on the object which rests at the foot of the table. You both lunge for it. You're faster.
Perhaps even a man like Edmund Rochester possesses a little Novocastrian pluck. Or perhaps he merely does what any rat would when cornered. But he leaps at you, reaching out to wrest the parliamentary mace from your grasp. He's too slow once more.
The mace crashes into the side of his head, sending him sprawling. It's a ceremonial weapon, designed to represent the royal authority conceded to this house. But it serves your purpose well enough.
The rest of the shadow cabinet fares no better. The burly Shadow Minister for Transport tries to grapple with Ragnar. A heave of the mighty Niflung's arms hurls him through the air, turning him into a backbencher. The Shadow Minister for Health takes Talia's boot to the knee, ribs, and jaw in rapid succession. Telemachus is unarmed. You insisted that he leave his chainsaw on the ship. But that doesn't stop him. He drives his helmeted head into the Shadow Minister for Education's groin.
Lu Bu takes a gentler approach, incapacitating his adversaries with artful jujitsu and aikido techniques made unstoppable by his mechanical speed, strength, and precision. You note that a few of your enemies specifically throw themselves at him -- too proud to flee, but unwilling to face your more brutal companions.
When the last of them goes down, you drag Rochester to his feet.
"Say it," you tell him. "Say it, while you still have a tongue to say it with."
"Okay! Okay! I support Lady Hollister's motion!"
This time there are only cheers.
Sporting Hero
"Hey! You can't be here! I'll-"
Your punch ends the sentence and his consciousness.
There are two more guards at the end of the corridor. They run towards you for a few paces. Then their eyes widen. Recognition dawns. They run the other way instead. Smart men.
"Talia..." The word travels through your implant instead of your mouth.
"Me and Tel are in the booth, captain," comes the reply in your ear. "Ready when you are."
"Any trouble?"
"Nothing we couldn't handle. Lu Bu's guarding the door."
The corridor is familiar. It's filled with the stink of oil and sweat, the din of flying sparks and grinding metal. The scents and noises of battlesuits being built and repaired in the workshops -- of fighters preparing to smash armor against armor for fame, money, and glory.
Twisted Steel.
"I kind of miss this place," Ragnar says.
You nod. It seems a lifetime ago that you last trod this passage, back when things were... different. Illaria was a prisoner, you were forced to risk life and limb to free her -- grueling battle after grueling battle. You'd give anything to be back there, to suffer bruised flesh and broken bones instead of this.
But there's no going back. There never is.
So you walk onward, down the corridor, flanked on either side by a hulking warrior who's ready to do violence at your bidding.
"You!" a voice hisses from the left.
A woman wearing a feline battlesuit stands in one of the workshop doorways. The eyes of her helmet seem to flash both recognition and enmity. She darts towards you, a clawed gauntlet rising.
Ragnar doesn't even miss a step as he headbutts her. He just keeps walking, leaving her groaning on the floor.
The towering man on your right bellows something in Japanese. You glance round to read the subtitle projected from his battlesuit.
"You fight well, Niflung," it reads.
"That he does," you say. "That he does."
A door opens on your right, revealing what looks like a robotic werewolf. Lupine eyes flash as feline ones did. Armored legs bend, serpents preparing to spring.
"Yosh!" Raiyama cries. His subtitle renders this as "Ha!".
He thrusts with the open palm of his metal-encased hand. The tsuppari thunders against the werewolf's armored chest. He might as well have been hit by a truck.
His lupine form flies back into the workshop. There's a chorus of shouts and screams as he lands on his support crew.
No one else interferes.
When you're at the big door, engulfed by the roar of the crowd that shouts and cheers beyond the barrier, you speak into your implant.
"We're here. Hit my music."
"You got it, captain."
The first blast of the electrified, synthesized Sian anthem silences the crowd. The second makes them scream with such violent ecstasy that they might number in the millions instead of the thousands. It's the collective cry of memory, of recollection, of anticipation. They know this entrance music. Your career was short, but eventful. Every fan of the sport knows your name.
The doors slide open, magnifying the music and madness into something inconceivable. Bright lights are flashing. People are waving their signs, their arms, their cups of beer, their children.
A tsunami of elation crashes on you from either side. Up above the arena the gigantic screens show your armor in all its glory -- the suit Wilex and the others helped you craft, that saw you through the wars you were forced to fight in the ring. They show Ragnar and Raiyama as well, and you know that some of the cheers are theirs by right. The armored sumo wrestler was a fan-favorite in his own fighting days. As for the Niflung... You can still see his axe going through Vince Vortex's head.
Eager faces stare at you from the edges of the massive expanse of humanity. They want to know why you're here, what you'll do. And you won't disappoint them.
The only two faces which don't share that emotion are the metal visages of the fighters in the ring. They glare at you, screaming words that are lost in the exultation -- flotsam swept away by tides of sound. Their match has been interrupted, their moment of glory stolen. They aren't happy. Screw them.
You unfurl the whip in your hands, stretch its metallic length out above your head. The screaming is at its zenith. More volume is impossible. But the noise shifts ever so slightly, as though it were a living thing -- an evolving beast. This too they recognize. Natasha Cybersmash's weapon. A token of your victory over a former Twisted Steel champion.
The two fighters in the ring are leaning against the ropes, shouting obscenities. Now that you're closer your aural implant can detect and decipher them, pick them out like salmon fished from a rushing river.
Your whip lashes out. One of the pair catches the end square in the face. His mask cracks. He falls backwards. The crowd laughs.
The other moves away, retreating into the middle of the ring. He's only prolonging the inevitable. The three of you leap onto the apron as one, pass between the ropes.
