LotS/The Story/Scaean Gates/Dogs and Vultures

Dogs and Vultures

---

Intro

"No more entreating of me, you dog, by knees or parents.
I wish only that my spirit and fury would drive me
to hack your meat away and eat it raw for the things that
you have done to me. So there is no one who can hold the dogs off
from your head, not if they bring here and set before me ten times
and twenty times the ransom, and promise more in addition,
not if Priam son of Dardanos should offer to weigh out
your bulk in gold; not even so shall the lady your mother
who herself bore you lay you on the death-bed and mourn you:
no, but the dogs and the birds will have you all for their feasting."


-- Homer, Iliad 22.345-54 (Lattimore trans.)

---

"You want the pilot's seat?" Talia asks.

"All yours."

Lu Bu stands as well, surrendering the co-pilot's chair. But you motion for him to keep it. The gunslinger and robot warrior both seem surprised as they sit back down.

You take a seat in the corner of the flight cabin instead, and watch as Talia takes you into the air -- flying the Silver Shadow towards the hangar's gleaming energy field.

The ship shoots into the void, before curving round towards the planet. Sian.

Your friends were eager to join the liberation forces. But after the last of the Centurian ships were eradicated you asked them to return to the Illaria first. It's a journey you wanted to make together. One last trip.

It would have been fitting to take the pilot's seat, you suppose, as you did on so many of your adventurers. To be the one who flew them down to the surface. But you had to be here, where you can see the entire cabin laid out before you -- all your companions sitting at their stations. You wanted to watch them unobserved. Watch and think and remember.

Illaria's words whisper in your ear. The things she said that night, after the final meal. You and she were left alone with the remains of the feast, the bottle of scotch, your recollections, and your lives. There was a sheen in her eyes that you'd never seen there before, the soft glisten of inebriation. Alcohol and friendship had loosened her mind and tongue. Unaccustomed intoxication had bestowed upon her the nostalgic and philosophical state of mind so cherished by drinkers. Your conversation wandered like a drifting dreamer, until its phantom fingers flitted across a subject dear to both your hearts: your companions.

The Princess spoke of them as both friend and biographer, her words bearing what at the time seemed to be the misplaced solemnity of the tipsy intellectual. The eloquence of a trained orator and stateswoman flowed forth from her lips, in a manner which would have seemed laughable pomposity from anyone else yet from her carried a sweetness and charm that made you love her all the more.

And now... Now those ornate, verbose, drunken pronouncements shine in your mind like holy scripture -- rendered eternal and priceless by her passing.

Your gaze is slow, drifting, roaming. Perhaps your eyes can't quite bring themselves to hasten this moment. They wish to savor it, draw it out, stretch it into eternity. But nothing lasts forever.

First they alight on Talia. Her hands guide the ship with unconscious perfection, mastering the controls and the vessel. But her face holds none of the joy spaceflight and impending battle usually set there, not even the natural smile that seemed to forever lift the corners of her mouth. Determination, the thought of what's to come, has scoured it. Perhaps after this is all over the grimness will fall from her. You hope so. The universe shouldn't lose that smile.

"Talia's wild, unpredictable," the Princess says. "That's how she flies and how she fights. It's what makes her so amazing, so vibrant -- and a terror to our enemies. But for all that, her love and loyalty are as unshakable as mountains. What more could one ask for in a friend?"

Next your gaze rests on the young prince. The boy who attacked you on Gallea, protecting his planet from invaders. You remember how much he aggravated you on your first spaceflight, with his hyperactive enthusiasm, his barrage of questions. How could you ever have disliked him?

"Telemachus... He's seen things that no boy should ever see. Done things that... Well, maybe no one should ever do the things he's done with that chainsaw of his." She winces. Her mouth wrinkles in distaste at the gruesome memories. "He's suffered. Felt the sting of war and loss just like we have. It's made him strong, a fighter. Yet he can still laugh, still show the warmth and joy of a child's heart. I would be proud to have a son like him."

So would you. So would you...

He's sat at the gunner's station, facing the screen with unfocussed eyes. Little boyish hands play with the interface, twisting the sticks this way and that. You recognize those movements -- control combinations from one of his videogames. His mind is elsewhere. Perhaps in King Salastro's palace, embracing his father for the last time. Or else already on Sian, filled with the coming bloodshed.

You hope a brighter future awaits him after this war. A chance to be a boy again, instead of a warrior.

It's with both gentle amusement and a faint sigh that you look to Ragnar, and see the same expression on the Niflung's face. The smoldering eyes in his fierce visage are distant, aimed at the edge of his axe but seeing far beyond the brutal metal.

"What can you say about Ragnar? He's like a big, unstoppable, omnicidal teddy bear." She giggles. It's the most enchanting sound you've ever heard. "A lovable brute and a vicious killer rolled into one. A mercenary who wouldn't betray us for all the credits in the galaxy. If we can find some comfort in the conquest of Sian space and the attack on the Child of Heaven, it's that they caused us to meet such a friend."

What have those red eyes seen? How many deaths, most inflicted by his own savage hands? And yet there's a softness there too, something within teased forth by Illaria. Perhaps by all of you. Tender emotions twisted into melancholy, shoveled as fuel into the furnace of vengeance.

You know what lies before the Niflung. More violence. More killing. Until the day he dies or else drowns the universe in blood. If it makes him happy, so be it. You've felt enough misery to understand the supreme worth of joy. And there may be more for him besides. He'll still have the others, their warmth and friendship.

Last you look upon Lu Bu. His metal countenance is the most difficult to fathom. Nor do his movements betray the thoughts which spark within his computerized brain. He's examining his weapon attachments, ensuring their readiness for the coming bloodshed with his customary mechanical precision and grace. But you've known him long enough for empathy to transcend enigma.

A being created for a purpose, to serve as a gift from TALOS to the Emperor, and then rejected out of suspicion and prejudice. How that must have stung. But then fate made him your companion, placed him at Illaria's side.

