LotS/The Story/The Right Tools

"Intro"=
"The Sian Empire's greatest strength is also its greatest vulnerability. The masses that inhabit its worlds look upon the imperial family with the adoring, worshipful stares of retarded children. Every one of them is ready to become a fearless fanatic or devoted martyr for their rulers, clinging to archaic notions of monarchy and heredity that are every bit as poisonous as a religion. But what happens when you seize those rulers, their precious emperor and princess, by the throats? Then you control billions with your grasp." -- Councilor Dule, Discourses on Inferior Political Systems

Blood flies from your body, a torrent of bright scarlet splashes cascading through the air like an explosion in a strawberry jam factory.

"This game is ridiculous," you say.

"You're just saying that because you suck at it," Telemachus replies.

His digitized sprite, which resembles him rather accurately even through the obscuring effect of archaic graphics, somersaults through the air and lands in front of yours. You mash the buttons on your primitive controller, and your likeness -- which you find unflattering in some vague, indiscernible way -- flails its arms and legs in a series of punches and kicks that lash the air above your opponent's head.

"That's not fair! You're too short to hit!"

"Should have used a crouching move."

As if to illustrate his point, Telemachus' sprite drops into a crouch -- rendering him even more diminutive, and your attacks even more useless. Then it springs upwards in an exaggerated uppercut, launching your character towards the top of the screen in a cheerful mockery of all known laws of physics and propriety. Once again there's an eruption of blood, gallons of the stuff flying in all directions.

"And since when does a punch cause that much blood?"

"It's an old game. I just modded it so we could make our characters look like us. I think people bled more in those days."

"Makes sense," Talia says from behind you, her words punctuated by the clicking of her training pistols and the angry quacking of holographic ducks. "They hadn't cured hemophilia back then."

You look over your shoulder, and see at least a dozen of the computer-generated birds falling through the air in the middle of the recreation room -- creating a veritable curtain of anatine demise.

"Don't miss this bit!" Telemachus urges.

When you glance back at the screen, you see yourself standing on the spot and swaying from side to side as though inebriated. The environment has darkened around you, and an ominous voice calls out to demand your death.

There's a rapid series of clicks as the young prince performs an arcane sequence of button presses on his controller. Inspired by this show of manual dexterity and quickness, his digitized doppelganger leaps across the screen -- landing atop your character's shoulders.

The computerized boy pauses, grins at the screen, and flexes his scrawny arms. Then he bends down, grabs hold of your avatar's jaw, and wrenches at it. Your character's head tears free from the torso with implausible neatness, the spinal column trailing from it like a dead snake. Digitized-Telemachus brandishes it in the air and grins once more.

"Did you always play games like this?" you ask.

"As long as I can remember."

"That explains a lot."

Talia skips over, the pleasure of her counterfeit killing evident in each light, springing step. She rests one hand on the back of the couch and twirls a pistol in the other as she scrutinizes your decapitated head on the screen.

"What is it with you and playing ancient videogames?" she asks. "I'm pretty sure the new ones are better."

"The new ones are too realistic," Telemachus replies. "When you put on one of the helmets it's just like being in a real gunfight or whatever."

"Isn't that the point?"

"That stuff's fine when you're a kid..."

You meet Talia's gaze, and the two of you share a brief smile. Out of the corner of your eye you see more ducks rising up from the floor, flapping their gleeful and triumphant way through the room now that the gunslinger's back is turned.

"...but when you get to shoot people for real, what's the point in doing the exact same thing in a game? That's why I like the old ones, back when games were games -- they didn't care about being realistic, and you had to get used to the controls and stuff."

"If you say so."

Talia stops spinning her pistol, raises her arm, points the weapon over her shoulder, and starts firing behind her. One by one the birds explode in showers of digital flesh and feathers.

You follow her line of vision, and notice the faint, distorted reflections of obliterated birds on the videogame screen. Impossible accuracy... But when it comes to shooting, Talia always was the queen of the impossible.

"Want to go again?" Telemachus asks.

"No thanks."

You get up, and walk across the room -- stepping over the remains of Talia's ducks out of instinct, as though the pixels and polygons might stick to your boots like genuine blood and gore. A door slides open before you, revealing the adjoining recreation chamber.

For a split-second you're presented with the sight of Ragnar apparently balancing a burly, upside-down robot on his shoulder in an absurd imitation of circus acrobatics. Then the Niflung falls backwards, bringing the suplex to its conclusion. There's a thudding crunch as the robot's head meets the floor and succumbs to their combined weights and momentum.

Ragnar rises into a sitting position, regards the robot for a moment, and grunts. Then he gets to his feet, lifts it in his thick arms, and tosses it aside. The wrecked android clatters onto a heap of other smashed bots.

"Another grappling bot!" the Niflung bellows, glaring at a hatch set in the wall.

The hatch remains closed, ignoring Ragnar's command and forceful stare. He snorts in disapproval.

"If TALOS are going to make disposable robots for training, they should at least give us a good supply."

"They weren't disposable..." Lu Bu says.

The elegant robot is occupying the fencing piste that runs along the other half of the room, face to face and blade to blade with a slender training bot that wields a sword in each hand. All of their weapons shimmer slightly, revealing the protective barriers that stop them from running each other through -- or rather that stop Lu Bu running his opponent through, for a single glance at the swordplay is enough to reveal his unquestionable superiority.

"...in fact," he continues, whilst simultaneously performing an intricate compound attack, "I believe they were rather expensive."

Lu Bu's blade taps the other robot four times in rapid succession, twice on the head and twice where a human's heart would be. Each darting blow causes his sword's field to issue a small, victorious flash.

Ragnar shrugs, and turns to you.

"You want to wrestle?"

You regard the pile of broken robots for a moment.

"Maybe another time."

"I'll let you wear a battlesuit to make it fair."

You're weighing up the potential glory to be gained by besting the Niflung against the possible inconvenience of having your spine broken when the door to your left -- leading to the hallway -- opens.

Princess Illaria stands there, framed in a rectangle of illumination from the brighter lit corridor. You fasten your gaze on her, sensing at once that something's wrong. There's a slight unsteadiness in her stance, a faint uneasiness that slips from behind her mask of calmness and expresses itself in the murmur of her lips and the troubled brightness of her eyes. Miniscule signs, hidden from the world at large but like the crashing of ocean waves to those fortunate enough to know her as you do, to have spent long hours in her presence.

You move towards her, your hands twitching with the instinctive desire to battle and destroy whatever might have disturbed her so.

"Come with me," she says. "All of you."

The Princess leads you through the embassy's corridors, past the dragons, tigers, phoenixes, and other ignored glories that adorn their walls. She offers no word of explanation, so you suppress the questions that fill your mind and scrabble at the base of your tongue. The others do the same -- even the boy and the Niflung seem impressed into noiselessness by Illaria's disquiet and the murky thoughts of what might lie ahead. You simply follow, sailors drawn by a silent siren, seeking promised knowledge with more trepidation than anticipation.

Your guided steps take you towards the Princess' personal meeting chambers, the rooms where select dignitaries are granted audiences or else entertained -- wined and dined on whatever nectar and ambrosia is reserved for such luminaries. But to your surprise you pass the ornate doorway, and instead wind your way deeper into the embassy's inner sanctum.

You find yourself in part of the building where your boots have never trodden, a place you've only ever seen on the embassy's plans when you examined them to ensure its security.

On either side of a short corridor are inconspicuous doors, each one designed to blend into the decorations of the walls -- rendering them almost invisible. You recognize them as the rooms where the Princess' maidservants would sleep in more auspicious times, though now left untenanted by her decree. She deemed it unseemly to be so waited on while the empire struggles beneath the Centurian yoke.

At the end of the passage is a final door, one crafted by artistic hands to be anything but inconspicuous. Its surface is laden with gold, as thick as the triple-steel armor of a prior age. Intertwined dragons sweep across it in luxurious spirals, as though basking in the wealth which went into their creation. Deep green jade marks out details upon their sinuous bodies, and adorns the border which frames them. Studded across the entire expanse, as though sprinkled by a liberal hand, are rubies and emeralds, sapphires and diamonds.

The beautiful object disappears from sight as it detects the Princess' approach, sliding into the wall as smoothly as if it were made of silk. She passes through the exposed portal without so much as a word or a glance over her shoulder.

You pause at the threshold.

The Princess' private chambers... In the embassy, as aboard the Child of Heaven and within the palace on Sian, no one other than Illaria, her maids, and the Emperor himself are permitted inside this most sacred of sanctums. Centuries of imperial protocol bar your path, as though poured forth from a myriad volumes of law and propriety, forming up in their battalions to keep your unworthy flesh and bones at bay.

And yet she expects you to follow, accepts your presence here without so much as a word. Warmth fills you, an absurd but inescapable satisfaction at this proof of your closeness. When you step through the doorway, you'll be-

"Going to stand there all day, captain?"

Talia nudges you from behind.

You sigh, and step into the room beyond.

The oblong antechamber is almost unfurnished, an empty space that stretches perhaps a dozen paces before giving way to a wall containing a door similar in its opulence to the one you just passed through. On either side of the room, ensconced in small alcoves, coiled forms are stirring.

Cyber-dragons, each painted in a different resplendent hue, are rising up as though from a simulacrum of sleep -- an artistic conceit perhaps designed to charm the eye. But you know that there's no idle curiosity or lethargy in their mechanical minds. Instead they're analyzing the newcomers, and callously determining whether they deserve to survive.

The Princess makes an imperious gesture with her hand as she strides towards the far door. The dragons settle down once more, curling up like dogs before a hearth.

A sitting room opens up beyond the antechamber (or killing ground), a large expanse which artists and interior designers have somehow contrived to make intimate rather than cavernous. The ceiling is low, the walls shaped and adorned to create a sense of warmth and comfort. It's a room to escape from the overwhelming spectacle of imperial grandeur, whilst still retaining enough of its splendor to befit a ruler.

In spite of the disturbing mystery behind the Princess' words and behavior, and the trouble they must portend, pride and affection fill you as your inquisitive eyes drink in the room. Priceless statuettes, vases, and other treasures of inestimable yet impractical value have been moved aside -- shunted towards the walls and into corners, usurped by the trappings of war. Holographic charts and projections float in the air, maps of planets and systems, schematics of ships and weapons. It's a confirmation, a validation of everything you know about her -- a final proof that she's a leader of men and women, a champion of her people. A woman worthy of the station fate has bestowed upon her, and ready to endure the hardships it has rained down as well.

A communication terminal rests against the far wall, between two doors whose secrets lie concealed behind further slabs of jewel-encrusted gold. Its screen rises up against the backdrop of a jungle scene, framed on either side by a stalking tiger. It's here that Illaria finally stops.

She turns to you and the others, beckoning you with her eyes. It isn't until you've gathered around her, and the door has slid closed behind you, that she speaks in a soft, halting voice.

"A message came from the Centurians. No one else has seen it. Only me, and Master Wu."

She opens her mouth once more, as though to expand upon this. But instead she turns away, and presses a button on the terminal.

A face appears on the screen. It's one you've seen before, in pictures and news clips. Yet now it carries a certain fleshiness, a sense of reality that it's lacked in your mind until now. It's the ruined visage of a man who was once handsome, its well-shaped jaw and cheekbones overlaid with ugly scars and burns -- war wounds, for which his ideology would never accept surgical correction.

"I am Councilor Dule of the Centurian Collective."

The words are superfluous. The Princess knows who he is, has gazed at his hideous face and supercilious sneer at many UHW meetings. But such preambles are the nearest the Centurians get to pleasantries.

"By the authority of the Centurian Council, you are hereby warned against attempting to invade Sian, or any of our other lawfully acquired territories."

Talia gives a derisory laugh at this pronouncement, and Ragnar growls in homicidal amusement. Then the image on the screen shifts.

Dule disappears, replaced by an elevated view of a chamber -- as though taken from a security camera mounted high on its wall. A man wearing elaborate robes sits cross-legged in the middle of the small but well decorated room. His eyes are closed in meditation, his chest rising and falling in slow harmonies. Talia's laugh dies on her lips.

The screen shifts once more, returning to Dule's face. A sneer now twists his features into something indescribably repulsive.

"You attack, he dies."

The sneer lasts for one long moment more, before the message ends and yields to blackness.

"Who was that?" Ragnar asks. His voice is subdued as he looks from face to face, and sees your expressions.

"My father," the Princess replies. She turns away from the blackness of the screen, and this time makes no attempt to conceal the feelings that vie for expression on her pale face -- now an image of haunting loveliness.

You'd all suspected that the Emperor was a prisoner on Sian, though you had no proof that he still lived. The Centurians seemed content to leave the question unanswered. Until now...

"The Centurians could have made such a threat long ago," Lu Bu says, his computerized brain apparently latching onto the same train of thought as your biological one. "Why would they have waited until now?"

"Contact with the rebels on Sian has been difficult," Illaria replies. Her voice and expression become steadier, and you sense that such talk of practical matters is a welcome distraction. "And the different bands of freedom fighters find it difficult to communicate with each other in safety. For all we know, he might have been in hiding until recently."

"Or the bastards are getting scared," Ragnar says.

You nod. The Niflung might be right. Things have been turning against the Centurians. You were able to drive them out of the UHW, and break their arrangements with the Contella Consortium. They have to be feeling uneasy about what might come next. Perhaps they aren't so confident about a conflict as you suspected. Could that indicate that their Besalaad allies aren't so willing to aid them in a full-scale war? Countless possibilities unravel in your mind.

"So what do we do?" Telemachus asks.

The rest of you stare at one another in silence as you ponder the boy's question.

"My father would never allow the empire to remain in hostile hands. Not even to save his own life. If we have to..."

The Princess' face hardens, its soft beauty becoming that of a martial goddess ready to visit wrath and vengeance upon her enemies. But the façade doesn't conceal the deep anxiety in her eyes. If the Centurians wanted to shake her resolve, they've succeeded.

"If we gathered enough forces, we could amass fleets near to Alpha Centauri," says Lu Bu. "And threaten to destroy their home system if they don't return the Emperor."

"That might be what they're hoping for," you reply. "A stand-off and a long, drawn-out negotiation, while they and the Besalaad make their moves in the shadows."

"If we knew where the Emperor was..." Telemachus begins.

"He's in the palace," you reply, gesturing for him to be silent. "Perhaps our-"

"Really?"

You sigh, and turn back to the prince.

"I recognized the room. It's one of the cells in the imperial palace."

"That's a jail cell?" Ragnar asks. "A lot fancier than any of the ones I've been in."

"The palace cells are only used in special cases," the Princess says. "If a high-ranking politician is accused of a crime, or a foreign diplomat, they're put there instead of in one of the prisons."

"If we know where he is," Telemachus says, "why don't we just go and bust him out?"

You're about to silence him with a curt reply. Then you pause, and meet the Princess' gaze. You feel the same sudden thoughts flowing through her as well.

"A covert mission to Sian? Into the imperial palace? That would be... insane," she says. Yet her voice is filled with the thrill of possibility.

"When has that ever stopped us?" Talia asks.

"I'll summon Master Wu."

|-|

"The Thief"=
The Thief

COMISSIONER RALB: I called the press conference to assure the public that we would soon catch the notorious cracksman whose crimes had recently plagued the city's upper classes. I intended to restore confidence in the police force.

SENATOR POLK: And yet you instead became a subject of ridicule.

COMISSIONER RALB: Yes, senator.

SENATOR POLK: Please state for the record what happened at that press conference.

COMISSIONER RALB: *inaudible mumbling*

SENATOR POLK: Louder, please.

COMISSIONER RALB: My trousers were stolen while I was at the podium. The ones I was wearing. I... I still don't know how that happened.

-- Commissioner Ralb's hearing before the Milesian Senate

"How are you supposed to make this thing work?" Ragnar asks.

He dangles the strip of black fabric from between his fingers as if it were some strange species of slug, and shakes it in the air.

"It's automatic," you reply. "Watch. Over here, Tel."

Telemachus stops disarranging the collar of his dress shirt, and comes over. You put a similar length of material around his neck, allowing the two ends of the bowtie to rest against the front of his shirt.

"Just tap twice."

You tap your index finger against one of the ends. There's a faint whirring noise as the mechanism responds. Then the fabric moves of its own accord, the two ends intertwining and rolling like coupling snakes. After a few seconds a perfectly tied knot adorns the middle of the boy's neck.

"It's not comfortable," he says, inserting his finger behind the tie and yanking at it.

You take hold of the finger and remove it from the garment -- which automatically tightens to repair the looseness he created.

"Fancy clothes aren't meant to be comfortable," you reply. "I think the discomfort is meant to remind you to stay on your best behavior."

Ragnar puts his tie around his bull-like neck, and taps one of the ends. The material tightens, strains against his flesh, and snaps with a mournful whir.

"Didn't work so good," the Niflung says.

"Allow me." Lu Bu, his newly polished body gleaming like an exquisite ornament, steps towards Ragnar from behind. His hands perform a movement concealed from your eyes by the Niflung's bulk, then reach up and place a fresh bowtie around his neck. "I simply tied two of them together."

He taps one of the ends with his metal finger.