Raiyama yells. "Mine!" his subtitle reads.
You nod, and gesture for the Niflung to stay back as well.
The sumo wrestler charges. The other fighter doesn't manage to get out of the way. Physics takes hold, merciless momentum launching him over the opposite ropes, grievous gravity slamming him onto the floor below. He lands hard. The crowd loves it.
Ragnar jumps over the ropes, descending on him with both boots before storming towards the terrified ring announcer. He snatches at the microphone. She's stupid enough to try and stop him.
He flings her into the air as though she were a rag doll. Fortunately the crowd catches her. Dozens of playful hands surf her away into insignificance.
Raiyama presses a button on his suit. When he starts talking, his Japanese words echo through the arena -- smashing against the audience's cacophony like two sumo wrestlers striving for victory. Once more there are subtitles, but this time they're huge holographic images that project from his body in all directions. No one will miss what the warrior has to say.
He roars your praises, telling the tale of your martial might, your honor, your courage. And from him the words are irresistible, even to the cynical, bloodthirsty crowd. They cheer his pronouncements, echo his sentiments. When he speaks of the Princess they even weep. These people, who cry out for death and dismemberment each night, shed tears over a murdered woman.
When he finishes, bows to each side of the arena in turn, Ragnar tosses you the pilfered microphone. Now it's your turn...
"You all know who I am."
Silence ripples through the crowd like an explosion. They want to hear you, yearn to be part of this moment. Thousands and thousands in this arena, millions -- perhaps billions -- watching the broadcast across human space.
The speech that rushes from your mouth, the adrenaline-fueled torrent of murder and fury, isn't one Master Wu helped you write. The mandarin has many talents, is well versed in the cultural habits of numerous species and galactic powers. But Twisted Steel? The chaotic, bloody, insane world of sports entertainment? That's not his domain.
It's not refined, sophisticated. There's little which a politician would recognize as oratory. Instead it's raw, brutal, powerful. And it works.
The crowd bays for blood once more, but this time it's not the blood of competitors battling in the ring. They're screaming for the deaths of the Centurians. Thousands. Millions. Billions. All wishing destruction upon your enemies. That's power.
"Who's ready for a war?" you yell.
The wave of noise is your answer. And it's the one you wanted.
But it isn't all you wanted...
A face appears on the gigantic screen at the end of the aisle, above the entrance. It's that of a young man, a stranger. Yet the features are familiar. Shane Vortex. Once heir to Twisted Steel, made its owner by Ragnar's axe. A man with untold wealth at his disposal, with contacts across the galaxy -- politicians in his pocket, dangerous killers at his beck and call.
"You hear them, [Name]? You hear the fans? Well, I hear them too! You want a war?"
The crowd roars.
"You want a war?"
Louder. A crescendo of chaos.
"Then you've got it! I'm Shane Vortex, damn it, and I'll see the Centurians burn!"
Holy War
"You need us to go in with you?" Talia asks.
"They might make you do the Trial of the Twelve again," Telemachus says.
"And I wouldn't mind pounding on those tech-trash one more time." Ragnar slams his knuckles into his palm. The heavy thud seems to scream the words 'blunt force trauma'.
Lu Bu remains silent. His attention is fixed on the blonde woman. He seems perturbed by the way she's running her palms across his torso.
"Your spirit is strong," she says. "I think it's the strongest I've ever felt."
There's a moment's pause. But no one is able to think up a suitable response. Not even the object of her attention. Lu Bu simply stares as though trying to fathom her.
"We'll be fine," you say. "We're not here for a fight, and I don't want to make them nervous. What we need can't be beaten out of them."
The Niflung grunts. He seems poised to argue. But he shrugs instead.
"Just call us if things go wrong. I'll come in swinging and shooting."
You nod. Then you move towards the exit ramp. The three allies you've brought along for the mission follow -- though the blonde woman sighs when she has to pull herself away from Lu Bu.
Just like last time, acolytes greet you on the landing pad with bows and pleasantries. They wear the same white robes, adorned with golden equations and circuit diagrams that sprawl across the garments like the musings of deranged genius. It could be your imagination, but these seem more elaborate than before. The man from Diogenes murmurs something incomprehensible but apparently favorable as he regards them.
The path is equally familiar: into the remarkable silver building with its twelve square towers, along corridors adorned with all manner of scientific diagrams and notations. The man and women you've brought with you stare at these in utter fascination. You hope this sentiment proves mutual. Success or failure here might depend on it.
Your brunette ally points towards certain images, which she and the man discuss in hushed but excited voices, like children desperate to share a secret but fearful that it might evaporate if they declare it too loudly. As for the blonde, her inscrutable gaze and gentle touch seem to draw everything in. A soft smile plays at the edges of her mouth. But she says nothing.
It's the same chamber that marks the terminus of your journey, the dark room with a square of glowing floor space where you and your friends battled the Cybertollahs. Another memory of Illaria, an adventure that once seemed such fun but is now heaped onto the mournful, bitter pyre with all the others.
This time the Supreme Cybertollahs, that enigmatic pair, are on the floor instead of observing from their lofty balcony -- the stocky blue-robed form and absurdly thin red-robed one awaiting your arrival side by side.
The acolytes disappear into the darkness, leaving you alone with their bizarre masters.
"We know why you have come."
Ah, yes... The Supreme Cybertollahs' voices. The words sound like they could have come from either of them. Their outlandish bodies are motionless, betraying no hint.
"You are dragging human space to war against the Centurians. For this conflict you desire our technology."
"Yes. But that's not all."
There's an almost imperceptible shifting of their frames. The vaguest motion to indicate their surprise, caught only because you're watchful for it. You let their disquiet hang in the air for a long moment before you elaborate.