"No one fortunate enough to call Lu Bu their friend could ever imagine that robots are mere machines. In speech and counsel, battle and honor, wisdom and loyalty, he's one of the greatest men I've ever known. He could outlive all of us, and our children, and their children. The Sian Empire might be blessed to have him as its advisor and champion for centuries. That thought brings me comfort."

The man he was made for is gone. So is the woman in whose service and friendship he found purpose. But there will always be a place for him in the Sian Empire. Wu Tenchu will see to that. And the rest of your companions won't desert him.

If the galaxy holds justice in its endless sweeping void and among its grand myriads of twinkling stars, Lu Bu will find his place. It may be that generations from now he'll tell your tale to those who look upon your life and deeds as history, long-ago events that shaped the destiny of their empire.

You wonder if you'll be remembered as a hero or a villain.

---

For the Empire

There's a saying you learned a long time ago, an anonymous gem of military science perhaps first uttered or written by a general whose identity perished well before his wisdom:

He who controls the void controls the air. He who controls the air controls the ground.

Its veracity is evident here.

With the Centurian fleet destroyed, the Sian Empire and its allies now have total space supremacy within the system. Its reaches, the great rolling blackness between its worlds, is yours to command. And in interstellar warfare nothing is everything, that emptiness the key to mastering the immense spheroids which spin through it.

Massive cruisers and squadrons of smaller ships stand vigil around the planet, patrol the surrounding space like victorious battalions marching through a city's streets in all their martial finery.

No reinforcements for the garrisons on Sian. No one to save them.

The Silver Shadow descends into the atmosphere, centuries of technological advancement making a mockery of elemental fire and fury. Once again the atmosphere of Sian embraces it -- not as a trespasser this time, sneaking into the world shrouded in its cloak of invisibility. This time it comes as part of a glorious liberation force, one amid many, gleaming and proud in the sunlight.

Air supremacy has already been established. It was inevitable. With the planet's orbit in your power, it was a small matter to deploy waves of fighters into its airspace -- supported by the mighty aerial bulk of larger vessels. Now gleaming squadrons fly across the sky, each flash of their wings a cry of defiance to your enemies. But there's no one to challenge them, at least not here in Lanjin Cheng. Those aircraft which haven't yet been eradicated soon will be. These skies are yours.

Only the ground remains unconquered.

There too the Centurians are hard-pressed. Columns of armor and towering mechs make splendid targets for airstrikes. But when one wishes to liberate instead of destroy, to save a planet and its cities rather than ravage them, mass ordinance bombings are out of the question. Thus much of their infantry fights on, and the battle will be settled in the way man has fought for millennia: face to face in the streets and buildings.

There's no subterfuge this time as Talia touches down on the palace's private landing pad. It's yours now, as it should be. When the exit hatch opens, it reveals dozens of Sian soldiers and TALOS Battle Bots, bands of warriors standing guard at its edges alongside armored vehicles and turrets. Innumerable salutes greet your first step onto the tarmac.

A man and woman in ornate armor jog towards you, the green, blue, purple, and red oriental dragons on their uniforms writhing and snapping across the white plates in time with their movements. Sian generals in battle attire. Even the highest ranking officers want to be on the ground for this mission.

They come to a halt in front of the ship just as Telemachus' mech stomps onto the tarmac, joining the others beside you. Both salute, though the gestures are swift and perfunctory. They're here to fight, not waste time with pleasantries or formalities. That suits you just fine.

"The Centurians still hold the palace," the woman says. "But we've had word that they're emerging to give battle."

"They must have found their spines," the man adds.

You nod, though you know it's not true. The Centurians may be many things, but their shock troops aren't cowards. They have to know their time is up, and they want to go out fighting. You're ready to oblige them.

"One of the vehicles-" the woman begins, gesturing to a nearby troop carrier.

"Don't bother," you say.

You turn to your companions -- the gunslinger and prince, warrior robot and Niflung killing-machine.

"Come."

Then you run.

Across the landing pad, past the cordon of troops -- who shout and cheer, filling the air with exhortations that redouble the fury burning in your breast. Your boots barely seem to touch the ground. It's as if even gravity is waving you through, softening its binding bonds. Perhaps the world itself is launching you, urging you, compelling you.

There's a stretch of wide road beyond the landing pad. On the right it runs alongside the palace wall, and will take you to its front entrance. There it's clear, kept sacrosanct for your passage. But on the left there's clamor and commotion. It's filled with throngs of civilians that seethe and surge against the line of soldiers who hold them back, trying to maintain order and keep them away from the fray. One of the uniformed men sees you, and yells.

"The Jian! Lady Rhapsody!"

The cry ripples through the crowd. It becomes a chant, a shout, a torrent.

First one of the soldiers comes. Then another. Then another -- breaking away from their stations, their assigned duty crumbling in the swell of warrior spirit. Civilians plough through the gaps, eager to follow. The rest of the guards soon realize that there's no use remaining. They join the clamor, lend their voices, join the mass of Sian humanity.

As you and your companions run down the road, towards the battle, hundreds of men and women run behind you -- crying your name, crying her name, the Emperor's name, screaming for fallen loved ones and hurling abuse at your enemies.

It's as though the whole city is running, the whole planet, the system, the empire. All of them rushing to victory and destiny, the final blow that will hurl the Centurians' tentacles from this world and return Sian to their hands.

Talia is at your side, her swift legs and springing pace matching yours. So are Lu Bu and Ragnar, the robot's mechanical frame and the cybernetic war machine the Niflung calls his body tireless. Telemachus' mech keeps pace as well, its thrusters silent instead of launching him at speed. The five of you run together, the waves of soldiers and civilians behind you, destiny and destruction ahead.

When you reach the fighting, enter the vast square in front of the palace, it's as though you've been thrust into an ancient epic, hurled into the The Iliad's hexameters or The Romance of the Three Kingdoms' pages. Everywhere you turn you see one of your allies, using the skills which brought them into your ranks, proving their worth through raw violence.