There's a confused whirring noise, and both ends rise slightly as if contemplating this strange new state of affairs. But the garments work themselves out, and a moment later Ragnar is dressed in something approaching respectability.

"I don't see why I have to wear this vampire suit anyway," he grunts. "It's not like I'll be going inside with the rest of you."

"Rich people don't like to see half-naked psychopaths wandering the corridors," Talia says. She steps into the room, and twirls -- causing her gown to ripple like a blooming flower. "It puts them off their food."

"We all ready?" you ask.

The others nod, and you head towards the door of the Princess' dressing room.

"I don't believe any of your friends here have the necessary skills to bypass complex security systems whilst escaping detection," Wu Tenchu said, upon joining you in the Princess' chamber and being appraised of your plan. "If you wish to infiltrate Sian undetected, reach the palace, and free the Emperor from his cell, you will require such abilities."

"I'm pretty good with tech," Telemachus said.

"Being 'pretty good' is inadequate. With the stakes so high, we would require nothing short of brilliance. A master of both technology and stealth. A man who knows how to move unseen, leaving both electronic measures and physical guards blind to his presence."

"It sounds like you have someone in mind, Master Wu," the Princess said.

"Yes. There is a person whose exploits have entertained me for some time. I have followed his career with interest."

"One of our agents?"

"No. A thief."

"A criminal?" you asked. "You'd have us put our lives, and the Emperor's, in the hands of a hired crook?"

"He prides himself on being what he calls a 'gentleman thief'. From everything I've learned of him, both through sensationalist media stories and via the more reliable reports of our spies, I believe we can trust him not to betray us."

"Who is this man, anyway?"

"He calls himself Arthur Lupin, though that is most likely a pseudonym. Paired literary references, if I'm not mistaken."

Wu Tenchu gestured with his hand, and a number of news stories appeared in the air, each holographic headline screaming about an incredible theft or daring escape.

"So how do we find him?" Ragnar asked.

"We lure him out," the Princess replied.

"Wow..." The Niflung gazes at the necklace in wonder. "That's got to be worth a fortune!"

The resplendent string of platinum and diamonds stretches across Princess Illaria's soft skin, and glitters like a galaxy of coalescing stars. You're no jeweler, but even to your inexpert gaze the Eyes of the Cosmos is a magnificent piece. Yet its materials and the breathtaking beauty into which they've been worked are only the very beginnings of its worth. Each diamond is a remarkable relic in its own right. Every stone once belonged to a great figure from human history.

Talia leans over to you.

"If it's good enough to distract Ragnar from her breasts," she whispers, "then Lupin doesn't stand a chance."

"I hope you're right," the Princess says.

Talia reddens, the uncustomary embarrassment on her face making her seem like a teenager. You decide to rescue her.

"We should make our way to the ballroom."

Master of Disguise

Ostentations of socialites in eveningwear mill around beneath the golden chandeliers, drifting together and apart in the endless and unfathomable migratory patterns and diasporas that distinguish such gatherings.

The women wear sumptuous and inconvenient gowns in colors that range from the tasteful to the garish -- yet even the latter have somehow been made sophisticated and respectable by the occult artistry of fashion designers. Around them flit suitors in their less distinctive dinner jackets, the glowing trims around their garments occasionally changing color to match the dresses of the women whose attentions they're courting -- much to the displeasure of those they arrived with.

In almost every hand is a brightly colored drink, pleasing little cocktails that contain enough liquor to smash the senses while disguising the alcoholism beneath fancy and unpronounceable foreign names. The more committed or less particular drinkers appear to be armed with cocktails that match their gowns or tuxedo trims in color and hue.

Ah, high society.

But your cynicism is somewhat mollified at the thought that most of these men and women have come here to express their support for the Sian Empire. Your political allies have all sent their delegations, as have influential citizens and corporate CEOs who either favor you or despise the Centurians -- both amounting to much the same thing in times of war. The other guests are there to be won over with flowing cocktails and convincing words.

Wu Tenchu and Princess Illaria decided to kill two birds with one stone. If all goes well, Lupin will emerge to snatch the Eyes of the Cosmos -- which the society reports and similarly insipid writings of tiresome journalists have gushed over in recent days, thus alerting all and sundry to its presence here. And regardless of whether you can lay your hands on the gentleman thief, the Sian Empire might win new supporters.

Even as the thought crosses your mind, you see Lady Hollister -- one of your staunchest allies among the Novocastrians -- leaning towards a trillionaire arms dealer and whispering in his ear while he rests his gaze on her impressive, well-bred bosoms.

Similar scenes are discernable around the chamber, cunning men and women using charm and argument to wear away the resistance of those who might be on the verge of tottering into your expanding collection of supporters. At certain points you can almost detect a deliberate pattern in the shifting movements, perceive a strategic brilliance in the way a man will slip from group to group and have his say, or the way one woman will twirl her dancing partner into the arms of another -- that the second might continue the work the first has begun.

It's almost like watching a space battle.

But even as you drink all of this in, allow your mind to capture the intricate workings of aristocratic politics, your eyes are still scanning for signs of your quarry. Lupin could be somewhere in this room, ready to make his move.

Your scouring gaze roams over the Princess and the crowd of admirers gathered around her like debris orbiting a beautiful world, captured and held by her magnetism. She's magnificent, as always -- born and trained for times such as this, able to wear the world of high society like a mantle or else shape it in her fair hands like a sculptor's clay. Her dazzling smile, her radiant laugh bewitch each and all, ensorcelling the entire crowd whilst making every man and woman believe that her charm, her wonder, her interest, her wisdom, exist for their benefit alone. Whenever a person joins the circle around her exaltation illuminates their face, her nearness takes them like a drug -- drawing them into the collective rapture, placing them among her throng of glad and grateful worshippers. And when an individual is forced to depart, unhappily called away by the drab and mundane world beyond, they leave with parting, mournful glances over their shoulder.

You understand, with no trace of resentment -- only acceptance, and perhaps even a dash of pride -- that you're little different. The men and women of the Sian Empire orbit her as these socialites do, drawn towards her and made loyal by her irresistible enchantments and the traditions which glitter upon her like jewels.

The Eyes of the Cosmos twinkle to mock or celebrate your epiphany, each diamond vying with its cousins to capture the light and echo the radiance of the woman who wears them. Illaria raises her hand and begins to trace her fingertips across the stones as though to quell their squabbling. But her slender fingers become still a moment later, freezing atop the diamonds in what seems like surprise -- though the expression on her face doesn't change.

The Princess continues to smile, but now she's murmuring soft apologies and excusing herself. She walks towards you, the crowd of socialites dispersing in her wake like planets deprived of their star -- sent hurtling through space by the force of the sundered gravitational pulls which once held and sustained them.

"The necklace..." she whispers. "It's fake!"

"I thought you were going to wear the real one?"

"You don't understand... I was wearing the real one. Someone switched it. While I was wearing it!"

Your mind reels. But only for a moment. Then you start scanning the crowd once more. He's here. Now you need to identify him...

Running in the Halls

Your suspicious eyes fasten on each person in turn, your sharp and frantic memories trying to recall their movements -- to remember which of them might have been close enough to the Princess to perform such an outrageous and miraculous feat of thievery.

"Him," you say, picking the man out with your stare alone -- knowing that to point would be to attract attention, and perhaps alert him.

The man seems little different from many of the other dinner jacketed denizens of the ballroom. He's tall, handsome, and well-built -- unsurprising qualities for those who can afford the finest alterations and enhancements. No self-respecting socialite would allow themselves to fall too far from perfection. But there's something about the way he moves, an effortless grace and litheness that shows his physique is likely the result of training rather than surgery.

He's slipping from group to group -- entering each one with an elegant step, sharing in a laugh or charming with a quip, then moving away in search of fresh worlds to conquer. To the casual observer he would seem to be making merry, enjoying the company on offer. But each movement, every exodus, is taking him closer and closer to one of the inconspicuous exits leading from the chamber into the corridor outside.

You move towards him, attempting to emulate his subtlety -- following as though by chance rather than intent.

Talia is in that part of the ballroom, speaking with a silver-haired woman in an equally argentine gown that makes her resemble a saltshaker. The gunslinger catches your gaze, and you gesture your instructions as best you can -- trying to make each motion seem casual, rather than that of a lunatic attempting to swat an invisible fly or else play charades with her second personality.

She catches your meaning at once, and detaches herself from the saltshaker -- leaving the woman to drift away into a collection of assorted condiment receptacles. Talia rustles after Lupin, her gown puffing around her like a strange sea creature's body.

You're both converging on him, no more than a dozen feet away, when the thief turns around and favors you both with a debonair smile -- before disappearing through the doorway.

The two of you dart after him, and enter the corridor to see him sprinting down its length.

You both break into a run, Talia deftly managing to kick her heels off without stopping. Thankfully your military dress boots are better suited to the task at hand. But it looks like the chase is about to end...

Ragnar's burly form rounds the corner ahead, looking in his tuxedo like the galaxy's most fearsome doorman. The Niflung's powerful body blocks the middle of the corridor.

"Stop him!" you yell.

The words are superfluous. He's already moving to intercept Lupin, his thick arms braced to grab him in a crushing grip.

Yet the thief doesn't stop or swerve. He keeps sprinting, right at the Niflung. If he thinks he's going to be able to barge Ragnar aside, he's in for a rude awakening...

"I hope he doesn't break him too badly," Talia remarks.

Ragnar leaps at Lupin, throwing his arms around... the empty air. The movement, the jump, the spin, happen in an instant -- almost too quickly for your eye to decipher. But the result is plain enough. Ragnar is sprawling on the floor, a look of surprise on his features.

"Great," you sigh.

You and Talia keep running, diverging to pass the prone Niflung on either side. Looks like you'll have to do this the hard way...

Rooftop Chase

The door to the stairwell is still swinging from Lupin's shove when you push through it in turn, and glance up to see him ascending the squared spiral with agile leaps.

You're on the top floor. He's heading for the roof.

Talia drops behind you as you spring up the first short flight of stairs. There's a tearing noise as you dash across the landing and start on the next flight. Then she's back by your side, matching you leap for leap, her dress now a couple of feet shorter.

"Was getting in the way," she says, as you continue to follow the spiraling path.

When she pulls ahead, an almost gymnastic leap sending her halfway up the next flight, you notice how suspiciously neat the new hem of her truncated gown is.

"Is that a stripper's dress?"

"You think a girl like me owns a real ball gown, captain?"

As if to emphasize the point, there's a further ripping noise.

You reach the top as Talia fiddles with what's left of her dress, and throw open the door which is falling closed from Lupin's passing. The night air whispers across your face, carrying with it the distant rush of airborne traffic.

The thief is across the rooftop, running towards the far edge, his lithe body outlined against the pink and purple aura of light pollution that rests atop the cityscape like a blanket. He's wearing a sleek bodysuit now -- his formalwear lying discarded to your left as though hurled from him in mid-sprint. Maybe he and Talia have the same tailor...

You quicken your pace as Lupin hurtles towards the end of the roof and leaps high into the air.

Leap of Faith

Only a narrow alleyway cuts between the building and the next. It disappears beneath an easy leap, and you hit the opposite roof running.

This one is covered with satellite dishes and other obstacles, which Lupin is somersaulting over with a casual acrobatic excellence. It's like he's showing off, careless of the fact that you're gaining on him...

Talia appears beside you. A second later she's ahead, breaking into a somersault of her own to mount a block of unidentifiable machinery before kicking off from its surface and using the momentum to send her further across the impromptu obstacle course. She's down to her underwear now, making the whole thing seem like an especially athletic burlesque performance.

You can't match their agility. Instead you try to keep pace with a series of less flashy maneuvers, slipping between or over objects with more pragmatism than flamboyance.

By the time you clear the last of the interfering lumps of metal and emerge onto a clear stretch of roof, Lupin is already nearing its edge -- Talia close behind.

The roof opposite is separated by a wide gap, not a sliver of alleyway like last time. He can't really be thinking of...

But he is. Lupin catapults himself into the air, soaring over the empty space with a nonchalant spring. And Talia doesn't hesitate either. Her near skyclad body flies through the air after the thief.

The gaping expanse is in front of you, your eyes dropping from pursuer and pursued out of instinct to regard the yawning stretch of death. Your mind cries out for you to stop. But that isn't an option.

You feel the breath filling your lungs as your boot reaches the edge.

Lupin

Bright lights blaze below you, a spectacular tapestry stretching off into the distance. The peripheries of your vision capture the glory of human civilization, the broad, vehicle-filled streets and looming edifices. It's beautiful...

Then gravity asserts its sinister force, invisible tentacles snaking around your body. The realization that you're about to plunge into that illuminated wonderland fills you like a second breath of air, the knowledge that in moments your splattered remains will be decorating the street below like a smeared pizza.

But doom passes in a split-second, as the opposite roof slips into your narrow, focused, downward gaze.

Your boot hits its edge, and you throw your weight forward with all of your body's instinctive craving for life. Talia's hands grab hold of your arm and add their force to your momentum -- propelling you onward to safety, leaving death in your wake like a spurned suitor.

"Bravo!" Lupin says. "I wasn't quite sure you'd make it."

The thief is standing in the middle of the rooftop, wearing the same elegant smile he bestowed upon you in the ballroom. It seems that the dangerous chase has done nothing to disturb his equanimity.

"You've tempted fate once already," he continues, "so perhaps it's best if we settle the matter here. Besides..."

The thief's gaze travels across Talia's body, and such is his poise and deportment that he somehow comes across as charming even as he ogles her -- a gentleman aesthete admiring beauty rather than a leering pervert.

"...there's something ever so ridiculous and perhaps slightly Freudian about running away from a gorgeous woman in lingerie."

"We're not here to fight," you say. "We just want to talk."

There's a clicking noise, followed by a series of metallic clanks as a fighting stick unfolds in each of his hands.

"Fortunately, fighting only requires one willing participant."

Lupin darts towards you, the debonair smile dancing across his lips.

Lupin reclines on the ground, somehow remaining the very picture of deportment in spite of the blood around his mouth and the rents in his bodysuit.

"Well, you've succeeded in getting my attention," he says. "So, what was this all in aid of?"

"You knew?" Talia asks.

"That the little charade downstairs was staged for my benefit? To pique my interest? Of course. I'm not an inept supervillain who gravitates to shiny baubles like a mindless magpie. I came to see what the Sian Empire might want with me. Why do you think I allowed you to notice me in the ballroom?"

"Then what were the suicidal chase and fight in aid of?" you ask.

"I had to make sure you were worth my time."

Lupin springs to his feet with such grace that he seems to go from reclining to standing without passing through any intervening state of being.

"Enlighten me," he says. "What's important enough for two amateurs to risk their lives jumping around rooftops?"

"First things first."

You hold out your hand, palm upwards. Lupin sighs.

"I was rather hoping you'd forgotten about this little thing."

He reaches into a pouch at his belt, pulls out a glittering tangle of precious metals and shining stones, and places it in your hand. Your fingers close around it.

"We're going to offer you a job. If you accept, and it proves successful, Princess Illaria will hand this back to you herself."

The thief's eyes gleam as brightly as the diamonds.

"It must be quite the heist."

"It'll be the biggest of your career."

"You don't strike me as being a woman who's careless with her superlatives. Consider me intrigued."

"Um... Captain..."

You glance at Talia. The gunslinger's arms are crossed over her chest, her hands rubbing her upper arms.

"Could we discuss this inside? Now that we've stopped moving around, it's pretty chilly up here." |-|

"The Assassin"=
The Assassin

"The term is used to describe the fluctuation of murder rates within a given area caused by the arrival or departure of Artemis Kess." -- Entry for 'Kess Effect' in the New Interstellar Dictionary of Quotations and Phrases (984th Ed.)

You sigh as the handcuffs hiss shut around your wrists, the electrical anti-tampering fields tickling against your skin. Memories of the Child of Heaven, of the last time your hands were manacled, flood your mind in an unwelcome tide.

"It is an unfortunate necessity," Lu Bu says. "If we delivered unrestrained prisoners, it would surely attract suspicion."

"I still think this is stupid." Ragnar grunts, and gives his cuffs an experimental tug. The yellow bonds shift to a glaring red as they strain to near breaking point. "But I'll have your back in there. I've been in a lot of prisons. I know how they work."

An unpleasant mental image of Ragnar looming behind a hapless fellow convict in the showers fills your mind, successfully banishing the memories of your previous incarceration -- though not for the better.

You walk to the front of the flight cabin by way of a distraction, where Talia and Telemachus are sitting in the pilot's and co-pilot's chairs. The young prince is playing with a joystick, rotating one of the laser cannon turrets this way and that, sending the image on the connected monitor spinning. But Talia must have had the foresight to override the fire control, as no streams of energy issue forth when his stubby thumb taps the red button atop the stick. He seems content enough supplying his own sound effects in lieu of genuine laser fire, however -- accompanying each click with a 'pew pew' or 'rat-a-tat' noise that seem remarkably inauthentic.

"Your mech ready?" you ask.

"Yeah." He relinquishes the stick and swivels his chair -- always ready to talk about his favorite toy. "Wilex helped me test the new armor and shields. I won't let you down. Still wish I was going in with you though."

"Prison isn't an appropriate place for children. Well, except for the homicidal ones."