"I want you to issue a fatwa condemning the Centurians as heretics, and urging your followers to strive against them."
No movement. No words. Shocked into silence, or perhaps wishing to hear you out. Their inhuman faces defy scrutiny.
"Other technotheists have already made that claim," you continue. "They accuse the Collective of heresy for meddling with alien technology they don't truly understand. And they know that the Centurians would destroy tech-worship if they could, like they've done with every other religion in their territory. Some of your adherents have even found their way into our forces because of this."
"The schism is not your concern." The voice comes from the red Cybertollah this time. His body twitches.
You look from one to the other.
"You're divided, aren't you? Conflicted."
"Our theological contemplations cannot be shared with outsiders," the blue one replies. But his broad shoulders are squared, his hands clenched. He wishes to do violence, but not to you...
There's a small cough from the side. The man from Diogenes.
"Excuse me..." he says. "Perhaps I can save you both some time. You will eventually decide to issue this fatwa."
Even you stare at him in surprise. This wasn't part of your plan.
"Who are you?" the blue Cybertollah asks. Their voices remain parted now, sundered.
"This is Professor Mycroft," you reply.
Twin gasps from behind inhuman faces.
"We have asked you to preach your technology on Occulus many times," the blue one says.
"But our requests went unanswered," the red one adds. "We were told that you no longer left your laboratory."
"That was the case, before [Name] piqued my interest."
"What did you mean, when you said we would issue the fatwa?"
"A simple calculation. Well, simple by my standards. Perhaps not by anyone else's. I've studied your Cybertollan Surahs quite extensively and read each one of your fatwas. From this I was able to determine your philosophical and theological methods of thought, and through a series of equations arrived at a certain conclusion."
The Supreme Cybertollahs turn to each other. Then they turn back to Mycroft.
"Perhaps I should show you..."
One of the professor's mechanical servitor arms reaches into the pocket of his lab coat, withdraws a datapad, and passes it into his right hand. He steps forward and offers it out to the red Cybertollah.
The thin red-robed being takes it from him. He and his blue-robed counterpart press themselves close together as both stare at the object's screen.
A full minute passes before they look up from the datapad.
"Who are these others?" the blue one asks. He turns his hideous skull-like visage to the two women behind you.
Good... He's come to realize that you have things of interest to the Cybertollahs. His emotions are invisible, but somehow you sense his eagerness.
The brunette moves forward.
"Doctor Katrina Malkov," she says. "Perhaps you heard of the Genesis incident? The regenerating warship which Terminus was going to sell to the Centurians? It was my research that helped destroy it."
"She's an expert on nanotechnology," you say.
"No, I'm the expert on nanobot technology. And quite a few other areas of scientific endeavor."
The blonde comes forward as well. But she doesn't speak. Instead she walks up to the red Cybertollah and presses her hands against his torso. He flinches, though this doesn't stop her from running her palms along his strange body.
"Two spirits... One machine, one human. Like a cyborg but more than a cyborg." She continues her examination, doesn't even look up as she murmurs: "My name is Anita."
"Anita's work on robotics is..." you begin.
"It's been called lunacy," she says. The words are soft, almost a whisper -- as though their pronouncement is inconsequential. "But it's not."
"Just three of the scientific minds that have been drawn to our cause. People whose knowledge of technology would be of... significance... to you."
You signal to Katrina. Like Mycroft before her, she holds out a datapad. The blue Supreme Cybertollah accepts it with a slow and tender grasp, as though it were a fragile artifact of incalculable worth.
"A collection of some of our research," the doctor says.
The two robed hierophants are plunged into a state of silent scrutiny once more. Their quietness, their intentness, is enough. You can read their thoughts, unravel their contemplations. To them the eclectic research of these three geniuses isn't merely a means of creating weapons or other valuable inventions. Each notion contained within that datapad is a new line of theological ponderance, pregnant with philosophical implications and divine epiphanies.
It seems like several minutes before they look up from the datapad.
"There is one thing we must know," the red one says. The empty sockets of his visage meet your eyes, and somehow the blackness within them seems focused, intent.
"Yes?"
"The blow you struck to destroy the Emperor... What technology did you employ?"
Your hand rises automatically, and your gaze fastens itself upon it. Your fingers clench, open, clench, and open. Several seconds drift away into oblivion. Then you meet his eyeless stare once more.
"Blood."
Several more seconds of silence. Of thought. Of emptiness.
"Very well." The Supreme Cybertollahs speak as one. "We will issue our fatwa. The Centurians are heretics. They must be purged."
Broken People
The gorgeous door, its surface rendered priceless through both the precious metals and gems it bears and the fabulous artistic skill with which they've been wrought, slides into the wall. Beauty disappears, leaving only a hole.
In the antechamber beyond, the cyber dragons stir in their alcoves. Each of the colorful watchdogs raises a reptilian head from its coils, favors you with a sleepy blink, and settles down again. Their lethargy sends a wave of melancholy through you. It's as if they know... Guardians of an empty, unused tomb, their vigilance perfunctory and meaningless.
You pass them by, watch another door disappear into obscurity. Then you're in her chambers.
Everything is just as she left it. The maids have cleaned and polished, done the duties which the embassy's denizens so take for granted. But none have dared put blasphemous hands to her arrangements, had the audacity to violate this special place by undoing what she did. The splendid treasures still sit in sadness, rejected by Illaria, shunted against walls and into corners. Projections of systems and ships, weapons and warriors, still rule this place in martial pride. She chose them, scorned art and beauty in favor of their warlike worth.
You walk between the displays, your fingers trailing through the holographic images and leaving soft ripples in their wake.