M.1 C.H.U., the misandrous cyborg, sashays towards the nearest Centurian troopers, her curves swaying with the sinister seductiveness of the femme fatale. The big blaster in her hands fires, spitting three bolts of purple energy at three different targets -- straight into each man's groin. They scream and collapse, armor and genitals melted into a mass of metal and anguish.

Tech-Fist, the scientist superhero, appears in the shifting fray. The turquoise gauntlet that encases his hand, the eponymous weapon fashioned by a mind both genius and juvenile, swings through the air in a sweeping backhand. It crashes against a Centurian's helmet, denting the metal and sending him spinning.

There's a spray of sub-machinegun fire, a burst of bullets that all cluster around an enemy's heart instead of spitting indiscriminate paths into the whirling melee of allies and enemies. Blitz, the guerilla commander that the Collective calls a terrorist and others call a freedom fighter... Even she's come out of the shadows, abandoning subtlety and sabotage, covert bombings and tactical strikes to be here.

Xiang Kua, the psychic kung fu expert, appears above the battle for a moment -- rising above the mass of warriors, his legs spinning, boots glowing with psionic energy as they kick a Centurian further and further into the air. When they reach the apex of the maneuver the Sian martial artist slips into a graceful backflip that takes him back down towards the chaos. The Centurian drops like a stone.

Nearby a hulking metal form towers head and shoulders above a group of Centurian troopers, laying into them with big swinging blows of his huge fists -- scattering them left and right. Ajax... You first heard his name in reports decrying intelligent robots, heated arguments about how such automatons were dangerous and violent. TALOS' creation is proving them right today, and they can go to hell.

All these scenes slip into your perception in an instant, along with a dozen other aristeias -- catalogues of heroism and carnage glaring at you from all sides. Then you draw your jian with one hand, pull your pistol from its holster with the other, and charge.

---

Nothing is Over

Your friends fight as you've never seen them fight before. In sight of the imperial palace, on the cusp of freeing Princess Illaria's homeworld from the Centurian Collective, love and hatred meld together -- seeping deep into your marrow and exhorting you all. The sights and sounds of the grand melee raging before you have their effect as well. Hundreds of little acts of courage meet your gaze. Hardened veterans and poorly armed civilians stand together to battle those who once came and conquered but now can only delay the inevitable.

Ragnar leaps into the air, launched heavenward by the inconceivable might of his thews and the augmented strength of his skeleton. His axe is raised aloft, high above his head -- as though offered up to whatever gods of war and bloodshed may deign to fasten immortal eyes upon this clash. Light gleams along its orange edge, like a sprawling sunrise gathered and focused into one shining brilliance.

His bellowing war cry sounds out over the shouts of enemy and ally, the screams of friend and foe, the susurration of lasers and the clanging of metal against metal.

Then the axe falls, cleaving down as his muscular body descends, arcing its burning path into the trooper below. It takes the Centurian in the side of the neck, slicing through thick armor plates with the softest screech. And it doesn't stop there. It cuts through metal and flesh and bone and life. When it's done, the Centurian slides apart with a squelch and a grind -- his body sundered and his soul cast into the void for whatever judgment awaits it.

Crimson erupts, a fountain that gushes over the Niflung and paints him with the sticky wet glory of his kill. He laughs, and plunges deeper into the fray.

Telemachus is beside him in the next moment, his mech's redness matching the Niflung's. Not all of it is paint. The engine of war, built by TALOS at the behest of a loving and indulgent father, echoes the fury of the boy who pilots it.

The laser-edged chainsaw flashes like a sliver of cyan sky, the heavens concentrated into a single whirling strip of energy and portent. It's the wrath of Zeus, the thunderbolt of Jove, the combined edicts of every sky-god ever conceived by the minds of man. It chops and slashes, thrusts and cleaves.

Armored limbs fly into the air as though grasping for escape and salvation. Heads topple and tumble. Torsos fall one way, legs another. When it comes to slaughter, the prince is already a king.

Lu Bu walks a different path.

The golden robot could cause as much carnage with his sword and his claw. You've seen him wield those weapons in a cyclone of steel, lay waste to dozens of enemies with such swiftness that most wouldn't even have comprehended the doom which took them. But he doesn't throw himself into the heart of the battle with reckless abandon, doesn't merely go where he could unleash his mechanical might without restraint.

Instead he turns his gaze and his strength elsewhere.

Men and women in civilian garb, armed with whatever weapons they've brought from their homes or snatched up from the ground, are struggling with a band of Centurians -- hurling themselves into the fray with fierce determination that would soon have become martyrdom against the superior arms and armor of their foes. Would have, but for Lu Bu.

He slips into their midst, and slips his sword into the first soldier's heart.

Defender and champion of the empire, he takes his stand with its people, shining in their midst. She would have been so proud.

Talia is still by your side, her pistols zapping their perfection. No shot is wasted. No laser, even those fired at targets in the middle of the chaotic melee, fails to find a deserving eye or heart.

When you move into the battle she spins round, her back pressed against yours for a split-second before she completes the movement, ends up on the other side, and keeps firing.

Your jian cuts and thrusts, each strike taking a life or else ensuring an enemy's imminent demise -- beating away a weapon, blocking a blast with its sheathe of energy, amputating a hand or arm which its owner presumed to raise against you.

The gunslinger is silent. Her pistols talk for her, speak her rage and vengeance, spit her curses and profanities. When you press deeper into the melee, making for a pocket of Centurions where the fighting is thickest, she presses on with you -- firing at pointblank range.

Attacks are coming at you from each angle now, save for that which Talia holds and protects. But your blade answers each of them, and its word is final. As for her... You hazard a glance, and see that she needs no assistance. Her arms move around her body, firing in each direction. Whenever an enemy draws near, one of her weapons points over her shoulder or around her waist and puts an end to them.