You pause, as the foolishness of the statement strikes you.

"The indiscriminately homicidal ones," you amend.

"I don't know..." Talia says. "A little jail time might scare him straight."

A blue-green globe appears through the window, a vibrant orb defying the lifeless blackness that surrounds it. Echidna III -- home to some of the galaxy's most dangerous flora and fauna. A perfect place to house some of the deadliest criminals in human space.

"A master of silent killing," Wu Tenchu said.

The woman's face flashed into being among the other holographic displays, shunting them aside to dominate the tableau. A somewhat handsome face, made hard and almost vicious by its expression. But then, no one looks that great in mug shots.

Talia stared at the picture, her brow furrowed in thought.

"We have assassins of our own," you said, your words directed at Master Wu but your eyes fixed on the gunslinger.

"I would never disparage the skills of our serving agents. I trained the finest of them myself..."

That statement, spoken as if it were a casual thing, caught you by surprise -- and made you look at Wu Tenchu with renewed scrutiny. The remarkable quality of his mind was known to you, but you'd never heard of his skill as an assassin. He wouldn't have made such a revelation, shared such a secret, without purpose. It flattered you that he was so keen to convince you of his practical knowledge, and demonstrate the worth of his opinion.

"But Artemis Kess was the most capable. At least for a task of this nature."

"She was one of ours?" the Princess asked.

"I knew her!" Talia said at last. "She was one of the recruits I did basic training with. But she looked different back then, and she wasn't called Artemis. And she died in a training accident."

"I identified her potential early in the process, and selected her for assassin training. The explosion during that exercise was a convenient ruse to remove her from the knowledge of her fellows."

"Why'd you pick her instead of Talia?" Telemachus asked.

The gunslinger looked at the prince, then back to Master Wu. You sensed that whilst properness and respect would have prevented her from asking such a thing of the Emperor's advisor herself, the question had crossed her mind as well.

"I deemed her... somewhat too exuberant for the role of an assassin."

Talia smiled, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

"She was called Diana back then."

"A convenient mythological shuffle," Wu Tenchu said.

"Why did she leave the empire's employ?" you asked.

"There was a dispute between her and her commander. It ended... poorly."

"She hit him?" Ragnar asked. "I know a lot of mercs who punched out their superior officers. It's sort of a tradition."

"Actually, she eviscerated him. With her bare hands."

"She's cybernetically enhanced?" Lu Bu flexed his mechanical fingers, his computerized mind perhaps pondering the biology and physics which the deed in question would have involved.

"Yes. Her fingernails were replaced with extending blades, for example."

"Nice." The Niflung nodded in approval. "Would get those myself, except that scratching is girly."

"She murdered her commander?" the Princess asked, rather less impressed with such an act than Ragnar.

"At the time it was deemed a criminal act," Wu Tenchu replied, "and we sent agents to hunt her down -- though she evaded them. But later it was discovered that the commander had attempted to betray her, and orchestrate her death in revenge for a perceived personal slight. Once we learned of this I hoped to find her and bring her back into our service. However, she proved difficult to track down. We were always a step too slow, wading through the bodies she left behind."

"But now?" you prompted.

"She was recently captured, and placed in the Bloodshank prison facility on Echidna III."

"I've heard of the place. It's run by the Cerberus Corporation."

"Yes. A rather disagreeable group of miscreants, whom I would judge to be little better than the prisoners in their charge. They accept convicts from across human space, and have been known to sell them on to those willing to lay down the requisite amount of credits."

"Bloodshank is where the Prison Cage Fights are recorded," Telemachus said.

Wu Tenchu paused, and transfixed the young prince with a disapproving look.

"You should not be supporting their activities by purchasing their black market holo-videos."

"I don't! I just swipe them from the interstellar information network!"

Master Wu held the boy's gaze for a moment longer, before turning to the Princess with a more deferential expression on his face.

"In any event, the prince is correct. Prisoners who demonstrate superior martial skills are forced to fight one another for the entertainment of the Cerberus Corporation's clients."

"Prisoners like Artemis," the Princess said.

"Precisely. While her jailors attempt to incite a bidding war between those factions and organizations that would pay exorbitant prices to gain possession of Miss Kess, they have been placing her into their prizefights to gain additional benefit from her presence there."

"You want us to go and smash our way into the jail to get her out?" Ragnar asked.

"Actually, I believe the most efficacious path would be for you to simply walk into the prison."

"Good luck, captain."

The Princess gives a soft smile that only partially masks the concern in her eyes. Then her image disappears from the screen.

She wished to accompany you to Echidna III, but that would be risky. If the Cerberus Corporation's people recognized her, your cover would be blown. So instead she's waiting outside the system, on Wilex's cruiser. You take comfort in knowing that she's safe. The world you're descending towards is no place for a princess.

The communications console bleeps.

"You need to get out of sight," Talia says.

You leave the flight cabin, and hear her respond to the hail as the door closes behind you. It wouldn't do to let them see one of the supposed prisoners milling around next to the pilot. You have to avoid arousing any suspicions. They need to believe that you're just another criminal.

Ragnar regales you with prison stories as the two of you sit side by side in the makeshift prison room. Some are amusing, others horrific. Much like the Niflung himself. You eventually tune out his banter, focusing instead on the movements of the ship. It's descending. Talia and the forged data Wu Tenchu provided must have done the trick. You're being permitted to land.

The door to your pseudo-cell opens not long after, revealing Talia, Telemachus, and Lu Bu. It appears that the ship isn't to be searched after all.

"Showtime, captain," the gunslinger says.

Talia and Telemachus lead the way off the ship, with Lu Bu bringing up the rear -- his weapon attachments fastened to the ends of his arms. He prods you lightly with the flat of his blade as you emerge into the sunlight, for the benefit of any observers.

The sky above you is soft and cloudless. To your left and right, beyond the black square of the landing pad, verdant expanses of grass roll away towards the horizon. As you'd expect, all the trees around here have been removed -- to deprive escapees of cover. But the world's natural beauty is evident nonetheless. Until you cast your gaze ahead of you, to the lurking concrete and steel mass of the prison, and see only grim ugliness.

An equally ominous sight is approaching along the straight, broad road that cuts across the land -- joining the landing pad to the imposing edifice. The navy blue vehicle looks like a combination of a van and a weapon. A spiked, bladed ram extends from its front, each destructive implement gleaming as though in anticipation of staining its well-polished surface with blood. A cannon swivels on its roof, commanded by a man wearing security armor. Its barrel is trained on you and your companions.

The vehicle slows when it arrives at the landing pad. It turns as its wide wheels screech to a halt, presenting you with its flank. The turret rotates as well, ensuring that the gaping maw of the barrel never leaves you.

A picture of a three-headed hound is painted on its side, along with a sentence that takes up almost the rest of its length: 'Cerberus Corp.: Guarding the Gates of Hell for Over 20 Years'.

Doors hiss open, and half a dozen men and women wearing the same blue and brown armored security uniforms as the gunner emerge from within. All but one are helmeted -- a woman with bubblegum pink hair and symbols on her shoulders that presumably denote her rank. The helmeted guards form a neat line behind her as she steps forward.

"Lieutenant Helmsley," the woman declares. She makes an approximation of a salute. "Data, please. For confirmation purposes."

Talia steps forward and presents her with a datapad. The lieutenant takes it from her, and glances at the screen for a few moments. Then she looks over at Telemachus.

"Not many bounty hunters employ children."

"They work cheap," Talia replies.

The lieutenant shrugs, and keeps reading. When she looks up again, it's at you and Ragnar. You adopt what you hope is a suitably criminal expression.

"So you're both multiple murderers."

"And we would have gotten away with it too," you snarl, "if it wasn't for these meddling kids!"

You growl a supply of saliva into your mouth, and spit it at Talia. The blob of phlegm splats against the back of her head.

The gunslinger whirls round and launches her fist at the side of your face. The punch smashes into your cheekbone, sending your head rolling. Either she really wants to appear convincing, or she's been waiting to hit you for a long time.

"Don't worry," the lieutenant says. "A little time in Bloodshank will knock the attitude out of them."

She presses a few buttons on the datapad before handing it back to Talia.

"Payment authorized. We'll take over from here."

The helmeted guards step forward, and hustle you and Ragnar into the back seat of the vehicle. Through the darkened window you see your friends boarding the ship once more. It takes off at the same moment the vehicle starts to move.

The short drive ends in a narrow courtyard. A moment after its engine falls silent, you and Ragnar are bustled out of the vehicle and through an unmarked doorway.

In a small room, surrounded on either side by guards holding laser rifles, the two of you are shoved towards a counter. Mesh rises up above it, extending to the ceiling -- leaving only a square of unblocked space between you and the severe brunette standing on the other side.

"Remove their restraints," she instructs.

The pink-haired lieutenant steps forward. She presses a device into your cuffs, causing the energy fields to retract and the metal to open with a clink. She pulls them away, and places them on the counter. Then she does the same for Ragnar before stepping away again.

"Remove your clothes," the woman behind the counter says, staring at you as though at some species of bacteria. "Put them on the counter."

You unzip your jumpsuit, pull it off, fold it up, and place it before her. After you've put your underwear on top of it you step back, doing your best to ignore your nudity and the leers and laughter of the male guards.

The woman picks up your clothes, walks over to a slot in the wall behind her, and shoves the garments inside. A metal hatch closes over the hole, and you hear the roar of flame. It's a good thing you didn't wear one of your favorite outfits...

She strides back over to the counter.

"And you!" she says, glaring at Ragnar.

The Niflung grunts, and strips his lower body -- his unique fashion sense having already done the same to his upper body.

There's gasping and murmuring from the guards on either side as they stare at his enhanced body. Even the woman behind the counter widens her eyes slightly.

"Augmentation check!" she says.

Two of the guards step forward from their positions at the walls on either side. They shove you out of the way, then begin to wave long, bleeping wands over Ragnar's naked flesh. This continues for several moments.

"A few standard cybernetic upgrades," one of them says, with a trace of surprise in his voice. "Nothing to be concerned about."

You give an inward smirk. The implants Wilex put into him have done their job, deceiving the scans and concealing the fact that the Niflung is essentially a walking tank.

"His muscles are real?" the severe woman asks. She stares at the big slabs on his chest in disbelief.

"Yes, ma'am."

"When he was a boy," you say, "his mother held him by the ankles and dipped him into a vat of steroids and growth hormones."

The guards share an impressed murmur, revealing their gullibility and lack of a classical education. The woman behind the counter simply snatches up Ragnar's clothes and consigns them to the same fiery destruction as yours, before moving to a shelf packed with stacks of plastic-wrapped pink material. She glances at you and Ragnar, looks back to the shelf, and reaches into the stacks with both hands. There's a rustling sound, and each one emerges clutching a folded garment. She moves back to her counter, and places them on it.

"One [Gender] prison-issue jumpsuit. Size: regular. One male prison-issue jumpsuit. Size: hulking."

She gestures, impelling each of you to pick up your assigned garment. You tear the plastic off, unfold it, and struggle your way into it. The jumpsuit is remarkably comfortable, padded in all the right places.

"The new prisoners are just in time for recreation," the woman says. "Show them their cells, and have them taken to the yard."

The lieutenant salutes. She signals to her guards, who train their laser rifles on you and Ragnar.

"Follow me," she says. Then she leads you deeper into Bloodshank.

Jailhouse Rock

When you're shoved back into the sunlight, into the prison yard -- a large space enclosed by the buildings on one side and lengths of energy-tipped chain fencing on the others -- your immediate thought is that it's like your first day at school.

Men and women clad in pink jumpsuits stare at you from every side. Some are looking you over out of idle curiosity, their eyes almost vacant. Others are scrutinizing you as if you were a piece of meat they may wish to pounce on.

You glance around. There's no sign of Ragnar. He was led off to a cell in another block, and mustn't have been brought out to the yard yet.

So you content yourself with looking your fellow prisoners over in turn. Wu Tenchu was able to gather data on many of Bloodshank's other residents, and you begin to match faces to names and criminal records. There's rather an illustrious group of reprobates around you, their combined exploits probably spanning almost every crime known to human space -- from jaywalking to genocide.

You mentally mark some of them as 'snitches', based on the information Master Wu presented you with, and others as potential tools for the final phase of your plan.

A few of the prisoners start walking in your direction, straying over from the basketball court and weights or else rising from the benches and surrendering their leisured ease for the purpose of investigating you further. Your eyes fall on the nearest of them -- a man whose face is hidden beneath an incredible network of scar tissue. You remember his file. He's a rapist. No gang affiliations, according to what you read. A loner. Good. So if he-

"What're you looking at?" he asks.

Yes, there it is.

You step forward and blast him full in the face with your elbow. He crumples, his head bouncing against the ground before lying still.

As you'd expected, most of the other convicts stop approaching you -- and return to their previous pursuits like satellites yanked back into their proper courses. Some of the spectators even make approving nods.

But a few continue, creating a loose encirclement that you sense might tighten the moment you make a misstep. A large black man looms over you, apparently designating himself the leader of this welcoming committee.

"Noose you mega, chummer?" he says. "Noose that rumpling some street-scav make you mega?"

You sigh. Great... He's from Drekchester.

"Viddie yourself around here, chummer. Viddie yourself, or get rumpled. Rumpled by me."

The half-intelligible words begin to translate themselves inside your mind, albeit with a little effort. Apparently this fellow is threatening you. You look around. There are a few guards watching, keeping their distance. Still no sign of Ragnar.

You don't recognize the man from any of the files you saw. But he looks strong -- his chest and arms packed with muscles that twitch with violence preparing to be unleashed. This would be as good an opportunity as any to demonstrate your fighting skills...

"Leggie me your-"

"Shut up."

The force of your interjection, and the man's startled reaction at being so interrupted, make some of the others snigger.

"Just shut up. I don't know whom you killed to get in here, but I'll be damned if I'll let you murder the English language as well."

The man's eyes narrow into murderous slits. His hands clench into tight, angry fists. It's clobbering time...

Prison Pugilism

The initial sequence of blows and block tells you everything you need to know about your adversary. He's strong but unskilled, lacking even the basic combat instincts you'd have expected a criminal to develop through experience. Perhaps he's too used to muscling his way through situations, and never saw any reason to change his tactics. He's a perfect victim.

Once you've gauged his capabilities, you decide to show off -- to make sure you attract the attention you desire, and impress the onlookers. You delve into the repertoire of kung fu styles you learned as a boy/girl, forms and techniques taught for reasons of tradition, discipline, and physical culture -- rather than out of the martial pragmatism which much of your later military training consisted of.

You stand on one leg and extend your arms into Crane style, lashing out with your raised foot in a trio of lightning fast kicks to the abdomen, chest, and head. As your opponent staggers back you shift into Snake style, slapping his flailing arms aside and lashing out at his face with hands that move like lunging cobras. Then come Mantis and White Ape, Soaring Phoenix and Mischievous Monkey. You unleash an entire martial menagerie on your unfortunate foe, making sure that no blow is powerful enough to end the fight.

When at last you decide to show clemency and put him out of his misery, you choose One-Eyed Tiger style for the purpose. Your shin swings round in a sharp, powerful kick to his leading leg -- cutting against his thigh and causing him to buckle as the injured limb gives way. Before he falls, you launch yourself into a flying uppercut -- catching his descending jaw and knocking it upwards again, the force of the blow lifting him off his feet.

At the apex of your jump you turn the attack into a backflip, landing on your feet next to your supine enemy.

You stand over the groaning convict, your arms raised as you pretend to revel in the cheers of the spectators -- which seem to be coming from prisoners and guards alike.

"And you'll get the same every time I hear you use a made-up word!" you declare.

You spit on the man's face, the globule of saliva striking him between his glazed eyes like a bullet.

"Good work!" a familiar voice growls from behind you.

The words are followed by an equally familiar hard slap on the back. You brace yourself just in time to avoid staggering away from its impact.

"Anyone else think they can take my friend here?" Ragnar asks. "What about you?"

The Niflung grabs the nearest prisoner -- a small, owlish looking man -- by the front of his jumpsuit and lifts him into the air until his terrified eyes are on the same level as Ragnar's glaring orbs.

"How about you? You want some of this?"

He slaps your back again. This time you slip away to negate most of the jovial blow's force.

"N... No! No!"

"I thought not!"

Ragnar tosses the man aside. He hits the ground a couple of meters away, scrambles to his feet, and scurries off across the yard.

"Roxon!"

It's a moment before you realize that the shout was addressed to you, and remember that 'Roxon' is the fictitious surname on your criminal record. You turn to the guard, who's wearing a grin in place of his helmet -- evidently more entertained than troubled by the violence which just took place in his yard.

"Come with me. The warden wants to speak to you."

You follow the guard towards the nearest door. As you go, you hear Ragnar's voice extolling your combative virtues and achievements behind you.

"I once saw him/her rip a man's throat out!"

The warden's office is an old-fashioned chamber paneled with genuine or imitation wood. There are recent scars in this woodwork, leading you to believe that it was installed by a previous occupant -- and has been treated roughly by its present one.