There's still so much to do, so many preparations to make. But somehow you had to be here, at least for a time. It's an indulgence, unworthy of the duties thrust upon you -- that she thrust upon you. You should have resisted. Yet here you are...
At the far end of the chamber stand two doors, barriers you've never traversed. You approach the one on the right. It whispers open, revealing her bedroom. More doors lead off to small chambers, to the wardrobe and dressing room in which she girded herself for the ordeals she faced each day, to the chamber in which she bathed the cares of the world from her body if not her mind.
You ignore these portals. Instead you move towards the bed. It's an archaic work of art -- a slender pillar carved into the shape of a sinuous dragon rises up from each corner, supporting the soft draped mantle of a canopy above.
You lower your face towards one of the pillows. It still bears her scent. You close your eyes, draw in the sweetness of her perfume. Images of the imperial gardens flow across your mind, of colorful cherry blossom trees rustling in a gentle breeze, swaying in the sunlight. Then they vanish, replaced by redness.
Your eyes flash open. You shouldn't have come here.
You move away, back into the room beyond with its charts of war and death. Need to get back to that, do what must be done...
The sound freezes you in place. A soft, almost inaudible susurration. A voice.
You turn around, breath catching in your throat. Your heart thuds.
It's coming from behind the other door, the portal to the left of the glorious jungle scene and its stalking tigers.
Wonder slips away like an ephemeral dream. Confusion shrouds your mind instead. Now that you're nearer, you recognize it as a man's voice.
The lavish door slides away, another slab of beauty thrown into the abyss. Its retreat unveils a small study, its walls lined with the colorful, austere spines of archaic tomes. At the far end of the chamber, upon a table...
"You!"
The word shoots from your tongue and his at the same moment.
There's a jar on the table, adorned with glowing lights, filled with fluid not unlike that which encases bodies in a healing tank. Suspended in this liquid, staring at you in surprise that shifts to wrath, is a severed head -- a visage of damaged flesh and cybernetic augmentation. Commander Rautha. Or what's left of him.
Next to the jar and its ridiculous, wrecked occupant is a small holographic projection disc. The image of a face hovers above it, a beautiful, ethereal face. Her face.
"Get out!" he yells.
A light on the base of the jar flashes in time with his words, transmitting them from one of his innumerable implants and preventing them from being smothered by the liquid. A device you had made to mock him, so you could amuse yourselves by hearing your grisly trophy rant and rave.
You feel the anger twisting your features, hardening your mouth, narrowing your eyes.
Your pistol tears free of its holster. You level it at the jar. He's lived long enough.
Rautha snorts.
"Go on! You think I care? I'm a head in a goddamn jar! Shoot me and put me out of my misery!"
The weapon lowers. He's right. You left him like this so he could suffer. Why set him free now?
But you're not going to let him revel in the Centurians' victory...
You stride across the chamber and snatch the hologram projector from the table. The press of a button and she's gone, evaporated.
"No! You bitch!" Rautha screams. "You whore! Put that back! Put it back!"
His forehead bangs against the side of the jar with a muffled thud.
You walk away.
"Please..."
The pleading, whining voice, catches you at the door. When you look around, the anger is gone from his face. There's only misery.
And something occurs to you.
"How did you get here? We left you in one of the storerooms."
"She brought me."
The words make no sense. Ragnar might have taken Rautha as a personal souvenir, so he could laugh at his misfortune on a daily basis. But not her. The Princess would never have done that. And yet you know he's telling the truth. No one else would have put him here, sullied her private quarters with this ruined remnant of an enemy.
You glance around the room. There's a writing desk against one of the other walls, an empty space where its chair should be. That removed article stands near Rautha's table. Its carved feet have sunk deep into the carpet. The chair has been there for some time, and seen its fair share of use.
"She knew I was lonely."
"You tried to kill her."
"And you stopped me." His eyes flash. "Why couldn't you have stopped him as well?"
The anger slips away again, a wild beast collapsing in its death throes.
"One of the maids told me what happened. What Dule did."
His brow thuds against the jar again -- a pathetic, impotent little headbutt.
You move across the room, drop into the chair before you understand what you're doing.
"I should have saved her. I failed. But I won't fail again. Dule and the rest of your Centurian friends are going to die."
"Good."
He stares into your eyes as though begging you to challenge him, to deny his sincerity. But you can't. You look at his grim, ruined face, and you know that he means it.
"She let me contact Alpha Centauri," he says. "Did you know that?"
You shake your head.
"Said I could let them know I'd been captured. You know what my superiors said when I spoke to them? They told me to go to hell. Said I'd done nothing but screw up."
"They had a point."
Rautha grunts.
"They told the Princess she should just throw me out of the nearest airlock." Rautha's eyes narrow into slits, like the edge of a knife. "Then she let me call my wife."
"You have a wife?"
"I wasn't always a head in a jar, remember?" Another muffled headbutt. This time he remains there, his forehead pressed against the glass. "She just laughed. Said she'd been cheating on me ever since I was maimed in the explosion."
He tilts back again, his eyes meeting yours with murderous intensity.
"The bitch left me for a woman! Told me that her new whore was more of a man than me. And not just any woman... My replacement. The commander they put in charge of the Child of Heaven."
He sighs.
"Everyone turned their backs on me. But the Princess... my enemy... she was good to me. She's the only one who was good to me. And Dule took her from me. From us."
You wince, pained and outraged to hear this wretch speak of Illaria as his, as someone he had a claim to. But your hollow soul can't muster up any anger to throw at him.
"You're going to attack Alpha Centauri?"
"I am."