Her reflexes, her senses, are on the verge of precognition. She's the goddess of gunslingers, and no one can escape the pull of her triggers.

Blood. Death. Screams. Shouts.

You lose yourself in the battle, disappear into its violent depths. It's only when the cheering begins, when you blink and find yourself on the steps of the palace, that you know it's over.

There are no more cries of pain, only joy. Elation. Victory.

This will be the last speech you'll give as Imperial Jian. The one history will remember, for good or ill.

Talia and Telemachus, Ragnar and Lu Bu flank you -- the five of you gazing down the broad stairway and the strip of defaced sculptures which bisects its length. Wu Tenchu stands a little distance away, within the pool of shadow cast by one of the portico's pillars. The faintest of smiles twitches at the corners of your mouth. You'll bring him into the light soon enough.

The square in front of the palace is thronged, filled with triumphant warriors. A handful even intrude onto the lower reaches of the steps themselves, as though yearning to be as close as possible to the Imperial Jian yet held at bay as propriety struggles with enthusiasm.

Some are wounded, their clothes red with their own blood as well as that of friends and foes. But they refuse to leave -- forcing the medics to attend them while they stand and stare and wait. Waiting for the words which will fall from your lips.

You glance over at Master Wu, at the shadowy face of the mandarin. For all his genius, all the inscrutable machinations of his cunning brain, even he doesn't know the full extent of your plans...

Nor do your companions. You hope that in the end they'll forgive you...

---

Scorched Earth

First you offer praise. You speak of courage, valor, audacity -- lauding the efforts of all who've lifted weapons since the war began, both imperial subjects fighting for their own freedom and allies whose loyalty and friendship have been tested and not found wanting.

You speak too of all the billions of subjects who endured the Centurian occupation, yearning for liberation and doing what little they could to bring it about by passing information or aiding bands of rebels.

Then you turn your words and mind to all those who perished. The warriors and civilians who never lived to see this day, who closed their eyes for the final time not knowing if the Collective would ever be defeated. Heads nod in the crowd, or else are bowed in prayer or remembrance. They've all lost someone. No heart is untouched by the conflict's grief. It's here that you speak of the Emperor and the Princess. These words aren't carefully crafted like those you delivered at the funeral. They're genuine, and bite into your soul as they fall from your lips.

But it isn't yet time to surrender to melancholy.

So your words turn once more. You talk of all the planets that still chafe under Centurian domination -- noble worlds such as Gallea where King Salastro gave his life so that Illaria and his son could escape the Centurians. You ask how you can allow such injustice to continue, how people who have known the weight of the Collective's yoke can permit others to tremble beneath it.

Then the critical moment comes. Two words, that will shape the destiny of human space: Alpha Centauri.

The Centurians have been driven from Sian space. But that's not enough. They conquered your worlds, brought war and carnage to the streets of your settlements. And now they get to cower from you in the unviolated sanctuary of their own territory?

No.

Your mandate as Imperial Jian may have been only to free the Sian Empire. But you can't relinquish your power yet. Not whilst the Collective still exists, while Councilor Dule still draws breath.

You tell them this, and the people below need no encouragement. They call out for war, for vengeance, for death and destruction. Sian subjects yearn to strike and punish, to exact righteous retribution. As for your allies, you've made your arrangements there. Some are as keen as you to see the Centurians destroyed. Others care only for what they might gain from the conquest of Collective space. No matter. All is grist that comes to your mill.

It's at the apex of this clamor that you turn to Master Wu, and name him Prime Minister of the Sian Empire -- declaring that someone must be left to administer to the newly freed worlds while you wage war in the far-off system where Dule lurks.

The mandarin is startled. A rare thing for him. But what can he do? Before the eyes of the galaxy, with Sian subjects looking on and cheering your edict, he can only glide towards you, bow, and accept the honor -- even as his eyes flash unspoken questions at you.

Wu Tenchu isn't the only one thrown into confusion when you announce your plans.

"But..." Telemachus' widening eyes make him look so young... "I thought we were all going to Alpha Centauri!"

"What Lady Rhapsody proposes makes sense," Wu Tenchu replies. "Once Alpha Centauri is attacked, the Centurians may try to retaliate by massacring the populations of the worlds they still occupy. It's wise to ensure their safety before that can happen."

You drop to one knee in front of the boy, place your hands on his shoulders.

"I know you want Dule. We all do. But Gallea is your world. Those are your people... your subjects. They need you. It's what your father would have wanted."

That one hurt. Invoking King Salastro's memory to manipulate him. But you have to...

Telemachus nods.

"You're right. I'll cut them to bits and chuck them out of his palace."

You put your arms around him. He tenses at first, taken aback. But he allows you to pull him close to you, returns the gesture with bemused arms.

"You'll make a fine king," you say.

You kiss his forehead as you pull away.

Stupid... He'll know something's wrong. They all will. Shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have made a big deal out of this parting... But words weren't enough.

You turn to Talia and Lu Bu as you stand up. There's a curious expression on the gunslinger's face.

"Look after him," you say. "Make sure he gets through the battle in one piece."

The gunslinger nods. Then she steps forward and hugs you, surprising you just like you surprised Telemachus. Her lips touch your cheek -- a soft, almost ethereal kiss.

Her eyes hold yours for a long moment after she steps back. Then she turns away.

"I won't let him come to any harm," Lu Bu says. He drops into an elegant, courtly bow.

"Thank you." You return the gesture.

"It's been an honor to fight at your side." He pauses. "Today."

"And at yours."

"A moment, Lord Commander?"

You look round, into the face of the female general who met you on this pad when you first landed.

"We need to confirm some of your arrangements," she continues.

She gestures for you to accompany her. As you turn to follow, you see Wu Tenchu moving closer to the others. You strain to hear the words behind you, but the general is talking. You can only hope that their suspicions aren't enough to make them interfere...

You're led to a group of senior commanders near one of the shuttles -- the craft which will take them up to their command ship. They salute, then ask you a series of questions concerning your orders. You try to suppress the frown which gathers at your brow. Weren't your instructions clear enough?