Framed photographs and medals cover one of the walls, testifying to an impressive series of military and civilian accolades. One particular photograph catches your eye. It shows a well-built man, naked to the waist, immolating a large number of screaming men and women with a flamethrower. They seem to be in a jungle, though it's hard to tell amidst all the flame and smoke. The man has a fat cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth, its glowing end matching the torrent of flame from his weapon in hue. Based on the angle of the picture, you're surprised the photographer wasn't immolated as well. Then it occurs to you that perhaps he or she was.

"That was a hell of a battle."

The man sitting behind the desk matches the pyromaniac in the photo, though he's now wearing an armored vest and perhaps an additional decade. He has an identical cigar sticking out of his mouth, as though he's never stopped smoking it since the picture was taken.

A nameplate on the sturdy, ornate, but heavily battered desk in front of him is inscribed with the words 'Warden Ramiro'.

"Cigar?" he asks, indicating a humidor large enough to function as a bludgeoning device.

"No, thank you."

"I saw what you did in the yard. You're good. Real good."

"I like to hit people."

The warden's mouth widens into a crocodilian grin.

"An unrepentantly violent murderer. I like that. So, you like to fight? That's good. Because you're going to be fighting for us from now on. You're new here, so maybe you haven't heard yet. But we run a nice little fighting promotion from this prison. And you're our latest athlete."

"What's in it for me?"

"Well, to start with, my guards won't shove a shock stick so far up your ass that it burns your tongue."

Ramiro laughs, a bellowing, rumbling laugh that undulates his stomach and wobbles his armor. The cigar slips out onto his lower lip, angled almost straight downwards, but against all odds manages to stay in place rather than tumbling from his mouth.

"But there are perks too. I like winners. You want women, men, chems, good food, a stiff drink? Whatever it is, we can get it for you. Make us money, and we'll share the wealth. Everyone wins."

"When can I start?"

"Since you've come to us so full of fight, how about right now?"

The basement room is dark and dingy, a filthy hole buried away from the sunlight. But it reminds you of the stadium on Hyperia, where you fought in Twisted Steel. The black metal cage that dominates the middle of the chamber has the same aura of eternal violence about it. And you recognize the bloodthirsty looks in the faces of the pink-garbed men and women around you. Their screams are familiar also, warring in the air and bouncing from wall to wall -- a roar of unintelligible enthusiasm and murderousness, punctuated by the occasional fathomable statement.

"You're going to die in here!" a woman screams.

She leans towards you, intruding into the aisle which the guards have cleared through the crowd by brute force. One of them taps her on the brow with his shock stick, and she tumbles back into the mass of criminality.

"Kill him!" another yells.

He stares at you with manic friendliness, and punches at the air. It's the same owl-like man Ragnar manhandled in the yard.

The furthermost guards are already at the cage. A couple of them unlock the heavy gate and pull it outwards, opening your path into the place of battle. A similar portal, this one still closed, faces you on the opposite side of the cage. It's where your opponent will enter from.

There's a clang as the gate is pushed shut behind you, followed by a number of thick metallic sounds as it's locked. Then the guards move away, and the tide of spectators surges forward like a released ocean.

"Tear his head off!"

Ragnar has shouldered his way through the crowd, and stands right behind you -- gripping the bars of the gate with his meaty hands.

"Rip him in half!" he adds.

"I'll see what I can do," you reply.

The crowd on the other side parts before the shoves and bludgeoning of a second group of guards, and the opposite gate is opened to admit your adversary.

He's a swarthy, dangerous looking individual -- his body scarred and tattooed with the reckless abandon of a lifelong prisoner. But you've fought worse.

The other gate is locked in turn, leaving the two of you alone in this clear space that's surrounded by screaming, raving humanity.

Your enemy's eyebrows, moustache, and mouth all conspire their way into a look of surly disdain as he eyes you up and down. Then a buzzer sounds from somewhere in the room, and he strides forward.

Killer in the Cage

"One... Two... Three..."

Convicts and guards shout together, like enthusiastic schoolchildren counting along with their teacher.

You pull your enemy back, controlling him with the hammerlock and the grip on his long, greasy hair, and relish the anticipation of the crowd. Then you slam him forward once more, smashing his head into the bars again, and again, and again.

"...Four... Five... Six..."

He's all but unconscious, and only your insistent grip stops him from dropping to the floor. A soft groan escapes his lips. Blood's pouring from his skull, creating a widening, splattering pool at your feet. But you have no sympathy to waste on him. You've seen his record. You know what he's in here for.

"Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten..."

The counting becomes perceptibly quieter, as some of the prisoners exhaust their store of numerical knowledge. But the rest continue, and the innumerate cheer with each successive number as though celebrating the acquisition of fresh knowledge.

"Twenty!"

By this point there's brain matter on the bars, so you decide to call it a day. You release your grasp, allowing his corpse to fall and rest in the blood and gore.

There's a respectful silence in your cellblock that night. None of the other convicts seem inclined to trouble you, deterred either by the guards' batons or by memories of the violence you inflicted in the cage. So you enjoy a good night's rest, and sleep off your exertions.

No one harasses you in the showers on the following morning either. In fact, a couple of prisoners even offer to be harassed by you, as it were -- offers which you decline without thanks.

After a good breakfast, conspicuously better than those of your fellow diners, you head out into the yard to meet up with Ragnar. Then begins the next step of your plan.

Wu Tenchu's intelligence reports, combined with the psychological evaluations he made of the prisoners based on them, give you a good place to start. And after a little time in the yard, talking to its inhabitants -- most of whom seem honored by your conversation -- you gain a good understanding of the various networks and alliances which bind them together.

So it's easy enough to find openings, groups and individuals who might be tempted by the possibility of an escape attempt.

Ragnar leaves you to do the talking, accepting that your tongue is somewhat more silvery than his. He contents himself with keeping an eye on the snitches, and ensuring that no unwelcome ears overhear your words.

You're engaged in this pursuit when one of the guards approaches you.

"Bad luck, love."

You fix him with a questioning stare.

"You haven't heard?" He pats your shoulder in an unmistakable gesture of commiseration. "They're putting you up against Kess today."

"Sooner than I expected," you say, after the guard's walked away -- the other prisoners dispersing also, as though wishing to leave you alone with your newly discovered misfortune.

"Probably the way you broke that last guy's head open," Ragnar replies. "Bet the fans loved it. They want to see you against a tougher fighter."

"We haven't got much time. Have to do whatever we can before the fight starts."

The excitement, the bloodlust in the cage room is even greater this time. You hadn't thought that was possible. Throats that were previously strained with the force of their screaming now seem on the verge of exploding. Everyone's looking forward to this fight -- for more reasons than one.

"I'll be here when you need me," Ragnar whispers, pressing his mouth between the bars of the gate. "If she doesn't listen, and you want me to come in and take her out, just say the word."

You nod your thanks. If Kess is as deadly as Master Wu seemed to believe, you might need all the help you can get.

It's the noise of the spectators that alerts you first, before you turn around and see the crowd being bisected by the guards to create an aisle on the other side of the cage.

The roars and screams shift and settle, gathering together in unification -- all voices linked in one single purpose. The sound is incomprehensible at first, a wordless expression of portent. Then it settles, deciphered into three repeated syllables.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

You look around. Anticipation is scrawled on each face.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

The words are simple, unimaginative and uncreative. And yet there's a power in them.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

It's the cry of an ancient tribe, a collection of savages invoking their goddess.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

The guards draw the gate open, then move aside to reveal her. A woman in a pink jumpsuit, with death written in her eyes. Thick, armored gloves encase her hands. The curling and twitching of her fingers reveal that these aren't garments of protection. They're objects of restraint, imprisonment -- designed to contain the violence that chafes against them.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

So forceful is the chant that you have to force yourself not to join in, to add your voice to those beckoning your destruction.

At last the call gives way to a corrupted silence, a still murmur as the gate closes and is locked behind her.

Artemis Kess gives you a cursory glance, not even meeting your gaze, before turning and thrusting her gloved hands through the bars of the gate. One of the guards reaches out, and fiddles with her gloves. Then he jumps back as though in mortal terror, as the gloves come away.

The assassin turns back to you. This time she stares straight into your eyes. It's like looking at the edge of a sharp sword.

Her fingers twitch, and her nails extend -- each becoming a short but lethal blade. This isn't even vaguely fair...

The buzzer sounds, and Artemis leaps.

Prison Break

You dodge and weave, duck and parry. A dozen strikes, each promising death or disfigurement, slip within centimeters of your body -- thwarted by well-timed sidesteps, or by one of your forearms deflecting hers.

From the first exchange you understand her vicious skill, and know that this fight might be your last. The woman's a whirling engine of annihilation, her mind and body focused on slaughter alone.

You need to bring her close...

Kess leaps at you, a tigrine pounce. Her claws shine in the chamber's dirty light.

Now or never...

You step towards her, grabbing at her forearms -- allowing the claws to rake against the outside of your upper arms, shredding pink material and skin. Your face presses close to hers, hidden from the audience by the sweep of her void-colored hair.

"The Emperor needs you, Diana."

The woman freezes. Her clawed fingers stop within the bloody channels they've carved in your flesh.

Her leg hooks yours, tapping against it once before completing the sweep. You capitulate, allowing her to take the limb out from under you. The two of you fall to the floor, your body stretched beneath the assassin's.

Artemis' hair cascades down around you, the waves of silken blackness veiling both your faces. Her hands are at your throat, but there's no pressure there -- no fatal wounds to spill your blood and life upon the grimy floor. You place your hands on her wrists in simulation of a struggle.

"Who are you?" she hisses.

Around the cage the crowd are screaming, baying for death. But their noise is muffled, made inconsequential by the intensity of her stare in this enclosed world of bright eyes and dark hair.

"[Name], captain of Princess Illaria's bodyguards."

"What do you want with me?"

"To get you out of here, so you can help us save the Emperor's life."

"You have a way out?"

"Perhaps..."

A faint smile crosses her lips.

"Tell me."

The two of you buck and pivot, rolling on the ground like murderous lovers as you continue your mock combat. All the while you whisper in her ear. When you're done, you look to the gate you entered from -- at the burly Niflung. And you nod.

Ragnar roars, his stentorian cry tearing through the shouts of the crowd. His knuckles whiten around the bars of the gate.

There's a grinding, and a wrenching, then the sound of agonized metal. And finally a series of snaps as the locks give way and he tears it from its hinges.

The prisoners around him fall away, the crowd surging back for dear life as he lifts the gate above his head. But two of the guards aren't so cautious. They run towards Ragnar, brandishing their shock batons.

The Niflung swings the gate at them as if it were a bat, sending both of them flying into the crowd -- where they disappear from sight in the mass of excited humanity.

Violence is erupting elsewhere now. All around the cage men and women are hurling themselves at the startled guards. This is what they were waiting for, the jailbreak they were told about. They aren't going to let it go to waste.

"Come on!" Ragnar yells. He tosses the gate into a group of guards, smashing and scattering them, then gestures to you.

You and Kess run towards him.

The powerful Niflung shoulders his way through the crowd, the two of you following in his wake and lashing out at anyone who tries to get in your way.

Scores of prisoners have already broken through the doors, a pink tide surging over the guards -- clawing, tearing, gouging, stabbing.

As you mount the staircase, picking your way over dead or groaning forms, you hear the boom of distant explosions overhead.

"That'll be Talia!" you shout.

The Cerberus Corporation's fighter pilots, used to picking off escape ships or helping to track down fugitive prisoners from the air, don't stand a chance against her.

You emerge into one of the cellblocks, coming out at the end of a long corridor where guards and prisoners are exchanging weapon fire and other assorted brutalities.

"How're we going to get to the ship?" Kess asks.

A moment later there's a crash.

"That's how."

Telemachus' mech storms into the corridor far ahead, bits of rubble and trails of dust falling from its frame.

Guards with heavier weapons are running towards it from the opposite end of the passage, screaming and gesturing. Others, those armed only with batons, seek easier targets instead -- and move to intercept the three of you.

Warden Ramiro

"Ragnar, back Telemachus up!" you yell.

"Got it!"

The Niflung charges, shoulder lowered, and ploughs his way through the guards -- sending them flying in all directions. He sprints down the corridor, towards the mech and the swarming enemies besetting it.

Kess strides along the passage, towards the nearby guards still tottering from Ragnar's impact. Her right hand lashes out, and one of them falls -- his fingers clutching his bloody throat in a vain attempt to prolong his existence. Another swings his baton at her. It hits nothing but air. She drops, spins, kicks his legs out from under him, then rises just in time to take his throat with an upward arc of her left hand as he falls.

She walks through the dead and dying like a vampiress through fields of blood, dark and unstoppable.

You follow, kicking out at a guard who tries to grab hold of you. He tumbles into one of the cells, and lies still -- either incapacitated or simply deciding that he's had enough.

A muzzle flash and rattle of machinegun fire from ahead show that Telemachus came bearing gifts. Ragnar has his weapons in his hands, and is putting them to good use.

The prince turns in his cockpit as you draw near.

"Take it!" he shouts.

A hatch in his mech flips open, and a pistol shoots out from the exposed compartment. You snatch it from the air.

"I just get this?"

"Ragnar's stuff took up the rest of the space!" He turns away for a moment, just long enough to direct his laser-edged chainsaw through a hapless guard's riot armor, flesh, and bone. "Talia's landing. You guys go out to her. Me and Ragnar will stop them following."

You nod, and lead Kess through the hole made by Telemachus' mech. It leads out into the prison yard. Into hell.

Bodies are strewn about the place, both guard and convict. And the killing is far from over...

"Burn, you sons of bitches!"

A torrent of flame, a cacophony of screams, and the stench of charred flesh fill the air. Over them all rises Warden Ramiro's horrendous laugh.

The warden's cigar end glows amid the fire-licked haze, above the spitting inferno at the nozzle of his flamethrower. A pile of charred corpses burns before him. More of the impromptu funeral pyres are spaced across the yard, marking the path from his office.

"This is my house! No one riots in my house!"

His eyes meet yours. His finger twitches on his trigger, and a spurt of flame licks the air in anticipation.

You pivot, step and kick -- a powerful thrusting sidekick that catches the warden square in the chest.

He groans as the air rushes out of his lungs, and the force of the blow sends him flying backwards. He lands atop one of the pyres of burning convicts.

A howl of anguish, both comical and horrific in its intensity, tears from his throat. Ramiro leaps to his feet like a tumbling acrobat, and runs off across the yard -- arms flailing, voice shrieking, flames dancing across his clothes and armor.

"They won't be following us," Ragnar says.

The Niflung and Telemachus' mech are emerging from the prison, the boy casually dislodging another section of wall as he comes.

"Anyone left out here?" the prince asks.

You look over into the distance, where a burning man is disappearing round a corner.

"No, we're good."

There's a whoosh of thruster engines, and a shadow falls across the yard.

"Is that our ride?" Artemis asks.

"That's it," you reply.

"It can't land here! There isn't enough space-"

As if on cue, the ship spins in the air -- and its blaster cannons fire. Energy barrier fencing is scattered to the four winds with a series of precise shots, the glowing trails on its metal vanishing as they're deprived of the power running through their bases. A second volley of blaster fire scatters the nearest pyres.

"That seemed unnecessary," Artemis remarks.

"She likes to show off."

The ship spins once more, like a pirouetting ballerina, before settling down atop the cleared space. A large hatch slides open, providing access to one of the holds.

"Is it always like this with you people?" the assassin asks, indicating the totality of things with a sweep of her hand.

"No. It's usually much more chaotic."

She laughs, and runs towards the ship. |-|

"The Psychic"=
The Psychic

"I see everything." -- Scrawled in blood across the wall of Sun Xi's bedchamber in the imperial palace

"Is that what I think it is?" you ask.

Telemachus heaves the red metal backpack onto his shoulders. A series of lights glow at the bottom of the pack -- indicating that the item's weight is being borne by technology rather than just his boyish muscle power.

"Well, you said I couldn't bring my mech," he replies.

"If that thing blows up when you try to use it, you'd better not be standing near me," Talia says.

You file off the ship, onto a tarmac plain that seems to mirror the clear night sky -- its softly glowing lights echoing the stars above. The Princess and Lu Bu are already there, negotiating with spaceport staff over the procurement of a vehicle. Diogenes has nothing in the way of a mass transit system, and even the settlements are far from the planet's ports -- let alone the isolated dwellings. It's a world of seclusion, for those who want the comforts and reassurances of civilization without the inconvenience of dealing with their fellow man.

A hovercar large enough to accommodate you all is found, and brought over by one of the attendants.

"Remember -- you'll only be able to use the designated roads and flight paths," he says, after you usurp him by slipping into the driver's seat. "If you try to deviate, the onboard navigation system will autocorrect you."

With that final warning he steps aside, allowing the others to enter the craft.

The car rises into the dark heavens in almost complete silence, its engine calibrated not to disturb the serenity of this peaceful planet and its reclusive inhabitants.

"It's a beautiful world," the Princess says. She gazes through the window, at the vast shadowy pine forest that rolls below you, swaying beneath a crisp and starry sky.

"Too quiet for my liking," Ragnar says. "Last time I visited the place they kicked me out for machine-gunning a squirrel. What's the good of all that wilderness if you can't even hunt in it?"