"Then I'll tell you everything I know about its defenses." A faint sneer, a trace of his old arrogance, flickers across his mouth. "You can have one of your psychics question me if you want, to prove that I'm telling the truth."
"Maybe. For now, tell me what you know."
And he does. For long, long minutes he expounds on everything he knows about the Centurian Collective's military arrangements. The information might be out of date. It could be irrelevant. Yet it may prove useful all the same.
You stand up, and put the holographic projector back where you found it. Next to his jar. A click of the button, and she's there again -- in all her radiance, all her beauty. If only it worked like that...
He calls out when you're in the doorway.
"Wait... There's something else. A favor."
"I'm listening."
An Offer You Can't Refuse
The woman pads across the dark room. Her nightgown shimmers in the moonlight that infiltrates between the slats of the shutters. It strokes her body's curves like a silver lover, caresses the locks of hair so dark they almost meld into the shadows around them.
She passes the desk, bare footsteps soft on the thick, plush carpet. She stops at the glass cabinet, below a portrait of an elderly man in a pinstripe suit.
Two fingers touch her lips. Then she presses them against the man's painted forehead, transferring the kiss with the air of an instinctive ritual.
There are bottles on top of the cabinet, perhaps separated from those within by the frequency of their use. Yes... She likes these ones to be at hand, not shut away with the others.
Slender fingers close around a crystal tumbler. It's large and heavy, not made for a woman's hand. Its facets glisten in the moonlight as she pulls it towards herself, like a phantom's treasure.
A corked stopper leaves a bottle's mouth with the soft pop of freedom. An amber waterfall cascades into the tumbler, forming a rich lake two fingers deep. She lifts a second bottle, this one filled with a deeper hue, and tilts it over her glass.
"A godfather? How appropriate."
The woman stiffens. Liquid splashes against the rim of the glass, forms a little pool on the cabinet's surface. But in a second she's recovered her poise, regained her composure. She finishes pouring the brown liqueur.
"Would you like one?" she asks.
"Sure. No poison, please. It won't be necessary."
A faint smile teases her mouth.
"I'll be the judge of that."
But she reaches for the unpoisoned bottle of scotch. You know, because you checked each of them earlier. She pours a generous measure into a fresh tumbler.
"My guards?"
"They'll live. Fire the fat one. He tried to sell you out to escape a beating."
"He'll be sleeping with the fishes tomorrow."
"Reassigning him to your Piscarian brothel?"
"Funny."
She adds an equal measure of similarly non-lethal amaretto to the second glass.
"How did you get past the other security measures?"
"A couple of people who used to work for you fight for me now. They told me a thing or two."
She sighs.
"You can't trust anyone these days."
"They only helped when I promised them I wasn't going to hurt you."
"That's something, I suppose."
She walks to the desk, one of the tumblers in each hand, and sets both drinks down on the dark wood. She slips into the chair behind it, gestures for you to take the seat in front.
Then she sighs again. You smile. You've dealt with the Contella Consortium before. They like to strap things under the desk...
"Your plasma shotgun's over here. This way we can avoid unpleasant accidents."
You emerge from the shadows, accepting the moonlight's caress.
"Ah... I was expecting to hear from you. But at a more appropriate hour."
She glances at the large bag that sways beneath your left hand.
"I wanted our meeting to be nice and private. Just you and me."
You sit down opposite her, setting the bag on the floor. There's a faint clink.
She gestures at the drink nearer you, lifts the other to her lips. You pick it up and do the same.
First the sweetness. Then the hard fieriness concealed within its cloying depths.
"You're here to ask for the Consortium's help in your war."
"I'm here to buy it."
The datapad slides across the table. She stops it with the edge of her tumbler.
Her features are almost inscrutable as she reads it. You don't become the head of the Contella Consortium by revealing your hand in business dealings. But the movement of her eyes, the pauses as they scour the information, is telling.
"Ambitious. Taking back Sian space is one thing, but this..."
"The Centurians are spread too thin. If we devastate the fleets and armies they have in our territory, the rest won't be difficult."
"The victory might not be, but the occupation?" She takes a long swig of her godfather. "These are lucrative planets you've promised us."
"Some of the most valuable worlds in Collective space."
"And how much blood will it cost us to conquer them, to suppress their entire populations?"
"You won't have to worry about that. By then they'll be begging you to occupy them. It'll be better than dealing with me."
She holds your gaze for a long moment.
"Deal."
"I want to buy something else as well."
You pick the bag up and push it over to her across the desk. She pulls it open.
"Hard credits?"
She smirks. Hard credits... No electronic trail. Not for this transaction...
You tell her what you want. Her eyes widen.
"You're going to-"
"What I'm going to do with them is none of your concern. Will you give me what I need?"
"Yes."
"It was nice doing business with you."
You stand up, knock back the rest of your godfather, and set the empty tumbler down. Then you slip away from the moonlight, back into the cold, black comfort of the shadows.
"She was a good woman."
"The best," you reply over your shoulder.
"What would she say? About what you're planning?"
You leave the question hanging in the moonlight as you step into the corridor.
Sigurd Spinebreaker
There's no mistaking a luxury cruiser.
All manner of vessels thread the void, from small single-manned craft to immense warships that are more like military bases or mobile settlements than vehicles. Their metal bodies are shaped in a myriad different ways, displaying countless designs which the minds of man and alien conceived whilst dreaming of the mastery of space.
But luxury cruisers, those fabulous monuments to power and wealth, stand apart from the others -- like chryselephantine colossi towering over statues of baser stone and inferior artistry, outshining them in beauty and resplendence. Each is a sumptuous treasure, bespeaking the designer's genius and the owner's taste. All are unique, celestial snowflakes. No one who could afford such a vessel would deign to possess a mere replica of another, like a common merchant or mercenary whose ship might have many thousands of doppelgangers scattered across the enormity of space.