But you answer until at last they're satisfied, salute once more, and board their shuttle. Then you jog back to where you left your companions.

To your relief, only Ragnar remains. The others must be on the Silver Shadow already, getting ready for their own trip to a command vessel. The mandarin is gone too, perhaps already dealing with the innumerable issues of state you've dumped into his lap.

Then you notice that the shuttle you were to fly to the Illaria is gone as well.

"They took that one instead," the Niflung explains. "Said we should keep the Silver Shadow with us, in case we needed it in Alpha Centauri."

"Oh..."

You board the ship, wondering if confusion is contagious.

Ragnar drops into the co-pilot's seat when you take your position.

"I'm not stupid," he says.

You don't answer.

"I know why you only wanted me with you," he continues. "Whatever you're going to do, you think they'd try to stop you. But you know I won't."

"Guess eating that Snuuth's brains paid off after all."

He grins. Then you fly up to the Illaria in silence.

"You have a transmission, Lord Commander."

Captain Silea tells you this the moment you step onto the bridge. She opens her mouth as though to add something, then hesitates. She doesn't even remember to salute.

"Is something wrong?"

"It's Francois Dupont. He's demanding to speak with you."

Dupont... The Secretary-General of the Union of Human Worlds.

"Put it through to the war room."

"Yes, Lord Commander."

You pass into the chamber. Ragnar follows. You seal the door behind him, then sit down in the command seat.

If the Niflung cares about the lack of furniture, he gives no sign. He stands beside your chair and looks up at the big screen as Francois Dupont's face appears there.

The Secretary-General of the UHW is barely recognizable at first. His hair is puffy and disheveled. It's as though someone's detonated a bomb in the middle of its customary voluminous neatness, and scattered it in all directions. His bushy moustache is equally disheveled -- you'd never imagined that particular word applying to a moustache, but apparently it can. There's a burgundy dressing gown around his thin frame, and he looks to be in a rather modest office instead of the ornate chamber he commands at the UHW HQ.

"Lady Rhapsody," he begins, in his high and fruity voice, "I've received word from Councilor Dule of the Centurian Collective."

Ah... So that's what's dragged a man like him out of bed.

"What did that bastard want?"

Dupont gives a little humph at your description of Dule.

"The councilor has called upon me to mediate. He wishes to avoid further loss of life, and to that end he agrees to withdraw from all occupied territories, rejoin the UHW, and abide by our rulings."

Ragnar laughs. You smile without mirth.

"His terms aren't accepted. Tell him to expect us soon."

"No!" The secretary-general's eyes flash. His moustache dances with the force of the exhalation. "Lady Rhapsody, in the name of the UHW I order you to stand your forces down. There will be no attack on Centurian space. Such an act will be regarded as illegal military aggression, and bring down the full sanction of-"

"Should have killed him when we were on Earth," Ragnar growls.

You lift your right hand, ready to swat the screen away as you would a buzzing fly, and break the connection.

"Wait! If you refuse, I'll contact each member power and demand that they withdraw their support! You'll be left without a single human ally!"

Your hand hovers in mid-air, your mind rushing through the possible outcomes -- making rapid calculations. Some of your allies might ignore Dupont, but others...

The secretary-general nods, taking his cue from your indecision.

"I'm glad you're willing to listen to reason. Now, I'll-"

Then his eyes glaze over and he topples forward. His puffy-haired head taps against the monitor before slumping onto the desk with a soft thud.

The air behind him shimmers. A debonair smile appears from nothingness, followed by the rest of Arthur Lupin.

"Good luck, my dear."

He reaches out towards the monitor. The image vanishes.

"Captain Silea," you say, opening another channel, "alert the rest of the fleet. Tell them it's time."

"Yes, Lord Commander."

And there it is.

It was the first thing you looked for when the Illaria completed its hyperspace jump, just like when you emerged into your native system to fight for Sian. Before you even looked at the Centurian fleet, you scanned the monitors for a sign.

This time you see one.

An empty portion of the void, away from the great space stations and immense ships on which the denizens of this wordless system dwell. You enlarge that screen, drawing it out until it seems to dominate the entire chamber -- a looming square of blackness that might fall at any moment and swallow you up.

You have to be sure...

But there's no mistake. There's the shimmer, just like on the Zenith.

As your gaze sweeps the chamber, something catches the corner of your eye, some faint trace of movement. But when you look again, it's gone. A trick of the light...

It's almost imperceptible. You'd never have noticed it if you hadn't been looking for it. Waiting. Anticipating. Preparing.

Why here? That's the thought which fills your mind. Why here and not before, when you fought the Centurians in Sian space? More indecision perhaps. Are they wondering whether it's worth their time to support Dule any longer? Is there a debate raging even now, some voices speaking in favor of aiding the Collective and others calling for them to be cut loose? You'll never know. But that doesn't matter.

You reach for the controls, and open a channel.

"I know you can hear me."

There's no reply. No screen opens to reveal a listener. But they hear your words. You're sure of it.

"Watch," you say.

Your fingers dart across the keys of a terminal. Two fresh screens come into being amidst the holographic mosaic, pushing their way to prominence. They stand side-by-side, below the empty view of space with its strange shimmer. Two big squares, each displaying a large, dense, heavily industrialized settlement. Two of the Centurians' most valuable, most productive worlds.

A few gestures and information is hurled along the channel, flung at your mute listeners. You share the images, give them the planets' coordinates. Perhaps they have their own way of seeing, of identifying, of verifying. But if not, they can borrow your eyes. You don't want them to miss this.

A soft growl escapes Ragnar's throat. Does he know what you're about to do? Has he worked it out?

If he has, he makes no move to stop you.

Your hand reaches towards the special control. The contingency plan.

---

Genocide is Painless

"What would she say? About what you're planning?"

The explosions are like the booming voices of angry gods, the mushroom clouds gigantic burial shrouds.