"Many great thinkers choose to withdraw to Diogenes," Lu Bu says, "when they wish to be alone with their thoughts, their art, or their scientific research. I believe they would find it objectionable to have a Niflung rampaging through their forests whilst discharging an automatic weapon."

"I think people would find that objectionable just about anywhere," Talia says. "What about you, captain? Can you imagine living in a place like this?"

You glance out of the window, at the little specs of light ensconced in endless expanses of greenery. Peace and quiet for miles around.

"Maybe," you reply. But the thought that fills your mind is how difficult it may prove to convince someone to leave such a place behind.

"The most difficult part will be getting a ship to Sian undetected," you said.

"Conventional forms of cloaking will prove inadequate," Wu Tenchu agreed. "They would never withstand the sensor capabilities of the Centurians."

"Given time, TALOS might be able to engineer something," Lu Bu said. "But the timeframe may be unworkable."

"I suppose we could offer Nemo a load of credits and ask him to loan us the Silver Shadow..." Talia said, her smirk expressing just how realistic she considered such a transaction to be.

"Nemo?" Princess Illaria asked.

"A rather notorious space pirate," Wu Tenchu replied. "His operations have all taken place far from Sian space, and he does not court publicity in the same way as others of his ilk. Thus you may never have head of him. His infamy is largely confined to those in law enforcement and the criminal underworld."

"And pilots," you said.

Talia nodded. No pilot could fail to be enchanted by the stories of the Silver Shadow. A special ship, unlike any other...

Master Wu fiddled with a nearby terminal for a few moments. His final key-press was rewarded by the appearance of a new holographic projection -- displacing those chronicling Lupin and Artemis Kess, causing them to shrink and shift as they yielded their space.

The image it displayed showed a plaza at ground level, a wide, flat, square expanse overlaid with many thousands of colored tiles that formed a sumptuous -- yet from that angle unrecognizable -- mosaic. There were buildings on the far side of the square, large and lavish structures that bespoke the wealth of the neighborhood -- but adorned with neon signs and bright banners which betrayed its levity and tackiness as well. Large crowds of people were passing to and fro in the distance, and in the immediate foreground of the picture. However, a short distance in front of your viewpoint there was a big portion of... emptiness. An inexplicable gap in the crowd. In fact, you noticed that people were deliberately turning their steps to walk around the edges of that invisible space, rather than intruding into it -- as though it had been reserved for some special purpose.

"An external security camera belonging to the Trimalchio Casino on Tarlella," Wu Tenchu said. "Mounted above the building's front entrance."

There was a sudden burst of commotion at the near edge of the screen, rippling out through the people in the immediate foreground. They turned startled faces towards something behind your field of vision, events taking place within the casino. A moment later they were scattering in panic. Some ran to the left, others to the right -- vanishing from your perception. Some ran directly away from the casino and your camera viewpoint, though even their terrified flight didn't cause them to trespass into that patch of empty space. Instead they ran around it.

The source of their panic emerged into the bottom of the screen a few seconds later, firing his laser pistols behind him at what you assumed must have been his pursuers. It was a male figure, dressed in a bodysuit. A full helmet concealed his head in its entirety, replacing his features with a smooth black plate. A short cape or coat fluttered in the air behind his legs.

The man ran in sideways fashion, moving towards the background of the diorama while still firing at the foreground. He approached the empty space, drawing ever closer to the curious forbidden area that had rebuffed and repelled everyone else.

He reached its edge. Then he vanished.

A few seconds passed. After that, the parted crowd moved to fill the previously inviolable space as if nothing untoward had ever happened.

Wu Tenchu waved his hand. The footage froze.

"His ship?" the Princess asked.

"The Silver Shadow," you replied.

"How did he accomplish such a feat?" Lu Bu asked. "A good security camera should have detected the craft in spite of whatever form of light manipulation or projection-based trickery it employed."

"It's suspected that his ship contains alien technology," Wu Tenchu said. "The vessel is capable of total invisibility, on a level which may deceive both electronic and biological observers."

"But surely the passersby should have collided with the invisible vessel, and become aware of its presence."

"Yes..." The Princess nodded. "What made them walk around it like that?"

"A psychic field, I suspect." Master Wu stroked the slender trails of his moustache as though pondering -- and vexed by -- the mystery whose solution eluded him, as few things ever did. "One designed to eliminate all curiosity and provide yet another layer of obfuscation."

"Who's Nemo?" Telemachus asked. "How did he get hold of that kind of ship in the first place?"

"No one knows," Talia replied.

"There's more than one of them," Ragnar said. "Maybe a whole gang. I think they take turns wearing that stupid getup."

"How do you know?" you asked.

"Because I chopped him in half in a bar, after the bastard cheated in a card game. The day after that, 'Nemo' raided a weapons factory on Belzabar."

"Are you sure it was Nemo you butchered?"

The Niflung paused for a moment.

"He said he was. But he might have just dressed up like him to scam free drinks from people. It was a pirate bar, and everyone wanted to meet Nemo. They were pretty pissed off when I killed him. Ended up having to kill the rest of them as well."

"Could we make an arrangement with him?" the Princess asked. "Offer him a fortune in exchange for his help?"

"That would be inadvisable," Wu Tenchu replied. "A man such as he, motivated solely by financial gain without honor, would think nothing of betraying us to the Centurians in exchange for further wealth."

"Why don't we just steal his ship?" Telemachus said.

"Sure, let's go out looking for an invisible ship," Talia said. "Should be pretty easy..."

"Even psychics haven't been able to track it down," you said. "Maybe because of that field Master Wu referred to."

"Perhaps they simply weren't capable enough," Wu Tenchu mused.

His gaze met that of the Princess, and held it for a long moment. The advisor's face was inscrutable, but her eyes widened.

"But... She won't..."

"Under the circumstances, I believe we might be able to persuade her."

She turned to you, and you felt an illogical arrogance, as though her first thought was to share the secret with you.

"When I was a girl, one of my father's advisors was a woman called Sun Xi. She was a psychic. A powerful one."

"Her visions were erratic," Wu Tenchu said. "But sometimes they revealed vital knowledge, allowing the Emperor to obtain a significant advantage in both diplomatic negotiations and military operations."

"And her powers kept growing. Her visions got more and more powerful. She could see further and further -- through space, into the past, into the future, into people's minds. It was... amazing. But in the end..."

"She could no longer master her mind." Wu Tenchu sighed, for perhaps the first time in your memory. "There was an... episode... in the palace. She was found unconscious, bleeding from a cerebral hemorrhage. She had scrawled on the wall beside her with blood from her own brain."

"She was in a coma," the Princess said. "My father's personal doctors treated her. They were able to bring her back. But she couldn't keep using her powers. It was too dangerous."

"What happened to her?" you asked.

"The Emperor had a home built for her in a secret location," Wu Tenchu replied. "Special materials were worked into its walls, which would encage her wandering mind and allow her to live out her days in peace. A peace which I fear we must now violate."

Song of a Fallen Empire

A bleeping from the hovercar's display and a slowing of its engine inform you that you're nearing a no-fly area.

Your destination is a short way ahead, where a soft spill of artificial light meets the moon and starlight to paint the sides of a small building -- a house surrounded by expansive gardens that are in turn encircled by a wall.

It seems that the proprieties of Diogenes won't allow an unauthorized vehicle to fly closer to a resident's sanctum. So you land, touching down upon the narrow road a hundred yards from the closed gateway, and proceed on foot beneath the night air -- your steps escorted by the thick forest on either side.

Cherry blossom trees wave above the wall as you approach, their purple flowers dancing to the caresses of the breeze.

"Sun Xi always loved the blossoms in the imperial gardens," the Princess says. "So my father had some of the trees planted here for her."

There's a small communications panel near the sealed entrance, embedded in the midst of a pillar's decorative swirls. Illaria steps over to it, and places her palm on an object shaped like a smooth gemstone.

Perhaps half a minute passes, its silence broken only by the rustling of branches and the hoot of a distant owl. Then a beam of illumination fires from the gemstone. It widens in its flight, before giving way to a swirl of color that resolves itself into the image of a middle-aged woman wearing Sian robes.

"Greetings, Mistress Sun." The Princess bows her head.

"Illaria!"

There's wonder in the woman's voice, though tinged with neither fear nor delight. Merely surprise, devoid of good or ill, pleasure or dismay.

"Forgive our presence here. We had no way of contacting you to request permission for our visit."

Sun Xi gives a small nod of acceptance. Her home is devoid of all communications devices beyond that linking building and gate. And no one on Diogenes knows her true identity. Hers is the life of a hermit, her isolation total. Until now.

"It is... pleasant... to see you again," her holographic form says, each word soft and subtle, emerging as though from a dusty chamber in which they were laid to rest.

"I fear that what I have to say won't be pleasing to you, mistress. We've come to ask for your help."

The holographic woman gives a deep sigh, like the gentle breaking of a barrier. When she speaks again, the words flow more freely.

"I am grateful to your father for the kindness he showed me, Illaria. But you must return to him, and tell him that I cannot re-enter his service. The risk is too great, both for me and for those who would be around me."

"My father is a prisoner, his life threatened. That's why we've come here."

Anguish crosses Sun Xi's face.

"Tell me... Tell me what's happened to our empire."

Blood and Weiqi

The Princess beckons you, urging you to stand alongside her in Mistress Sun's gaze. For your stories are one, bound up with that of the empire and its ruler.

You bow as you introduce yourself. Then you join in the tale, your voice and the Princess' sharing in its unraveling.

Together your words describe the events upon the Child of Heaven, and the Centurian attack. They chronicle all the sorrows and misfortunes, all the little victories, that have filled the expanse of your lives between then and now. You allow the true depths of your feelings to spill into the story, knowing that you must reveal to her the full magnitude of the shadow which has fallen across the Sian Empire.

She questions you, seeking the knowledge to understand what has transpired in her absence from the wider universe. She asks you about the UHW, and TALOS, and the other factions and organizations with whom she dealt in her days as one of the Emperor's advisors. You answer each query as best you can, with Lu Bu interjecting and offering his precise knowledge and recollection to fill the gaps. The tangled mass of interstellar politics is heaped before her, to pick through as best she can.

At last the words stop, and Sun Xi sighs once more. Her bubble of tranquility has been burst by the horrible knowledge you've brought to her doorstep. Her paradise has been stolen.

"I... I do wish to help, Illaria. I would give anything for your family. But the moment I stepped from these walls, I... I can't say what might happen. It's been years since I was forced to endure the presence of so much as a single other mind."

"Let us try. Allow my captain and I to enter your home," the Princess says. "If even that proves too much, I swear that we will leave and trouble you no longer."

"Yes..."

Sun Xi bows, and reaches a holographic arm beyond the border of the image. The gate whispers open on its near-silent runners, sliding across the inner side of the wall.

"Your other friends may wait in my garden."

You all pass through the gateway, into a lavish realm of trees and flowers. A robot is trundling in the distance, administering to a bed of red blooms with a watering can. Other than that there's no sign of movement, beyond the gentle swaying of the stalks and branches. A beautiful garden to be gazed upon from behind glass, its paths untrodden even by their owner.

The Princess leads the way to the house, a picturesque building shaped in an indistinct but somehow pleasant architectural style. The two of you stop before its door, which gives way with a hiss -- as though an airtight seal is being broken.

Behind the door is a small lobby, its walls decorated with paintings of various shapes and sizes, depicting an equally vast range of subjects -- from seaside landscapes to a detailed magnification of a human iris and pupil.

A robot drone, similar to the one you saw in the garden, stands in the middle of the little room. It's a simple contraption, a modular cylindrical body with well articulated mechanical arms and a rectangle embedded with an orange circle by way of a head.

"Come inside."

The voice comes from robot, but it's Sun Xi's.

The Princess steps inside. You follow, and the door hisses itself shut behind you.

The robot turns to one of the walls, in which a doorway slides open, and beckons for you to follow. You're about to do as bidden when you see that the Princess has stopped. She's gazing at one of the paintings, a smile on her lips.

She turns away at last, and follows the robot. You glance at the picture after she passes into the next room. It's a watercolor painting of the imperial palace, rendered with more enthusiasm than skill. The artist's name, in childish cursive script, is scribbled in the corner. It reads: 'Illaria'.

You rejoin the Princess and the robot in a chamber decorated in ancient Japanese fashion. Some of the walls have been made to resemble wood and paper lattices, though your scrutiny reveals that they are in fact constructed of less flimsy materials. Double-doors of similar aesthetic close off another room. These throb with dancing illuminations of dark and light blue. The warm glow of a lamp shaped like a flower bud completes the gentle bewitchment of the chamber's lighting. A few pictures and ornaments adorn the room's serene sparsity, along with a low table. A thick glass weiqi board rests upon that piece of furniture. It's the same shifting blue as the doors, between the engraved lines of the grid. Two ceramic pots of stones -- one set black, the other white -- stand beside it, ready for battle.

The twin doors part, one slipping away to either side in utter noiselessness. Between them stands Sun Xi.

Her step is unsteady as she enters the room. There's a smile but also a grimace on her face. You move forward to take her arm, but she waves you back.

"A moment..." she murmurs. "Just a moment."

She takes a deep breath, and the lids close over her bright eyes. When they reopen a few seconds later she seems to have regained her composure. She bows, a gesture you and the Princess return. The robot merely observes your courtesy, evidently not programmed for such niceties.

"Your mind is strong and firm," she says, meeting your gaze and holding it with her eldritch, color-filled orbs. "That will be important, if I'm to travel with you."

Illaria goes to her, and this time the psychic makes no motion to avert the coming contact. She embraces the Princess with a tentative hug, her arms touching Illaria's back so softly it's as if she fears that one or both of their bodies might shatter like fine crystal.

"Sit. Please."

You sit on the floor mats surrounding the low table, around the weiqi board like generals around a campaign map. At Mistress Sun's gesture, a robot emerges from the next room, bearing a tray of delicate pink and white sake cups.

"Drink this. It will aid you in what must follow."

You take one of the cups proffered by the robot, trying to mask your curiosity from your thoughts as well as your face.

The sake tastes... That's all you can say of it. That it has taste. Its exact flavor seems to escape your mind -- as though your taste buds have become disconnected from your brain, unable to convey their experience.

"The herbs will help," she says.

The robot slides away after the empty cups have been returned to its tray. Sun Xi fixes you with an intent stare that seems to end well behind your eyes.

"I wish to help, as I told you. But for me to leave this place, and its protections, I must have anchors. People with thoughts steady enough to serve as my rock, my lynchpin."

She looks to the Princess, releasing you from her scrutiny but leaving the force of her gaze behind.

"Your presence will help. But... forgive me... this one is stronger. Her thoughts are... firmer."

The Princess smiles.

"I have placed my life in the captain's hands more than once. You only honor me when you praise her."

Sun Xi's eyes regard you once more. They seem almost luminous now, their color imperceptibly but unquestionably different from what they were but a moment ago.

"However, I must be sure. I must know that your thoughts will remain steady no matter what happens. I wish to test you."

You bow your head.

"As you wish."

"Do you play weiqi?" She smiles as your face betrays your surprise. "I do not pry into people's minds uninvited. Your thoughts are safe until you open them to me."

"I can play."

"The way a woman plays weiqi reveals much about the quality of her mind. But our game will be more... trying."

Your eyes instinctively travel towards a painting you noticed earlier, a copy of a famous Chinese original. It depicts an episode from The Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

"Yes," she says. "Are you willing?"

"I am."

"Good."

The robot who escorted you into the room takes up a position beside Sun Xi. Another, presumably the one who departed with the tea tray, rolls in and stands at your left-hand side. There are two metallic clicking noises as slender blades appear at the end of each robot's arm.

A Second Chance

Blood pours from Sun Xi's arm, flowing down her flesh in disregarded rivulets. Her luminous eyes are fastened on the board, plotting her next move.

You feel the blade biting into your own flesh, and the crimson escaping from the wound. But you don't glance at it. Your gaze is likewise upon the grid and the black and white stones which vie for victory on its geometric battlefield.

You place a white stone where two lines meet. Your hand has barely relinquished it when a black stone follows from the psychic's. You seize another white token of war, and place it in turn -- doing your best to match her speed, to calculate, attack, and defend with the same rapidity.

Stones are placed, forming patterns of life and death, as the blood from your twin wounds forms patterns of its own.

The game continues in silence but for the dripping of crimson and the clicking of stones against the board.

When it ends, she is the victor. She bows her head, and you do the same.

"Very good," she says.

Mistress Sun signals to her robots. The blades retract into their arms with dual clicks, and are replaced by other tools instead. For a few moments they administer to your arms -- until your wounds are closed, and the blood cleaned away.

"You allowed your flesh to be opened. But now I must ask for your mind to be opened as well. To truly test your fitness, to know if your strength is equal to the task, I must travel into your thoughts and test you there as well. Don't grant permission lightly. For every woman has thoughts they would wish to remain hidden from the world."

"My blood, mind, and soul all belong to... the empire."

You almost uttered two other words instead. There's a faint smile on Sun Xi's lips.

"Do what must be done," you say.

Princess Illaria's hand touches yours. When the rest of the world vanishes, its warmth is all that remains.