Some whisper their origins, telling of the individual or culture to whom they belong in the elegance of their construction or the magnificence of their adornments. Others bellow it, as though it were a challenge -- demanding that the void and its denizens recognize the power behind it, defying those who might take umbrage at their audacity. Odin's Eye is one of the latter.
The gargantuan vessel resembles a longship, a mastless imitation of those which ferried Earth's Vikings on their bloody campaigns of looting and pillaging. Its hull is the color of wood, painted and fashioned to simulate that archaic material -- as though it had been made from gigantic planks instead of great expanses of metal. Relief sculptures flow across that façade, showing heroes and battles, myths and monsters. In one place men and women in mail hauberks clash with a tentacled sea monster, hacking its hideous body with swords and axes. In another valkyries fly above a battlefield atop winged horses, their mouths open in exhortations to those who fight below.
A huge dome stretches across the top of the entire ship, from prow to stern, rising up from the faux wooden sides and encasing its surface in a canopy so transparent as to be almost invisible. Beneath this aegis is an incredible vista, an expanse of verdant forests and rolling plains, shining lakes and grey mountains. A landscape that might have come from medieval Scandinavia.
The people who inhabit this incredulous realm are too distant to see with the naked eye. But zoomed-in views appear on some of the monitors, little windows into this Niflung pleasure world. On one a deer emerges from the edge of a forest, bounding onto the grass beyond. A man dressed in a curious mélange of mail and more modern armored plates bursts from the foliage a second later, screaming a war cry which your aural implant interprets as both bloodcurdling and profane. He pivots, raises a muscular arm, and casts a spear after the fleeing beast. When it flies wide, missing the deer by a wide margin, he roars again. Then he reaches behind his back, pulls out a sub-machinegun, and unleashes a hail of bullets from its flaming muzzle. The deer convulses as the gunfire rips through its hide. Its bloody carcass tumbles across the grass before rolling to a stop.
On another monitor you see a Norse feasting hall nestled upon a hilltop, its windows filled with a flickering glow that bespeaks the illumination of flame -- real or simulated. Men and women are pouring out of the building, tankards and jugs in their hands, cheering on a fistfight between two burly Niflung warriors who judging by the grins on their faces are laying into one another out of amusement rather than enmity.
The communications console bleeps, drawing you away from the archaic pastimes and revelry.
"I know you're not space pirates," a woman's voice says. "No pirate would be stupid enough to attack a Niflung warlord's personal cruiser."
"We're here to see Sigurd Spinebreaker," you reply.
"He doesn't-"
You touch the console. A holographic screen appears across the flight cabin's front window, concealing the awe-inspiring vessel. It shows a small control room, its walls carved with similar illustrations to those on the ship's hull. Not even that little functional chamber has been spared from the splashings of opulence.
The woman who dominates the image might have been modeled after the valkyries on the wall behind, or they after her. Blonde hair falls in waves down either side of her face, wild and untamed. Her breasts struggle against a chain armor bikini top which would likely offer no more protection in battle than it leaves to the imagination.
But the expression on her face is quite unlike the bellicose visages of the sculpted warrior-women. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth forms a pretty circle of blood red surprise.
"You know who I am?"
She nods.
"Good. Tell Spinebreaker to expect me."
The warlord's eyes -- one of flesh, the other a burning red replacement -- fall on each of your companions in turn. Telemachus, Talia, and Lu Bu occupy their gaze for only an instant before being dismissed. They linger for longer on Ragnar, on the hulking frame that's so similar to Sigurd's own.
He leans forward in his throne, a great mass of carved sea serpent bones -- its sides studded with the beast's long, wicked teeth so it resembles a monstrous maw. From that lofty height, raised above the floor on a series of stone slabs laid atop one another to create deep stairs on three sides, the warlord seems like a huge predator preparing to pounce on his quarry below.
"Do I know you?" he asks.
"I think my mother killed your father," Ragnar replies.
"Ha! A good woman, that one. You have her arms."
Then Sigurd Spinebreaker's eyes end their travels. They come to rest on you. And they're not the only ones.
At least four dozen Niflung warriors stand on each side of the open space ceded to you and your companions, filling the audience chamber with their barbaric presence. There are bare-chested men, who display slabs of muscle bestowed by nature, exertion, or science. Others wear the same garb as their leader, clad in what their people call 'space mail' -- armor created to emulate the chain shirts worn by Earth's medieval Norsemen in appearance, though constructed of far more advanced materials. As for the women... Some are shapely valkyries, like the one you saw on the monitor -- many in equally immodest dress, a few attired in more practical fashion. Others are as powerfully built as the males around them, their bodies laden with violent muscle.
All of them are staring at you.
On Wilex's cruiser, you sensed the fear. Most of the crew masked it as best they could. They only stared when they thought you weren't looking, only slinked away if they believed you wouldn't notice. You frightened them. For they knew that the mortal blow you struck the Emperor wasn't the result of technology, some hidden weapon or device. It wasn't science which punched a hole in his chest, sent his smashed organs gushing out. It was something far more inscrutable, beyond the means of any psionic martial artist whose abilities are known to the world. They'd never seen its like before, until they saw what you and he were capable of.
But these Niflungs...
They're men and women of war. Killing and bloodshed are as dear to them as lovers. And for all their savage appearances and ways of life, they understand the technology of violence. If they don't know for certain, they must at least suspect that there was no trickery behind that murderous punch. And yet they show no fear, no nervousness. Instead you see only curiosity, admiration, and respect.
