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
Genocide is Painless
Councilor Dule