Incandescent realities swirl around you like existential whirlpools, churning up matter and making flotsam and jetsam of all creation. Motes and infinities of color paint themselves across the void. A thousand sounds reach your ears, until they ring with crashing oceans and exploding stars, calling birds and crooning songs of love and loss. Bizarre medleys of scent and taste add themselves to this synesthetic tempest. You smell lavender noodles and petrol flowers. Chocolate kidneys and limestone pizzas envelop your tongue.

But the grasp on your right hand is still there, unchanging even as the universe dances.

"She means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

You look round, breaking the grasp of your hands in your surprise. It isn't the Princess who's standing there, who spoke to you. It's Sun Xi.

Sun Xi, but not as you saw her before. Her eyes blaze like tiny suns, in colors that change with the passage of each sundered second. Her skin is radiant, infused with a golden glow that shines with the very essence of life. The simple, plain robes she wore have been replaced by glorious garments woven from the fabric of impossibility.

"That's good," she says. "Let it give you strength."

She smiles. Then she explodes. Colors and sensations erupt in all directions, becoming part of the raging maelstrom around you.

"You've experienced many victories," her voice says, the sound emerging from everywhere and nowhere, eternal and sourceless. "A life studded with challenges met and triumphed over. Each one has made you stronger. Bolder."

Something is taking shape in front of you, a scene assuming solidity in the colorful ether.

"But there are defeats as well. And it's in facing these that your measure may be judged."

The colors are forming outlines now -- three distinctly humanoid figures coalescing from the incomprehensible rawness. Recognition tears its way into you as the transformation nears its completion.

A ferocious beast roars at you, a reptilian monstrosity with both cunning and savagery in his eyes. You're on the Zenith again... Your vision latches onto the still assembling shapes to the right. General Rahn. And the Princess. They're struggling, fighting over the glowing object clutched in his hand.

Your thoughts scatter before an invisible blow, and reform into something both real and unreal -- an unintelligible mass of dream and memory.

You're going to lose her... Rahn's device will take her, will snatch her away from you and whisk her off into the void.

Have to stop him, save her...

You step towards the pair. But the alien moves into your path, roaring a challenge that makes the world tremble.

Have to save her...

Lineage

Your fist smashes through the Besalaad's skull, breaking inexistent scales, shattering ephemeral bone. Its head explodes into a riot of drifting colors. Its body follows it into luminous annihilation a second later.

You charge through the enveloping primordial mist, force your way through to the other side. Fasten your eyes on him. And her.

The device is glowing, blazing like a sun searing its way through the wall of reality. Flames dance on the insides of your eyes. It's going to try to take her, to burn the two of them out of existence and leave emptiness in its wake.

Not this time.

You run. You leap. You grab.

The device is in your hands. You hurl it aside, casting your failure to the four winds.

Rahn screams in agony as he explodes. The Princess smiles as she evaporates.

"Remember this feeling," Sun Xi's voice urges. "Remember it well."

The colors swirl and part once more, the bulk of the phantom Zenith dissipating into the intangible matter of creation. But a few fragments of its undone mass remain. They flit through the air like frolicking sprites before colliding. Then they gather together, forming the shape of Mistress Sun.

"In times gone by my kind were called far-seers," she says, the words beginning in the ether and ending on her newly regenerated lips. "Because our minds can see into the distance, whether measured in space or in time. When I served in the imperial palace, I saw glimpses of recent past, present, or future -- enough to shift events in our favor. But as my powers grew, became uncontrollable, I received flashes from inconceivable gulfs of years or miles. In one I saw the galaxy die. In another I saw Terracles performing his labors."

Somehow it's that statement which allows you to find your tongue for the first time in this overwhelming place.

"You mean Heracles. And he wasn't real."

"No, I don't. And he was." Her eyes flash. "Time isn't easily bent to one's will. It slips from your grasp like an eel. But some people have strong bloodlines, lines which can be followed. You're one of them. I can sense that. It's part of what makes your mind so potent, your soul so sturdy. So let us see your forebears..."

She takes hold of your hand.

The moment her touch meets yours, stillness gives way to rushing motion. Your consciousnesses shoot through the universe, propelled along turbulent currents that twist and turn as soon as you try to focus on them.

Decades are peeling away like shed garments, history withdrawing like the tentacles of a grasping monstrosity. Images whoosh around you, so fast that only single glimpses reach your comprehension.

You see lines of warriors charging beneath the Sian banner, fighting to spread the empire across the stars and vanquish those who would dare cast covetous gazes upon its worlds. You see beyond this, to a time when the children of Earth -- now settled so far away from their native system -- began to adopt the trappings of their ancient ancestors, clinging to that heritage for comfort and to bind the people of their factions together.

Time continues to evaporate into an insubstantial mist, flinging you further along its length.

Human colonists are settling their first worlds, mankind seizing its destiny among the stars -- still planting the flags of the nations of old Earth.

This nascent diaspora withdraws in turn, slipping back towards that little blue and green ball of rock and water where it began. Bombs fall and bullets fly. Cannons boom and cavalrymen charge. Swords strike shields. Clubs crush skulls. Millennia of wars fly by on their endless path of destruction. Alliances, nations, provinces, city-states, tribes, and families war with one another in turn as the timeline floods back to show mankind at its most primitive.

And then...

Your tunnel of vision moves away from Earth, shunning it and focusing elsewhere in the Sol System instead. Lumps of rock are gathering there, their flight reversed. They're coming together, creating... a world.

Sun Xi squeezes your hand.

"As I suspected. Your blood has strong ties to this ancient place. The true cradle of humanity."

"But..."

That idiotic interjection, that aborted statement of confusion and contradiction is all you can manage as the passage of time hurls you down the history of a world you never knew existed.

There are men and women. And other things besides... Aliens? No, not aliens. They belong here. This is their world as well. And some are familiar. Not from reality, but from the dreams of writers and artists...

"Yes..." she says. "Echoes of this place have always been with our race."

The images which flash before you are confusing. Here you cannot connect them to the known expanses of human history as you could before -- can't slot them into your preconceived notions of time as though they were jigsaw pieces fitting into place. You understand nothing of what you see.

"We're being drawn somewhere," Mistress Sun whispers. The awe in her voice is unsettling.

Visions continue to pass in a blur, quickening now. Her grasp tightens on your hand.

"No!" she cries. "You're-"

Your hand slips from hers, eludes the clutch of her desperate, snatching fingers. Then you fall.

You plunge towards the distant surge of images, towards the mélange of unknown existence. The maelstrom of colors and tastes and sounds and sensations rushes up to meet you, to cradle you or else smash your tumbling form.

Your life flashes before your eyes. But it gets lost among the thousands of others which flash by them as well.

The tempest is right below you, seconds away. You're about to hit it and-

The universe splits in half. Reality and surreality tear together, opening like an immense mouth to reveal a blackness so pure it's blinding. You hear Sun Xi's distant cry of terror as it swallows you.

You feel consciousness make its tentative return, awakening you from... from what? A vague recollection of falling flits across your thoughts. But nothing attaches itself to that notion, no memories take shape around it.

You open your eyes to end the unsettling confusion. If you know where you are-

Nothing happens. The darkness remains infinite and unbroken, an immense and formless black mass pressing in on you from all sides. The terrible specter of blindness fills your frantic thoughts. But only for a moment. Then the true magnitude of your plight smothers you.

You have no eyes. No mouth. No limbs.

Your mind is adrift, floating in an eternal void. You scrabble for understanding, to comprehend how you came to be trapped in this nothingness. But no memories rise to the surface of your turbulent thoughts. Who you are... what you are... These things have been buried beyond your reach, crushed into oblivion. Your identity has been stripped away along with the rest of creation, devoured by a black hole so massive that it's swallowed everything that ever was or shall be.

Misery floods your disembodied consciousness, an inner darkness mirroring the nothingness around you until their combined forces threaten to tear your flimsy, nameless existence asunder.

You've failed... That lone sliver of knowledge pierces the mantle of your despair, becoming its lynchpin. You can't explain it, have no knowledge of the task or purpose which was once yours. But you feel failure's barbed tentacles nonetheless, ripping at what's left of you.

A silent scream echoes inside your broken mind. It tears at your unraveling sanity, shredding your little semblance of self-awareness. In time that too will be gone, and your obliteration will be complete.

Wait...

A glimmer of perception flickers across one of your counterfeit, fleshless senses. There's something else in this realm of nothingness, an island of existence in the black infinity... No, not something... Someone! You're not alone!

The spark of their existence is dim and distant -- impossibly distant, separated from you by a gulf of oblivion perhaps measuring trillions of light-years. Yet the simple reality of their presence in this unreal place transfixes you. It shines like a beacon, beckoning you, promising companionship and comfort, strength and salvation.

You urge yourself towards them, spurring your drifting consciousness into motion through will alone -- launching yourself into a wingless flight.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia...

These meaningless words drift across your thoughts in a vain attempt to chronicle the intemporal odyssey. You cast them aside. All that matters is your goal.

Your fellow sufferer is moving as well, pulling their mind towards yours with the same unyielding determination. Two disembodied beings threading the darkness, piercing the void with spirits made unconquerable by the force of their longing.

The faraway spark grows larger, flashing and pulsing like the muzzle of a firearm. With nearness comes knowledge, the edges of your thoughts brushing theirs like extended fingertips, gleaning information with each tentative contact.

They're human, like you. A woman. She too was hurled onto the invisible tides of this black ocean, sundered from her body, left adrift without memory or identity.

The light expands, becoming the defiant blaze of a warship's cannon. The furthest tendrils of your thoughts are intertwining with hers, uniting in an unbreakable bond, using it to draw yourselves closer together.

She's a warrior, like you are. An adventurer. A leader, commander, and fighter. A hero. So different from you, a child of a different world and time. And yet so similar, so inexplicably familiar...

The light flares with all the glory of a sun, illuminating the darkness. Your minds press together like interlocking fingers, flowing into each other like two liquids poured into the same vessel.

Her memories are laid out before your probing gaze like the streets and structures of a city, a bustling realm of dark alleys and broad streets, mighty castles and lofty towers. You swoop through it all, drinking in thought and sensation -- sensing that she's doing the very same, reaching into your thoughts with a passionate desire to learn and know.

The things you see are... remarkable, amazing. Unearthly. Men and creatures clash in the streets of memory, immense presses of humanity and monstrosity fighting battles that will echo across the soul of mankind long after those who fought and fell are forgotten. You see dozens of infernal horrors and powerful beasts, each glaring at the woman in turn -- always knowing deep within them that they've met their match, that their destruction is inscribed upon the threads of her destiny.

An image rises from the midst of those others, thrusting its way to the surface of the grim procession as though yearning to meet your gaze. Cyan eyes burn before you. A voice, like a woman's but tinged with a strange, inhuman accent, sounds out with the disturbing detachment of one in a trance:

"I see further still, to a time when your blood will flow across the void, blazing beneath a thousand burning suns."

The words echo in your soul, struggling in vain for comprehension. You sense that they're significant, yet they pass you by without understanding.

You soar from that place, flitting to another portion of the woman's memories with a child's gleeful desire to explore and touch. Warmer recollections are here, images that give your newfound companion strength and sustenance, comfort and certainty.

There's a man, silver in hair and wise in eye, but still strong and hearty. Two swords, one silver the other orange, dance in his hands. Music floats across your vision, flitting away to reveal a pretty woman with pointed ears and angelic voice. Her fingers stroke the strings of a harp, bringing forth the music of the heavens. There's a warrior in bronze-colored armor, who stands atop a wall and defies the enemies of his people. Crowds of men and women line up behind him, drawing courage from his presence -- ready to follow him into battle. You see another man, this one dressed in red and green robes as though he were a priest of some kind. Stacks of dusty books surround him, tottering with the weight of ancient scholarship. He smiles in delight as he dashes an inky quill across a piece of parchment, setting down his thoughts for future generations to ignore. Next your eyes fall upon a beautiful blonde woman, her body draped in dark blue furs. Bright white symbols dance upon her upturned palms, mirroring the hardness and coldness that rest within her eyes like an expanse of frozen tundra.

Your attention is drawn upwards, to a form flying above all these others -- soaring and darting between the spires of mind and memory like an immense azure bird. No, not a bird... As you rise, drifting on currents of anticipation, and the creature descends, you see that its body is reptilian. A dragon. A blue dragon. Thoughts spark within you, memories once thought lost reasserting themselves and taking shape like flesh knitting itself over a wound.

The dragon's scaly body slows its descent, until he comes to rest right before your face -- his bulk hovering at eye-level with great flaps of his leathery wings. The creature gazes at you with deep orange orbs. This drake is important to the woman. A constant companion, a true friend... a source of identity which has helped shape her into who she is. Yet you sense that his importance transcends that, extends well beyond a single human life -- no matter how glorious that life may be.

A flash of colorful images come to you -- not from the woman's recollections, but from your own. Images you saw when you were falling, glimpses that at the time meant nothing yet now mean everything. Snatches of history and destiny, chaos and kismet. This dragon will fly across the centuries, shaping things as he passes.

No... Not just centuries. Remembrance echoes across your thoughts with the force of a symphony reaching its crescendo. The writings of the First Emperor... The tale of the blue dragon spirit who aided him in battle, and helped secure the future of the nascent Sian Empire.

The dragon's reptilian lips curve into a smile as the knowledge overwhelms you.

You know who you are. Memories form around your consciousness like a panoply, as you sense the other woman's forming around her. Your forays into the depths of each other's thoughts, the wonders you've witnessed, have returned your identities.

You are Captain [Player Name]. And you can't remain here. The empire needs you. The Emperor needs you. Illaria needs you.

Two oceans of mind and spirit begin to recede, drawing away from one another -- waters parting, never to meet again. It's a sad farewell, a mournful separation from one you've known like you'll never know another. But at the same time there's triumph. You each know what you must do, where you must go.

The last lingering traces of your union drift apart like two hands slowly slipping from each other's grasp.

In the unfathomable distance, across the perpetual blackness, you see a glimmer. Your way home.

You plunge towards it.

Sun Xi

There's a hand on yours, its grasp warm, soothing, comforting.

Your eyes open. Princess Illaria is beside you, her face illuminated by her smile. It's the same smile that was there before the world left you behind, or you left it -- only broadening now with the elation of your return.

"Unbelievable..." Mistress Sun whispers.

Her luminous eyes open and blink as though having awoken from the depths of slumber. She stares at you in fascination.

"You went beyond the veil, past the barrier. And you returned! It should be impossible... Tell me, what do you remember?"

Your brow furrows as you try to grasp hold of the strange thoughts, of many minutes of memory that were driven into your brain in the space of a second.

"We were on the Zenith..."

There was something else -- you're sure of that. A deep whisper in your mind tells of things of unimaginable importance, of boundless meaning. But they're beyond your reach, drowned in the sea of thought.

Sun Xi sighs, and nods.

"Your mind is protecting itself, sealing such things away. But no matter."

She stands. You and Princess Illaria do the same.

"You've shown me a great deal," Mistress Sun says. "I know that your mind is powerful enough to anchor me, to steady me. But I fear that I must put you through one more test."

A wave of her hand sets her robot servitors to work. One of them lifts the weiqi board, and sets it down in a corner of the room. The other moves the table away to another corner.

Sun Xi steps into the middle of the cleared space. She bows, and you match the gesture out of instinct. It's not a bow of greeting or casual courtesy. It's a martial artist's bow...

"Powerful psychics run great risks. Not just for themselves, but for the world around them. If one of us becomes... unhinged... our personalities lost and our minds eclipsed by rage or anguish, we become a threat. A threat that must be ended, by any means which prove necessary. If I'm to travel with you, I must know that you're capable of stopping me."

"Mistress Sun-" the Princess begins.

The psychic raises her hand, silencing her.

"Forgive me, Illaria. But it must be done."

Her glowing eyes meet yours, and you feel her fingers clawing at your mind.

"Enough!" she gasps. "I yield!"

You release her wrist, remove the first two fingers of your other hand from the pressure point behind her ear, and shift your knee from her ribs -- freeing her body from your weight.

She accepts your hand, allows you to help her to her feet. You support her unsteady frame, suppress a smile as she rubs the spot behind her ear with a rueful look on her face.

"You're skilled. Your mind's defenses held me at bay, and your attacks disrupted my thoughts -- subdued my powers."

"I was trained to battle many types of foe."

"I'm ready to go with you now. I'll help you free the Emperor."

"Thank you, Mistress Sun," the Princess says. She moves to her side, presses a gentle kiss against her cheek.

The three of you pass through the door leading into the little lobby, and stand in front of the sealed portal beyond which lies the outside world.

The psychic smiles -- turning first to you, then to the Princess -- as the door hisses open.

You step out first, intending to summon your companions. But they're already standing in a neat row, ready to greet her. They're silent -- even the Niflung and Talia suppressing their usual exuberance, as you requested of them before you arrived here. If they're truly doing as bidden, they'll also be stilling their thoughts so as not to overwhelm Mistress Sun with the full effect of their natures.

The psychic walks through the doorway, from the golden glow of artificial light into the silvery sheen of the moon and stars.

Then she screams.