"For me?" the warlord asks.
He raises a big, heavy hand and points at the crates which float beside you -- hovering above the sedate glowing cushion of light emitted from their antigravity systems.
"Exotic weapons," you say. "Things my friends and I came across on our travels."
He grins.
Sigurd Spinebreaker is a wealthy man, with vast armies at his command. These gifts are of little value to him. If he desired such things, he would simply have to nod to his warriors and they would be brought to him. But you perceive no insincerity in his grin. Ragnar was right... He's pleased at your adherence to this Niflung custom, proud to have the leader of the Sian Empire offer him tribute.
"Worthy gifts. But you didn't come all this way just to bring me them."
"No. I came to invite you to a war."
"Bjorn Bjorsson came to me, and to all the other warlords. You have powerful friends."
"Yes."
"The others have already agreed to wage war on the Centurians. But I refused, much as I would love to drive my axe through Dule's body. Do you know why?"
His warriors are tensing, their powerful frames swelling with anticipation. Of course... His words are for their benefit, not yours. He's a ruler playing to his subjects, letting them feel the full magnitude of this moment. More games...
"Bjorsson said you needed to be sure I was worthy to follow in battle."
"You understand what that means?"
"It means we're going to fight."
The Niflungs cheer. There's a familiar roar from your right, Ragnar's own bellicose cry joining the cacophony.
Sigurd Spinebreaker stands. He reaches his big hands to his mail shirt and grabs at the metal over his pectorals. Then he bellows, and pulls. Chain links part, the sound of their snapping lost amid the din. Ruined steel circles fly from him, scatter down the stone steps. Talia reaches out and snatches one from the air before it can hit Telemachus in the face.
The warlord's strength is irresistible. The tear lengthens, ripping down the armor's middle -- breaking through link after link -- revealing massive muscles, inscribed with the scars of a lifetime's battles. He yanks the wrecked garment from his torso and hurls it to the floor.
"To the fighting pit!" he yells.
The cheering intensifies.
Sigurd strides down the stone steps until his boots touch the floor. Even now he still looms above you. His seven foot tall frame, encased in Heraclean muscle, dwarfs even Ragnar's.
He grins down at you, then gestures to the wall on your right. A large doorway has swung open, creating a gap in the carved battles and monster-slaying scenes. His warriors are already pouring through it.
The two of you walk side by side, your companions falling in line behind you, silent amid the tumultuous Niflungs.
Through the doorway is a room of similar size to the audience chamber, much of its floor space devoured by a sunken pit. Once more the art and lavishness have penetrated into a functional little space -- the pit's walls are inscribed with the same imagery of Nordic might and heroism. You suppose that they're rather more appropriate here than in a communications room, at least.
The Niflung warriors are moving around the edges of the pit, securing good positions to watch what's soon to happen down below.
An elevator disc hovers nearby, waiting to lower fighters into that place of battle. But Sigurd ignores it, and jumps down instead -- plunging a dozen feet and landing in the middle of his arena.
Ragnar's voice sounds in your aural implant.
"See the way his knees bent when he hit the ground? My skeleton would've taken care of the impact without buckling like that."
You nod. That hadn't escaped you either. Spinebreaker's muscles might have been enlarged and strengthened by surgery or chemical enhancements, but he's probably not as packed full of cybernetics as your omnicidal companion.
"Good luck, captain," Talia whispers.
You jump down into the pit.
A wrestler's stance. His hands are open, ready to catch and grab, twist and lock. The floor under your boots is hard, unforgiving. A bad throw or slam might break your skull.
He has the reach advantage. Strength too. Those muscles... Thick like armor. A normal blow won't stop him. He'll absorb it, then you'll be in grappling range. His range.
Kasan...
The voice hisses at the back of your brain. Yes... You could stop him. One blow. That's all it would take.
Kasan...
No! Stupid. Have to drown that voice, submerge it. Now isn't the time for killing. Soon, but not now.
Sigurd steps towards you, broad chest and thick arms bulging with suppressed ferocity. He's too experienced, too cunning to rush in like a wild beast. No use retreating, trying to keep your distance. It would only delay the inevitable, and make you lose face before the Niflungs.
Need to pick a weak spot...
The warlord advances, the weight on the balls of his feet. His gaze locks with yours, both eyes glaring. The red one is like fire, the flesh one like rage. Intimidation. It's wasted on you. You've seen worse. So much worse...
You hold your ground, willing your body into stillness -- quieting any twitches, any unconscious movements that might betray your intentions.
One more step. Then he's in range.
You lunge, throwing your entire weight forward with a burst of violence from your legs, snapping your right fist out in a straight, darting punch. It's a potent strike. If it hit him in the face it would do damage. But it might not stop him. Not a man like Sigurd. And then he'd clinch with you...
So you don't aim for his face.
Your vertical fist hits the extended digits of his right hand. The index and middle fingers snap backwards, bent then broken by the power of your blow. You and Ragnar were right... His skeleton hasn't been reinforced. And he can't grapple with broken fingers...
That though crosses your mind. Then it's smashed out again. Your head snaps to the side, light and darkness exploding in your vision. There's a faint crunch. A vague, fleeting thread of rationality tells you that it's your cheekbone breaking.
Disorientation lasts for only a second, leaving throbbing pain and rapid understanding in its wake.
His left elbow... Wasn't distracted by the pain in his fingers. Not even for an instant. That's bad...
A big knee drives at your abdomen, ready to continue the assault, further the demolition, break the rest of you like he's broken your face.
But you're not easily distracted either. Your mind gives you the move, plans out the next attack, before you're even fully aware of it.