Fire. Inconceivable expanses of fire. A bombardment worthy of heaven and hell, of Armageddon. Destruction so utter it seems as though it must ravage the entire universe.

Cities die. Worlds die. Annihilation. A nuclear onslaught that obliterates flesh and metal with callous equanimity.

Valuable worlds, precious resources... Gone.

"I'll burn it all before I let you have it," you say. "Remember that."

Your eyes fix upon the blank square of space. The shimmer vanishes as the Besalaad ships withdraw.

Imperialists, not ravagers. Ruined worlds are worth nothing to them.

Some of the holographic screens are bleeping. People wish to speak with you. But you're not interested in talking.

Instead you widen a different screen. Your battle view. It's time to begin...

The Centurians put up a good fight. But they're outmatched. They committed too many of their defense ships in the battle for Sian. And now they're faced with even larger forces, a vast armada of your allies who've converged on Alpha Centauri whilst smaller fleets strike to liberate the remaining occupied planets.

Captain Silea does admirably, more than a match for her Collective counterparts in this theater, under these circumstances.

So you only deploy your war room's special control mechanisms near the end...

"They know they're beaten!" she says. "Their stations and settlement ships are deploying their escape pods."

Yes... They're on the screens -- spherical objects thrown into the void, tossed away from the space stations and gargantuan craft like bombs from a drunken grenadier's hands. They tumble into the darkness before emitting jolts of energy from their thrusters, arresting their descent and flying away from their neglectful parents. Clutches of ambulatory eggs making a desperate migration.

"Lord Commander? You've taken direct control of the ship again?"

You grasp the flight sticks. Your thumbs rest upon the red buttons.

---

Councilor Dule

"Those are civilian escape pods! They're unarmed! Non-combatants!"

Silea's professional reserve is gone now. Her voice is shrill, that of a horrified girl instead of a warrior.

Another sphere explodes, popped like a bubble beneath your sapphire blasts.

Someone's banging on the war room's door. But they won't get through it.

More bleeps from the holographic screens. A curt gesture silences them. Then more blasts, more cracked eggs. More Centurians scattered onto the tides of oblivion.

You're not the only one firing. Others have joined in. Some of your allies, those with the greatest grudges against the Collective or else simply the most bloodthirsty. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that the Centurians learn the true cost of what they've done.

Captain Silea's voice falls silent. She knows it's no good. She can't stop you.

You pity her. Not the thousands upon thousands who are dying in those ruptured eggs. But you feel pity for her.

"Captain, the logs will show that you had nothing to do with this. I accept full responsibility. No one will blame you."

She doesn't answer.

The last of the escape pods burns. Everything burns. Well, not quite everything. Not yet...

You get up and turn to Ragnar.

"If any of them try to stop us, don't do any damage that can't be fixed."

"Got it," he growls.

You activate the security panel beside the door. It slides open.

The crew on the bridge are in their seats. None of them look round. The two of you walk to the exit surrounded by silence.

A few people pass you on the way to the hangar. Some avert their gaze. Others favor you with approving nods, satisfied vengeance in their eyes.

Most of the ships have already been launched, either at the onset of the battle or to join the boarding operation. But the Silver Shadow still rests in its place, ready to take you to Centauri Prime -- their main space station, home of the Centurian High Council.

You don't make for the argentine craft, however. Instead you head for one of the storage bays.

"What're you doing?" Ragnar asks.

"You'll see."

The door opens, revealing a darkened room full of crates, great masses of them piled from floor to ceiling. It resembles a cityscape.

"It's time," you say.

"Finally!"

The voice comes from the back of the room, the speaker hidden from sight. There's a whumping of heavy machinery, the sound of weighty metal footsteps thumping against the floor -- drawing closer and closer.

Something that resembles a robot emerges from behind one of the stacks, a hefty machine encased in thick metal plates.

A panel in its midsection slides open, revealing a jar full of liquid that contains a severed head.

Ragnar snarls. He strides forward, raising his axe. You move in the way, press your hand against one of the slabs of muscle on his chest.

"Don't worry, Niflung," Rautha sneers. "You won't have to kill me again."

"He's coming with us," you say.

Your omnicidal friend stares at Rautha for a long moment. Then he grunts.

"Hope you know what you're doing," he says. Then he turns around and walks back into the hangar.

You follow, Rautha clanking along behind you. Three people, two friends and a former enemy, board the Silver Shadow with murder on their minds.

"Trust me," Rautha says. "I've been here before. This is the best landing place, if you want Dule before anyone else gets to him."

He's already moving when you and Ragnar step off the ship, towards the small hangar's exit and into the steel-grey corridor beyond. You jog to keep up.

There are hundreds of separate forces moving through Centauri Prime. Sian troops, TALOS robots, and divisions of warriors from each of your allies. Everyone wants to be here at the end, be part of the force that stormed the Centurian capital. Some will adhere to your instructions, that Dule be left for you. But you know that others won't. Even imperial troops may stray, filled with bloodlust, yearning to be the one to avenge the Emperor and Illaria. As for the others... The Niflung berserkers and other savage warriors would tear him limb from limb -- and then offer you a trophy from the corpse by way of an apology.

So you allowed Rautha to guide the Silver Shadow with his knowledge of Centauri Prime, to an insignificant looking hangar in a seemingly inconsequential section of the station.

Now the three of you pass down stark, metal-paneled corridors -- adorned by nothing but the occasional Centurian emblem. Only the distant sounds of battle prove that you aren't alone in this drab, artless realm.

"We're missing the killing," Ragnar growls. "Someone else might-"

But the end of his sentence becomes a roar of satisfaction. The din of booted feet, from one of the side passages.

"Heh. He knows we're coming," Rautha says. "He's called in reinforcements."

"Let them come." Ragnar lifts his machinegun in one hand, his axe in the other.

Troopers in iron-colored armor, as drab as the world around them, pour into the passage. Into the meat grinder.