Comment:

In the Sub-Chapter Lineage it's higly likely, that the other character, you meet should be "you" (or your character) in the Game "Dawn of the Dragons" (also released by 5thPlanetGames. I realised this while reading this part, because the characters and people mentioned reassemble characters, who appear in DotD. For example the blue drake mentioned would be your partner "Solus" in DotD or the Woman with the pointed ears, (playing the harp) would be the Elf Medea. Or the Man with the two blades and grey hair reassembles Roland a retired adventurer.

Sun Xi also mentions Terracles, who is a Legend actually mentioned in DotD in the 6th Chapter.

All these similarities force me to think of this part of the story, as an (if not the sole) entwining of both these storys. It must have been the geniuses work at 5PG, but this is just an amazing piece of craftsmanship.

I promise to turn this in to a stand-alone-article, but at the moment I sadly have got no thime for doing that. I ask for letting this edit pass for as long as that.
Thanks, TaiLee (LotS) or Ryushia (DotD) |-|

"The Neuro-Phage"=
The Neuro-Phage

Step 1: Saw through the top of the donor's skull using an approved bonesaw (if you don't have one, click this *link* for a special offer). If the donor is still alive, make sure he or she is properly restrained and unable to offer any resistance. Thrashing may hamper the quality of your sawing.

Step 2: Take hold of the brain in the manner illustrated and ease it out of the head with a firm but gentle twist.

Step 3: Season to taste.

Step 4: Place on an appropriate serving plate.

(Note: A guide to which side dishes and beverages may best accompany the brains of different humanoid races can be found on our *website*.)

-- Recipe for 'Bachelor's Brain' in The Neuro-Phagy Cookbook

You fix an accusing glare on Ragnar. The Niflung spreads his arms in a gesture of confusion. But when you turn to Sun Xi you see that she isn't looking at your companions. She's gazing up into the night sky, horror on her face.

The Princess takes her arm and draws her back into the house. You follow, slipping through the door as it closes.

"He's coming!" the psychic says. "We have to... have to..."

A frantic, wordless murmur takes over her voice. Her head darts from side to side, as though searching for an object of defense or a way of escape.

"Mistress Sun, what's wrong?" the Princess asks.

Sun Xi's eyes meet yours. She steps towards you.

"Show you... Quicker..."

She places a hand on either side of your face, pulls you towards her, and presses her forehead against yours.

Visions flow into your mind, splashing from her brain to yours. These ones are clearer than those you experienced before, crisp and intelligible.

"Our connection is still strong from before," she whispers. "Can show you what I saw..."

Your gaze thrusts itself into the sky, above the house and the surrounding forest. It pierces the atmosphere, leaving Diogenes behind and threading its way further out into the system.

There... A black and red warship, voyaging through the star-studded mantle of space. Its aspect is vicious, predatory. It reminds you of an immense manta ray.

Your sight rushes towards the craft, and with a pilot's instincts you wince as you brace for the collision. But instead you penetrate its hull like a lance, intruding into its confines and wending your way along its corridors until you arrive in a dark cavernous chamber, and come face to face with the ship's master.

A fat, bloated form sits on a throne, the undulating mass of his flab bouncing against its stone arms as he bellows his orders. He's naked but for a red loincloth that dangles between his legs like congealed blood, displaying the veiny, pustulant skin stretched over his obese body in all its hideous glory. His feet are webbed, his hands clawed. Vicious teeth line his mouth beneath a snub nose and crimson eyes. A Snuuth, from one of that species' uglier, more vicious races by the look of him.

Hultex Quibberath. The name appears in your thoughts, and you understand that it was pulled from his -- passed to you by Sun Xi along the chain of psychic sausages that represent your linked minds.

He's a neuro-phage, a devourer of brains. And it's the brains of psychics that he finds most delicious. That's what was bringing him to Diogenes -- he was pursuing another psychic, a boy whose image flashes across your thoughts but strikes no chord of recognition. However, when Sun Xi stepped from her home his own psionic powers -- nowhere near as potent at hers, but well honed for this single task -- detected her. Now he's coming in search of the far more delectable morsel lodged within her skull.

The images vanish. Sun Xi's anxious face is before you once more.

"Stay here, Mistress Sun," you say. "I'll deal with this Quibberath."

Death Amid the Cherry Blossoms

"What's happened?" Wilex asks, his expression calm but alert on the communicator's holographic screen.

"There's a Snuuth warship approaching Diogenes. It's hostile. Destroy it. We're on our way to help."

"Understood."

If the Chief Assembler has any qualms about being instructed to engage a strange vessel, he gives no sign. You smile at the thought of how much faith he's willing to place in you. Then you end the transmission, and look to your companions -- who are arrayed beside a bed of red and purple orchids.

"We need to get back to the spaceport." You turn to the Princess, who's emerging from the house. "If-"

The communicator beeps in your hand. Wilex's face reappears.

"We've spotted the target. Moving to engage. But it's sent out scout ships. We weren't able to intercept them. You're going to have company down there." He pauses. "I can send a squad of battle bots to join you, but Diogenes will treat it as a hostile act."

"Don't worry -- we'll handle this ourselves."

You slip the communicator away and draw your sidearm.

"You all heard him," you say. "Get ready for a fight."

"Talia..." the Princess says.

The gunslinger reaches for one of her spare pistols. She tosses it through the air, into Princess Illaria's waiting hands.

Ragnar brandishes his axe and machinegun, a grin on his face. Lu Bu is attaching his sword and claw in place of his hands. As for Telemachus...

The prince presses the buttons on his backpack's straps. The metal starts to come apart, unfolding and widening. A red layer of plates tessellates around his limbs and torso -- assembling itself into a battlesuit. A silver device comes into being at his left arm, machinery slotting into place to create its shape. There's a flash, and a whir, as the laser-edged chainsaw activates.

"Told you it wouldn't blow up!" he says.

Several minutes later, the fireworks start. Colored lights zap against the distant sky, and tiny dark shapes flit across the stars in that slice of the heavens. A little bloom of fire announces the death of a ship.

"Diogenes' security forces are well equipped," Lu Bu says, "thanks to the great amount the planet's inhabitants pay to guarantee their solitude and safety. And it appears that they aren't willing to let unauthorized military craft go where they please."

You all watch the lightshow for some moments, and it seems as if your work may be done for you. Then a black shape skims over the forest far to your right -- beyond the wall separating Sun Xi's garden from the wilderness.

Smoke billows from the ship like a decorative plume. You see other signs of battle damage as well, souvenirs of its encounter with local law enforcement. Its flight is erratic, the vessel tilting from side to side before plunging into the trees amid a crashing of timber.

"Princess, Talia -- protect the entrance. The rest of you, with me."

The four of you run through the gardens, along the path that winds among the flowerbeds.

Orange eyes appear ahead of you, glowing in the shadows beneath the cherry blossom trees.

Aerial Assault

The Snuuth commandos resemble beetles in their grey, rounded armor -- its dimensions fashioned to accommodate the traditional gut-heavy girth of their species. Insects scurrying through the foliage, the orange orbs set into their otherwise featureless helmets glittering with malevolence.

Their aspects are fearsome, intimidating. Designed to cow their opponents. Against the little boy -- their originally intended victim -- and his family they would likely have worked well enough. But not against you and your companions.

"So much guts!" Ragnar laughs, as though to emphasize your unspoken thought.

The Niflung whirls round, and disembowels another of the commandos with a sweep of his axe -- cleaving through the armor with a screeching tear, as though it were a tin can. Another dose of intestines spills onto the grass, its ropey tangles joining the portion which had caused his exclamation. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was making a macabre collage...

You dodge a zapping blast of emerald energy and return fire -- catching a Snuuth right between his eyes. He drops to his knees, and topples face first into the diorama of innards.

Ragnar's roaring laugh echoes among the trees.

Lu Bu kills in silence, as is his wont. Gazing at him fighting beneath the blossoms is like looking into a Chinese legend, a tale of the great warriors who fought and perished in a prior age -- whose spilled blood mingled with the ink of scholars and poets to create their legacy. A long pile of bodies stretches before him. On some you can see the cracks in their armor where his sword found their brains or hearts. One has his dead, porcine face exposed -- the front of his helmet torn away by the robot's claw.

Telemachus is close by your side. The prince is unaccustomed to fighting in his new battlesuit, and you kept near to him out of concern for his safety. But you needn't have troubled yourself. He may lack the status of an unstoppable juggernaut outside of his mech, but his brand of passionate, ultra-violent carnage is as manifest as ever. As you look on, his laser-edged chainsaw works its way through a screaming commando's knee -- sending him crashing to the ground. The pistol in the boy's other hand finishes him off, out of either mercy or boredom.

A laser beam flashes by close to your head. It takes one of the Snuuth through the left of his orange eyes. You turn around, and look across the garden to where you left Talia and the Princess.

They're falling back under the nearby trees as though seeking cover. You glance at the sky above them, and see why the gunslinger attracted your attention with her shot.

Dark shapes are descending from the sky, the orange thrusters on their backs illuminating grey armor in their glow. More commandos -- with jet packs.

You sprint in that direction as the fire starts to rain down.

Space Sharks

"This is much more fun than shooting cartoon ducks!" Talia says.

Her pistols punctuate her sentence, each one claiming a life. Two Snuuth fall from the sky. One lands headfirst, his helmet hitting the path with a sparking crunch. The other bounces along the ground a few paces before lying still, like the world's most inept acrobat.

An explosion roars above you, capturing three of the commandos in its sphere and annihilating them. Pieces of metal rain down from the detonation, along with a few fragments of barbequed flesh.

The gate at the end of the path slides open, revealing the orchestrator of the welcome butchery. A man in a green uniform sprints through the widening gap, a bazooka on his shoulder. A large group of similarly attired men and women come through after him, their laser rifles zapping at the air as they run -- the volley's lattice of bright beams disposing of the last of the Snuuth.

"Sergeant Hobbs of the Diogenes Emerald Guard," the bazooka-toting man says, as he stops in front of you.

His comrades fan out behind him, each of them moving to one of the fallen Snuuth to make sure of their demise. There's a sporadic hissing of laser fire as some of the deaths are confirmed or brought about.

"Are there any more?" he asks.

You turn to your right. Telemachus, Ragnar, and Lu Bu are approaching.

"Looks like we got them all," you reply. "But there's a Snuuth warship up there."

"We know. Our fighters have been scrambled."

"My friends and I need to get to the spaceport," you say.

"You should leave this to the professionals. Our pilots..." He trails off, as he catches the look in your eye. "Your vehicle's the one on the road back there?"

You nod.

"Mills, Boggs -- take these people to their hovercar. Deactivate its flight restrictions and escort them to the spaceport."

"Those ships are awesome!" Telemachus says

He leans across to get a better look at the monitor in front of Talia, which shows a zoomed-in view of the space battle ahead.

"Armor, Tel! Armor!" she shouts, as his metal shoulder presses against her chest.

"Oh, sorry!"

He falls back into his seat.

"Take that thing off if you're going to scramble around in here!"

"They're Shark Ships," you say, looking at a similar monitor on the terminal in front of your pilot's chair. "Piscarian military craft. Probably bought on the black market."

"Are they good?" Telemachus asks.

"Very."

The scene on the monitors is growing larger through the window. You can make out Wilex's cruiser and Quibberath's warship. Smaller forms come into view around them a few moments later, amid the fabulous choreography of lights and explosions that only astral warfare can provide. There are the Shark Ships, battle bot fighter craft, and other vessels which look to belong to Diogenes.

"What's the plan, captain?" Talia asks. She reaches out for the gunnery controls.

"Destroy everything that isn't ours or Diogenes'."

Massacre of Minions

Quibberath's pilots are good. But you're better.

Sharks explode around you one by one, your aural implant spawning a triumphant symphony from their destruction.

"That's quite some flying, Vengeful Bitch," an unfamiliar female voice says over the communicator, which you assume must belong to one of the pilots from Diogenes.

For a moment you're confused. Then a lurking suspicion creeps into your mind.

"Talia..." you say, your eyes fixed ahead -- stealing between the window and the monitors.

"Yes, captain?"

Her thumbs tap the fire buttons at the end of her joysticks. A stream of laser fire slices a Shark Ship in half with pinpoint accuracy.

"You changed the ship's name in the logs, didn't you?"

"Sorry... I was playing around with it, and forgot to change it back. But you have to admit, Vengeful Bitch is pretty good."

Another voice sounds over the communicator.

"Our battle bots have gained entry to the warship and secured one of the hangars," Wilex says. "It's a custom craft, and I wasn't able to find a schematic. But we have squads working their way through it to look for the bridge."

"I know where it is," you reply.

You look over your shoulder, to where the rest of your companions are sitting -- operating the tertiary turrets.

"With your permission, Princess?"

She meets your gaze and nods.

"Take us in."

TALOS' forces have acted with their eternal precision. Gold and silver battle bots are stationed around the hanger at suitable firing points, their computerized targeting systems scanning with unceasing vigilance. If an enemy shows itself, a dozen lasers will meet it.

A new squad of bots is leaving its ship as you disembark, ready to join their brethren in securing the rest of the vessel and eliminating its master.

"Come with me," you say.

"Authority recognized," the robots chorus after a second's pause. "The Chief Assembler has placed us under your command."

With your new mechanical myrmidons leading the way in accordance with your directions, and your companions following, you exit the hanger and proceed into the warship's network of corridors.

The passages are gloomy, as you saw in your mind's eye. Their walls are fashioned from dark metal sculpted to resemble stone, making the inside of the ship seem like the caves of the Snuuth homeworld. An occasional light has been embedded in a wall, as though by a begrudging hand, and their dim glows provide the only illumination other than the almost toxic green which radiates from the occasional control panel or stretch of exposed cables. Musty, almost sickening air completes the sensation -- making you feel as if you're deep underground.

You encounter more battle bots along your route, each of them standing ready at the tactically appropriate stations they were assigned as the chambers and intersections were secured in turn. These robots were built for pragmatic calculations, lacking the egos and desires of human beings or those androids whose minds have been fashioned in your image. Thus they wait as silent sentinels without quibble or resentment, relinquishing the glory of the hunt and further combat.

That glory is left to you.

"This way," you say. "This is one of the corridors Sun Xi showed me. We're close now."

Ragnar greets this news with a grunt.

"About time. At this rate all the killing will be done before we get there."

But after a few minutes you hear the sound of weapons fire, along with the clanking of robotic bodies and the battle cries of organic throats.

You quicken your pace, moving down a broad, corpse-lined passage with swift steps. Dead commandos are strewn across the imitation stone floor, alongside the gold and silver debris of shattered robots.

There's a gaping doorway at the end of the corridor, flanked on either side by a mock-rock pillar -- part of its surface carved into the shapes of skulls, the rest inscribed with deep and unrecognizable alien characters. Battle bots fill its width, bustling and shoving as they try to force their way into the chamber. But they're making little progress, held at bay by more of the beetle-like Snuuth warriors -- whose orange eyes glow from amid the jostling scuffle. These particular robots are designed for ranged warfare. Either by chance or through tactical acumen the Snuuth fighters have succeeded in slowing their advance by hurling themselves into melee combat.

But they weren't expecting you and your companions...

Ragnar thunders into the back of the battle bots, pushing some aside and sending others staggering forward -- the impact of his charge moving the entire scrum, robot and Snuuth alike. The moment he has an opening, the second space is created between metal constructs and armored bodies, his axe fills it.

In a heartbeat the way into the room is clear. And as you and the battle bots charge into the cavern-like chamber, into the dark realm of intersecting laser fire and rushing assailants, you see a corpulent form sitting on a distant throne.

Hultex Quibberath

"Stop!" Quibberath cries.

His voice, startling in its melodic shrillness, cuts through the clamor of battle -- slicing through the groans of dying Snuuth and the sounds of crashing metal.

"Stop!" he repeats. The hovering cannons on either side of his throne, their mouths now black and inert, wobble in the air as though dancing to the sound of the word.

His minions fall back, withdrawing from combat and lowering their weapons. Even the one facing Ragnar does as bidden, and loses his head for his troubles -- when a swing of the Niflung's axe parts it from his body and sends it flying across the room.

Princess Illaria gestures to the nearest battle bots, her command relayed to the rest in an instant via their internal communicators. They too stop firing, though they remain in position, their weapons raised and ready to recommence the moment the order is given.

"If you're willing to surrender," the Princess says, "we'll hear you out."

The Snuuth makes a long whistle, as though he's an ancient water heating device announcing that its contents have reached their boiling point. It occurs to you after a few seconds that this is his mode of laughter.

"The Quibberath family does not surrender. But let us make a bargain. There is no need for killing. My troops are expensive. So are your robots."

The Snuuth whistles again. If he thinks the sound of his merriment is ingratiating, he's sorely mistaken...

"You are friends of the woman, yes? The woman in the cherry blossom garden?"

"Yes," the Princess replies. "We won't allow you to harm her."

"Very well. I did not know she had such powerful allies. A pity... Her brain would have tasted..."

Quibberath's red eyes close. A thick, slimy, purple tongue slithers out from behind his sharp teeth and licks his lips as though sampling the phantom flavor of Sun Xi's mind. The Princess makes a wordless sound of outrage, causing the tongue to retract and his eyes to open once more.