You drop down, evading the blow, sliding into a Dragon's Tail takedown. Your legs move like scissors. One boot kicks at the knee of his stationary leg. The other sweeps at its ankle. His right leg is still in the air, locked into the thwarted strike. So he falls. Even his massive, muscular body isn't immune to the laws of physics and biology.
Your legs don't retract. Instead they start to snake around the abused limb even before Sigurd hits the floor. By the time he crashes down, to the warlike screams of the Niflungs, his leg's held fast between yours. You hook the heel of his combat boot with your arms.
Pain won't stop him. You've proven that already. No point in going for a submission. Instead you wrench his hooked heel, torqueing his captured leg's ankle and knee. The powerful limb thrashes, trying to twist to match the turning force put on his foot, to move with it instead of resisting. But it can't move -- not with your legs trapping it.
The ligaments in his knee tear. The bones break. No, definitely not reinforced...
Most men would scream in agony, cry out in surrender. Sigurd Spinebreaker merely grunts. Then he kicks out with his other leg.
The boot crashes into your face. You feel its tread marking your flesh, thudding so hard against your skull that you imagine the print denting itself into the bone beneath.
Your hands come up in time to block the second kick. Then the warlord pounces, somehow ignoring his broken leg, throwing his body forward onto yours in an avalanche of bone and muscle.
He's on top of you, his eyes and mouth screaming murder, his elbows raining down on you to make it so. Thunderous blows batter your guarding arms, until it feels like your bones must be fractured in a dozen places. Then come punches, picking their way between your arms, smashing your face, the sides of your head, knocking your skull and your consciousness around the galaxy.
Gravity, body mechanics... On his side, lending might to each downwards punch. You're on your back. From here you can't...
Kasan...
That would do it. The Imperial Fist. Even from here, it could splinter his ribs...
Kasan...
Explode his heart...
Kasan...
No!
You thrash from side to side, trying to weave between the punches. Sigurd doesn't stop flailing. He's berserk, frenzied, too committed to the flurry to stop swinging. Some of his punches still hit home, thudding your brain against the inside of your skull, each one creating a little explosion of his victory in your vision. But others miss. His fists blunder against the hard floor. Broken fingers fracture further under the abuse. His undamaged hand suffers as well. The flailing slows. The flurry starts to die like a violent storm that's reached the end of its power.
Then you retaliate.
Your spearhand hits him in the middle of his neck, the little portion of unprotected throat between the thick muscles and tendons. He splutters at the destruction of his breath.
Your legs snap inwards and upwards, grabbing at his head. Right thigh against the side of his neck, the inside of your calf pulling down against the top of his spine. The other leg comes up to meet it, wrapping itself around your right foot -- securing the triangle, pinning Sigurd's own arm on the other side of his neck.
The warlord's strong, but his brain still needs blood. His lungs still crave air. You squeeze for all you're worth, choking and strangling with your legs and his trapped arm.
His face is already going red, like strange war paint next to his golden hair and beard.
You feel his weight shifting. He's moving his unbroken leg, pressing the sole of his boot against the floor. He can't be...
But he is. He pushes himself upwards -- lifting you into the air -- standing on his one good leg.
You keep your legs locked, not willing to surrender your hold.
He's at his full height, supporting both your bodyweights with a single leg, pulling you high above the hard floor -- yanking at you with his free hand until you're upright, your body raised above his.
Your elbow smashes against his temple. And again. And again.
Then comes the fall. You can't tell whether it's a deliberate slam, the completion of his intended powerbomb, or whether it's because his body has given way. All you know is that you're falling. And that it's going to hurt.
You tuck your head forward, brace your arms to perform a breakfall.
The floor hits your back like a speeding spaceship. It feels as if your organs are splattering against your ribcage. Internal injuries. Serious ones, maybe.
But you've saved your skull. You're still conscious. That means...
You sit up, wincing as your ruptured innards seem to shift around inside, and look into Sigurd's purple face. His red, glaring eye meets your gaze. You brace yourself, ready to defend against another murderous clubbing blow. But his other eye, his natural orb, is hidden behind closed lids.
His limbs are powerless, drained of their prodigious might along with the warlord's consciousness.
You untangle your legs, each motion sending a fresh wave of torment through your torso, and release the triangle choke. Sigurd slumps to the floor, his huge frame flopping onto his back as you pull away.
A lithe form touches down beside you. A brutish one lands with a weightier thud.
"You okay, [Name]?" Talia asks.
You murmur something. More blood than voice spits from your mouth.
"Good fight!" Ragnar says. Then he looks up at the crowd and yells: "Medic!"
The elevator disc descends, lowering two of the voluptuous valkyries into the pit. One has a medical gauntlet on her right hand -- its little mechanical limbs and scanners twitching in the air as though trying to sniff out the person in need of attention. She crouches by your side and puts it to work.
The other woman is holding a large pitcher. She skips over to Sigurd's supine form and upends it. Brown liquid gushes over him, splashing across his face, soaking into his hair and beard. From the potent smell which assails your nostrils, it's nearly pure alcohol.
The warlord splutters. Then he growls. Then he laughs.
Two burly warriors jump down into the pit and run to his side. Between their powerful limbs the injured warlord struggles to his feet -- resting his weight on his unbroken leg.
You rise as well, ignoring the valkyrie's protests. Talia takes your arm to steady you. Ragnar braces his hand on your back when you totter.
Sigurd grins at you. He raises his fist, and the Niflungs fall silent.
"As soon as my doctors fix my bones, I'll gather my forces. It'll be an honor to fight under your command." He looks up at the warriors surrounding the pit. "Get ready for battle!"
The war cries of a hundred Niflungs fill the universe with their violence.