The Niflung's bullets tear the first three, a barrage of fire that rips into their bodies -- expensive tips penetrating armor plates as though they were paper, brightening their uniforms with splashes of crimson. Then come the detonations. Explosive bullets... Only the best for this mission, to usher the Centurians off the galactic stage.

More follow, men and women brave or desperate enough to throw themselves forward even as they see their comrades eviscerated before their eyes. Their lasers, as red as the blood and gore, flash. But your life's been full of red lasers. These are no different. You throw yourself aside and fire back, putting a blast through a woman's head and putting her brains on the wall behind. More color... Interior decoration, a gift from the Sian Empire.

You sensed you could trust Rautha. Now he proves it.

The big guns at the ends of his mechanical arms open up, roaring murder -- lending their voice to Ragnar's weapon until the two seem like violent baritones singing an opera. The kind where everyone dies at the end.

But the former commander, the man who should by all rights have perished long ago, who urinates in the face of death by the very fact of his continued existence, isn't satisfied with that.

Missiles fly from his batteries, spiral through the air, and find new homes in the last of the Centurians. Scraps of metal and chunks of flesh rain across the passage.

He's moving before all the pieces hit the floor, heading for the door at the far end of the hall. But he stops when he comes to the corridor that delivered the troopers to their deaths. More footfalls. Louder this time. The sounds of a bigger squad.

Laser fire zaps across his chest and shoulders, red lances scratching at his new body's bulk.

"Keep going," he shouts, his voice blending with the rattle of gunfire spitting from his arms. "When you get to hell, tell me how you killed him!"

You and Ragnar run past, slipping by the laser fire. A glance shows you a huge force of iron-grey soldiers at the other end of the side passage.

"Rautha's back, bitches!"

With that cry, and a stream of manic laughter, he charges -- guns blazing, missiles flying. The cacophony of carnage follows you through the door, and the next one, before distance and sliding metal barriers conceal it from your ears.

You're in a small antechamber -- a closed door ahead of you, an unsealed corridor to your right.

The barrel of your weapon takes aim out of instinct when metal forms appear at the other end, then relaxes a split-second later. TALOS Battle Bots. So the other boarding parties have found their way here already. Good. They'll be in time to see him die.

The door doesn't retract when you approach it. One stubborn little barrier that thinks it can keep you from your goal. Not a chance...

Ragnar kicks it. The door becomes a doormat.

And there he is, at the other end of the cavernous room -- surrounded on three sides by huge windows that gaze out into the void, at the countless stars he dreamed of grasping. There are tables behind him, crowned with holographic projections of planets and systems, ships and weapons.

Dule's personal war room. The place he's chosen to make his last stand.

The glass which covers the mech's cockpit is opaque, its occupant hidden beneath its reflective sheen. But you know it's him all the same, encased in the heavy metal chassis atop chicken-walker legs, arms and shoulders bristling with weaponry.

All this passes into your eyes and mind in an instant. Then the shooting starts.

---

In your imagination, your dreams, your fantasies, there were words. Dule would taunt you, challenge you, mock you. And you'd spit your own words in his face before you took his life.

But here, encircled by the void, beneath the gaze and judgment of the stars, there's only shooting.

The cylindrical cannons at the ends of the mech's arms spin, showering clumsy bursts of bullets across the room. Some plink against the floor, shoot upwards again in chaotic ricochets. Others patter against the wall behind you. A few rebounding rounds graze your armor as you roll and evade, scratching scars across the metal. But it'll take more than that to stop you.

It's been a long time since Councilor Dule took the field, decades since he piloted that mech -- an old model, precursor to the Sentinel -- in combat. He's not a fighter. Not anymore. Not like you and Ragnar...

The Niflung and his machinegun both roar. Little explosions erupt across the mech's grey-green plates, scouring and smashing. Bursts of incendiary rage plume across one of the big bullet-spitting arms, at first blending with the muzzle flash but then swallowing it up. The mounted weapon stops spinning.

Your blasts take the other one, a series of precise shots at the gaping barrel that melt its metal and seal its mouths.

Missiles whoosh from the mech's shoulder launcher, red tips spinning across the room, leaving artful trails of smoke behind them. Two land near Ragnar, explode with enough force to throw his tank-like body through the air. But he lands on his feet, and keeps firing as if nothing had happened.

Three swirl their way towards you. But they're inaccurate little things. You've dodged worse than them before. One you shoot in mid-air, the others explode close to where you were -- far from where you are.

No... The councilor has nothing. His defiance is meaningless, delaying the inevitable. The stars in their courses are set against him. Perhaps they wish to avenge her too, want to witness his destruction and illuminate the moment with their astral light.

You and Ragnar both aim at the shoulder-mounted launcher. You don't know whether it's your weapon or the Niflung's which strikes the critical blow. It doesn't matter. Another mouth silenced. Another nail in the coffin.

It's time.

You throw your weapons aside.

"Kasan."

The burning comes faster this time. Blood becomes fire, an inferno blazing its way through your body -- immolating your innards, devouring meat and soul until there's only flame.

So does the darkness. Black tendrils writhe and thrash at the edges of your vision, the periphery of the universe. They're reaching for you, yearning for you. As hungry as the fire. Both want you. Both can have you. But not yet...

"Kasan!"

Blood and darkness respond to the ancient word, woven through the fabric of time -- carried deep in your essence, in the intangible, existential matter of which DNA is but the faintest echo.

Images flood your consciousness as you run, sharpening and blurring with each burning beat of blood. Visions from places both forgotten and half-remembered. They swirl around your perception, like the darkness -- the two melding together, twisting and morphing into something darker than the abyss and brighter than a sun.

There are sounds as well, an ocean of noise -- millions of voices that drown one another in their eagerness to be heard. They echo inside your head, little slivers escaping onto the cusp of intelligibility before falling into the endless waves once more.

Unfathomable forces tug at you, yank you this way and that. Pull you, push you, batter you, throw you, seize you. They're trying to take you, consume you, digest you into millennia of seething, bubbling, bursting history. That's where you belong, in the incandescent ocean. One voice amongst the others, straining to be heard but thwarted each time by the enormity of creation.

In the middle of all this is the single point of reality in the maelstrom, the fragment of solidity that's more important than the universe of surreality which threatens to obscure it. Dule's mech. The laser on its right shoulder, sibling of the ruined launcher, is firing its yellow beam.

You raise a glowing hand to meet it.

The ocean smashes against you, sweeps you away, knocks sensation from your mind. Dancing colors, swirling existences. They fall together, coalesce into something white. Her. Illaria. She's standing in the middle of the tempest, surrounded by infinity. And she's screaming. Screaming as the fist smashes into her face, obliterates her skull. Redness.

There's something hard beneath your hands and your knees. Focus on that, on the solid, real, tangible thing. The floor. It's the floor. You've fallen, knocked down by the blood and the darkness and the light and the sound and-

Ragnar's voice and his machinegun's voice cry out, distant sounds that force their way into your brain.

You look up, see them explode across the mech's grey-green body. The laser dies. The cockpit's armored glass chips then cracks then shatters. And there he is. Councilor Dule, his face opened by the scattered shards -- blood splashed across his scarred, burned cheek and his grey hair.

"No!"

You think the voice is yours, though it's hard to tell, impossible to pick it out from the millions and millions. But the Niflung must hear it, must understand. Because no more bullets fly, no explosive round obliterates the councilor.

He's yours. Yours. And hers.

You're standing now. You're running. The blood's rushing throughout your body, quenching the flames or feeding it. The darkness is grabbing or guiding you.

Dule shouts. His weapons are gone. The mech staggers backwards. Then one of its legs gives way and it falls. Broken. Everything's broken. It, you, him, the universe. Breaking more each time. Every time your blood sings.

He's crawling from the cockpit, cutting himself on the thick glass teeth, shredding his hands. You yank him out, throw him onto the floor.

He looks up at you. His face is bloody, but his eyes are sharp. Focused. Frightened. The darkness is spinning around him. The blood is still raging and surging. Everything's a blur, except for those sharp, focused, frightened eyes.

"Kasan!"

A million voices cry out at the same time. Some understand the word, others don't. But all sense its magnitude, its importance.

Both your hands glow. The blood and the darkness grab you. They have you now. Forever.

Your hands plunge towards him. Glowing fingers pierce his skin, shred his muscle, push apart his ribs, grab soft lumps of flesh.

He screams. You scream. Illaria screams.

You pull, yanking your fists out of his carcass, splintering his ribcage, spraying his blood, casting his organs into the air.

Redness. Then darkness.

You did what you had to.

You try to cling to that thought as you gaze around the bare walls of your cell, at the blue energy barrier stretching beyond its slender bars. It provides little comfort.

Again and again the scene plays across your mind. You feel your thumb pressing the red buttons at the ends of the control sticks, see the Centurian escape pods exploding -- flashes of brilliant fire against the black of the void. The sounds of their destruction, spawned within your aural implant, rage in your ears like an accusation.

"@PLAYERNAME!"

That voice... From the corridor.

The energy field is gone.

"@PLAYERNAME!"

She appears at the bars, her white dress shimmering. Joy and relief flow across her beautiful face. Princess Illaria...

"We have to go! I've got the key!"

There's a click. The bars slide away, retracting into the floor and ceiling.

She takes your arm, pulls you into the corridor, into her embrace. The universe spins around you, swirling galaxies dancing to the tune of her presence.

Her lips brush against your ear as she whispers:

"Kasan."

Your eyes open.

There's a moment of confusion so utter that it might never end. Then the world resolves itself into intelligibility.

You're in your cabin on the Silver Shadow.

Memories coalesce, gathering and hardening. Centauri Prime...

You slide your legs off the bed. There's a moment's soreness when you stand, but it passes as though it were a phantom -- aches and pains remembered by your mind but forgotten by your body.

You're not wearing your armor anymore. And your hands...

For several seconds you just stare at them. No redness. But you can still feel Dule's organs in their grasp, torn from his ribcage -- his innards flung aloft like an offering to the void.

You head for the flight cabin.

It's empty.

The autopilot is engaged. So is the cloaking device.

A green light blinks at you from the communications terminal. A recorded message? You press the button.

Ragnar's face appears on the monitor. He's sitting...

You glance at the pilot's chair, as though the burly Niflung might have materialized there.

"I don't know how long you'll be out," he says. "I got the medical drones to check you over when they cleaned you up. They said you'll be fine."

There's a long pause. The Niflung sighs.

"I need to get you out of here. You have to disappear, at least for now. After what you did..." Another pause. "I'll hitch a ride off this station, and tell the others you're okay."

He gets up from the chair, moves away from the camera -- towards the edge of the screen. Then he stops, turns round, and comes back.

"If you need me, just call."

He reaches out. The recording ends.

For several seconds you stare at the blank screen, as though its black depths might hold some spark of knowledge, some shred of wisdom to help you make sense of it all. You thought the blood would take you, that your existence would end with Dule's. Yet here you are...

If the blackness on the monitor knows what to make of this, it betrays no sign. So you sit in the pilot's chair, examine the terminals. The autopilot... No destination set. Not even he knows where you are. Good.

He was right. You have to disappear. If you went back, your friends would stand with you no matter what. So would others... You can't put them through that. Better to vanish.

And...

Yes, you feel them deep within. The blood and the darkness. Waiting for the word that will allow them to consume you. A black and crimson enigma, a mystery you can't begin to unravel. But the galaxy is vast. Perhaps there's an answer to it somewhere out there...

Your hands reach for the controls. The autopilot disengages, surrendering the Silver Shadow.

The endless void rolls beyond the flight cabin's window, stretching out to ebon infinities. A thousand stars glitter, all of them beckoning you.