"Let us make a truce. I didn't come here for her anyway. Your friend is safe. Leave my ship, and I will leave her be. We both win, yes?"

"What about the boy?" you ask.

You look to the Princess, who returns the gaze with a quizzical expression.

"That's why he came to Diogenes. He came to eat a little boy's brain."

"Do you know this boy?"

"We don't."

"Then what does he matter to you? Besides, it's too much trouble now. I can't take him with all those soldiers in the way. I'll have to go somewhere else for my next feast. See? Even your precious stranger boy is safe."

"A moment," the Princess says. "I must speak with my friends."

You and your companions huddle together.

"Do people like him need to eat brains to live?" Talia asks.

"No," Lu Bu replies. "They eat them as a delicacy. Ones like this Quibberath, who feed on psychics, usually believe they can gain a portion of their victim's powers by doing so."

"Really?" Ragnar asks. "That works?"

"I don't know. I've never tried it."

"I say we kill him," Telemachus whispers.

"Agreed," you say.

"Yes," the Princess says.

"Suits me just fine," Talia says.

"I will gladly help take his life," Lu Bu says.

Your group separates.

"We've discussed the matter," the Princess says. "I don't believe our decision will be to your liking..."

Hultex Quibberath screams, a long sharp shriek that makes your teeth ache.

He falls to his knees, his left hand clutching the blood-spurting stump where his right one was attached before Lu Bu's sword removed it. The two floating cannons drop from the air behind him, and hit the floor with a rattling thud.

"No!" he cries. "No! Please!"

"I hate it when the bad guys beg," Talia says. "It always makes you feel like a murderer."

"Leave it to me then," Ragnar says.

He steps towards Quibberath's kneeling, squealing form.

"So this guy's a neuro-fag?" the Niflung asks.

"Neuro-phage," you reply.

"Sounds like an interesting diet."

Ragnar brandishes his axe. He looks over to where Princess Illaria is standing, with a growing look of disquiet on her face.

"Ragnar..." she begins.

"You should get back to the ship," he says. "I'll catch you up."

"But..."

You place a gentle hand on the Princess' arm, and guide her from the chamber. The others follow.

The rest of your companions are aboard the ship when Ragnar struts into the hangar. He sees you leaning against the craft, beside its closed door, and strides over.

"He reckoned you could gain someone's smarts by eating their brain?" he asks.

"Apparently so. Feel any psychic powers developing?"

"I don't think so." He pauses for a moment, as though attempting to scour his mind for any such inklings. "Do I look any smarter?"

You stare at the traces of brain smeared around his mouth.

"No."

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Was worth a try."

|-|

"The Pirate"=
The Pirate

OFFICER YUN: You're the owner and proprietor of Jacob's Guns and Explosives?

SYLLUS JACOB: That's right.

OFFICER YUN: You were found unconscious behind your counter, having suffered multiple laser burns and blunt force trauma injuries. Numerous high-powered weapons were missing from the store's shelves and cases.

SYLLUS JACOB: Yes.

OFFICER YUN: Do you know who robbed you?

SYLLUS JACOB: No One.

OFFICER YUN: Excuse me?

SYLLUS JACOB: No One robbed me.

OFFICER YUN: But you were beaten, and items were taken from your shop.

SYLLUS JACOB: You don't understand... The man who did it... Before he opened fire he pointed his gun at me and said I should tell people that No One robbed me.

-- Transcript from a victim interview at the Tolsten Hill Police Station on Ricop Prime

This task should be impossible. To find a single ship, one bearing such powerful cloaking technologies, in the vastness of space is a job that makes locating needles in haystacks seem a laughable sinecure in comparison. In fact, you struggle to find a simile which adequately conveys its utter absurdity.

Yet Sun Xi's abilities are themselves impossible, an utter violation of science as it's known and written. So when impossibilities collide, surely anything becomes possible.

The psychic stands at the navigation terminal, next to the Princess. There's a faint smile on her face as the two of them talk, but you understand the great strain simply being here puts her under.

Talia sits beside you in the co-pilot's seat, swiveling her chair in endless circles -- her legs making occasional kicks at the air as she spins. Sighs and eye-rolls express the current state of her existence. Being idle, forced to simply wait, goes against every fiber of her being. But she keeps quiet, lest she distract Mistress Sun.

For that same reason, your other companions are in a different cabin. Though the psychic appeared amused by Telemachus, enchanted by Lu Bu, and somehow even charmed by Ragnar's almost aggressive courtesy, you know that she finds it easier when fewer people are close to her. You couldn't have left them behind, however. From the reports you've read, and what you heard from the Niflung, it's unclear whether Nemo works alone or with similarly attired and anonymous cohorts. If you have to fight a gang of space pirates, you want the others with you.

You cast another glance at the monitors, knowing that it's pointless. Your ship is adrift. It would be useless to fly off in any particular direction until you know where you're going. And the chances of a single ship encountering anything as it floats through the void is so remote it would make statisticians salivate to calculate it. Sure enough, there's nothing there. The universe continues on its way, and countless trillions of intelligent beings go about their business. But they do it elsewhere.

Wu Tenchu gathered all the information he could on Nemo and his exploits before you set out. After studying it all, analyzing it with his wise and cunning brain, he spotted certain patterns. Based on the distribution of the pirate's previous crimes, Master Wu isolated a number of adjacent systems as being likely places for him to be lurking in preparation for his next strike. It's still a colossal area, daunting in its magnitude. But at least it's given you a place to start.

As for Mistress Sun, she's learning all she can of the pirate and the Silver Shadow in which he sails the void -- in the hope that such knowledge will help direct her mind.

And so you drift here, while you wait for the psychic to play her part.

Shooting at Shadows

"I sense something."

The voice breaks your reverie, ending such a long stretch of silence that it catches you by surprise and requires a moment before you can process what you've heard.

Talia drives her boots down, ending her current rotation. Your gazes lock. Then you both spin round to face your respective controls.

"Yes... The ship you seek is in a nearby system. It's in flight."

A marker appears on your navigation display, created there in response to input made on the linked console in front of Sun Xi and the Princess. It denotes the star system in question.

"That's a worldless system," you say. "Are you certain?"

"I can feel its presence."

"Then prepare for a hyperspace jump..."

"It's close!"

The words leave the psychic's lips the moment your ship lurches from hyperspace and arrives in the Melubar System.

A chart appears on your display, showing the emptiness which orbits the system's star. There are no planets here, only asteroids. According to the data blurbs before you, a few of the larger ones are the sites of automated mining operations. Other than that, Melubar is an immense wasteland -- a stretch of void unsought and unwanted by the galaxy's teeming inhabitants. But apparently Nemo has business here...

"In this area."

A line is born on the chart. It lengthens and curves until it forms a circle in response to the movement of Sun Xi's finger on her own display.

You aim your ship towards that part of the system, setting its powerful engines to work. Wilex made sure you had the best ship of its size -- one he hoped would be capable of mastering the Silver Shadow.

The blip representing your position is almost at the edge of the circle when it vanishes. A single dot -- one lone, exact point in three-dimensional space -- replaces it.

"The ship's there! I can see it."

"That's right in front of us!" you say. "We-"

Energy blasts flash at you, crashing against your ship in a series of thuds that hammer you in quick succession -- each one making your shields ripple.

You open up with your own weapons, letting them loose on the place where the attacks came from. The shots meet nothing but empty space.

"This way!" Mistress Sun cries.

A line flicks across the display, marking the invisible ship's movement. You direct the controls, turning your vessel towards the path she's marked, firing your weapons into the void.

Defanging the Snake

"Shoot there!"

There's a dot on your targeting monitor. And on the front window... No... It's not on them. It's in your mind.

"Shoot it!" Pain racks the psychic's voice.

The dot darts across space, across the monitor's display. Nemo is a crafty pilot, using all his skill to take advantage of his ship's invisibility -- to place it where you won't, or at least shouldn’t, expect it. But you match its movements, guided by the knowledge implanted in your mind.

"I see it too, captain!" Talia says.

A stream of fire comes from the weapons she controls. You fire as well, laser beams and blaster volleys zapping in pursuit of the elusive craft.

"We got it!" The gunslinger points towards the window, but you've already seen the source of her delight.

There's a glimmer of light blue energy, zipping through space near to the soaring, diving, swerving dot -- matching its erratic movements exactly. The field is failing where the ship has been hit.

Like sharks scenting blood from wounded prey, you and Talia keep pouring out your weapons.

"Remember, not too heavy," you say. "We need it to survive."

"I know. I'm just going to cut it up a little..."

There are cyan flashes around the dot as more shots strike home. Then a larger one -- this time encompassing the entire outline of a ship. The cyan outline disappears, returns, disappears, then returns once more. This time it brings the rest of the ship with it.

The Silver Shadow appears in all its glory, yanked from the nothingness in which it lurked.

"There's only one man onboard," Sun Xi says. "His mind is shielded somehow. But he's alone."

As though enraged by its sudden exposure, the tearing away of its cloak of invisibility to reveal its now naked metal body, the Silver Shadow's engines burn a bright, furious red. The ship soars and spins, the burst of motion bringing it around to face you.

Weapons fire rakes at you, half a dozen weapons spitting death.

"Disable its guns!" you yell.

Hyperspace Chase

You weave through the void, slipping between the beams and blasts, evading hunting, predatory missiles until Talia can pick them off. All the while you're keeping the Silver Shadow in sight, making sure it doesn't get away whilst attempting to evade its murderous attacks.

The weapons under the gunslinger's control are firing with the calm precision of a surgeon's scalpel. She knows she can't afford to unleash all she has, and exterminate the vessel. So her shots are slow, ponderous -- each one waiting until Nemo's acrobatic movements and your own create the necessary opening.

But when she fires, she doesn't miss.

One by one the Silver Shadow's weapons fall silent, its flight more unorthodox and erratic as it shifts into new, desperate lines of attack and defense. At last it's left mute.

"Take the engines," you say. "And... No!"

Talia, the Princess, and Sun Xi echo you -- all three of their voices crying out in a chorus of frustration.

The Silver Shadow has vanished, a line of radiant light marking its path before coming to an abrupt end some distance ahead.

"There was no sign from its engines!" Talia says. "They weren't powering up! How could it have made a hyperspace jump?"

You have no answer to give her. Nemo's ship must have been preparing its jump as he fought, without betraying its intentions through the electronic signs which would usually have shrieked them to all and sundry.

"He could have gone... anywhere," the Princess says. He voice is soft, almost a whisper.

"Jump into hyperspace," Sun Xi says.

"We don't know where to go," you reply.

"Just jump. I'll... I'll try to guide you."

You hit the controls.

"Captain!" Talia hisses. "This is crazy! You can't change course in the middle of a hyperspace jump! We could end up ploughing through anything! It's suicide!"

But when the void distorts around you, the starry blackness through the window shimmering with the beginnings of your jump, the gunslinger gives a soft laugh.

"Good luck," she says.

One Giant Leap

A thought plunges into your brain like a dagger's blade -- a sharp, incomprehensibly agonizing pain. The brain may have no sensory nerves, no way of feeling what goes on within and converting it into pain. But it seems that the mind does.

You turn the ship's flight, angling and directing it into the new path Sun Xi has thrown into your head.

Warning lights flash. Incessant, frantic, berating sounds blare and bleep and warble all around you in a chorus of chastisement or the beginnings of your dirge.

Another sliver of knowledge slides into your mind. You adjust once more.

"Mistress Sun..."

The fear in the Princess' voice eclipses the ship's electronic screams. You look to her, tearing your eyes away from the screens and displays that will determine destruction or survival.

Illaria's hand is on Sun Xi's shoulder, her anxious, terrified face turned towards her. Blood pours from each of the psychic's nostrils, reddening her mouth and chin so that she seems like a vampire risen from her victim. But Mistress Sun's eyes, filled with an almost searing green light, are focused on her terminal's screen with an intentness that chills you.

Your mind reels as though a great weight has slammed into the side of your head and knocked the brain right out of your skull -- flinging it into the churning hyperspace void outside.

You fight off the pain, the disorientation, and correct your course once more.

Anguish surges through your entire body, tidal waves of agony and despair washing over you and into you, scouring away everything else. Every thought planted into your mind is like a mountain crashing down upon you, like an atomic weapon detonated in the center of your dying brain. You can barely understand each image, each command thrust into your consciousness. But you feel your hands move, your body responding -- directing the ship on its lunatic flight.

And through all this, one single sane inkling forces itself to the bubbling, turbulent surface of your mind: This is just a minute fraction of the pain Sun Xi is feeling, the merest mote drifting from her spirit into yours.

There's a scream. It's hers. And yours. Two shrieks blending together in unearthly harmonies.

"Captain!" Talia yells. The word just becomes part of the song of suffering, a bit part in the infernal performance.

Then the pain is gone. The feeling is so strange, so unexpected, so inconceivable that it leaves a vacuum behind -- and you wait for your body and soul to collapse in on themselves and implode.

But your senses return. Your mind rights itself. And you realize what's happened. Your connection with Sun Xi...

"We're leaving hyperspace," Talia says. Her words barely register.

You turn away from the controls, away from the gunslinger.

Sun Xi's expression is vacant, her face blank like that of a frozen statue or a preserved corpse. Her eyes are wide, and black -- their entire surfaces consumed by darkness as though her pupils have exploded and swallowed irises and whites.

Princess Illaria's hand hovers near her, suspended and shaking in the air -- as if she wishes to grab her, to shake her out of the trance, to comfort her, yet fears that the woman might shatter like a fragile piece of china the moment she touches her.

Mistress Sun turns, her entire body whirling to face the Princess. Illaria leans back, startled. The psychic's hands grab her shoulders, fingers digging into the material of her suit like talons.

"No!" Sun Xi screams. "Stay away from him! Stay away-"

The rest of the psychic's words die in a splutter. Her body trembles. Blood froths from her mouth -- droplets splattering the Princess' pale, distraught face.

She collapses, crumples like a boxer hit by the final punch. Illaria grabs at her, holds her powerless body in her arms, lowers her to the floor.

"Captain!" Talia yells. "The ship! It's there!"

You spin back to the monitors, to where the traces of hyperspace travel are disappearing from around the front window. The Silver Shadow is right there in front of you, so close it seems as if you could reach out and brush your fingers across its hull.

Talia is firing, aiming for its engines. You do the same.

"Lu Bu!" the Princess shouts from behind. "Help her!"

You hear the commotion, as the robot administers to Mistress Sun.

"We did it," Talia says. Her eyes are darting from the monitors' displays to the window. "Its engines are out."

The Silver Shadow's thrusters are glowing with the aftermath of their exertions. But they're the embers of a dying fire. Only its former momentum, unblemished and unslowed by the frictionless void around it, keep it going.

You stand up, and grab your helmet. It slots into place with a click and a hiss, locking into the rest of the suit.

"I'll move alongside it," Talia says, "and match its speed."

Lu Bu is working on Sun Xi as you move to the door, attaching medical devices with lights like solemn eyes and cables like sprawling tentacles. The Princess kneels at her side, clutching her hand.

Illaria turns, looks to you with desperate, watering eyes. Then she blinks, and when her eyes open again there are sparks of strength in them.

"Go," she says.

You nod, and step through the doorway.

"You need us?" Ragnar asks, as you reach the airlock chamber.

The Niflung is dressed in a suit like yours, though his is so huge it makes him seem like a mech. Telemachus stands beside him in his battlesuit, his face enclosed by a helmet that makes him too seem robotic.

"I'll handle it," you say.

The airlock door closes behind you. There's a whoosh as the chamber's systems kick into effect, and a subtle tremor in the soles of your feet as the boots' magnetic grips are activated.

The outer door slides open, exposing the ship to the void. But it isn't blackness which dominates the view. It's the elegant form of the Silver Shadow. Talia's brought you as close as she can without risking both ships. Now it's up to you.

You brace yourself, and leap.

Nemo

You thud against the side of the Silver Shadow, feel the force of your suit's magnetic grips taking hold -- anchoring you to its great bulk like a parasite.

Like a spider or a phantom you creep across its hull, moving towards one of the hatches you glimpse across its argentine expanse. Once you reach it, the actuators in the armor and the cutting tools built into its forearms do their work with ease.

Pressure bursts from within the ship, rushing through its new wound and shoving you away. But your magnetic anchors keep you in place, and your reflexes and anticipations have already moved you away from the brunt of the blast.

You drop inside the little room, a chamber not unlike that you leapt from. The hatch seals above you.

Another flexing of actuators and sparking of cutting devices forces open the locked portal leading to the rest of the ship.

You detach your gun from its docking clamp on the suit. When you lean through the doorway it's braced, ready to fire at whatever target might present itself. But there's nothing there. The small corridor is empty.

Both ends of the passage terminate in closed doors. It's the one on your left which lures you. The hatch you entered from is close to the front of the ship. That door should lead to its bridge...

It slides open the moment you draw near to it, as though resigned to the inevitability of your entrance.

The bridge is spacious, barren but for a few terminals and displays that do little to alleviate its sense of emptiness. Its dimensions and lofty ceiling give it a pervading sense of bleakness, when you dwell on the fact that the ship was being flown and tenanted by a single man.

"So, who are you?"

The voice comes from behind one of the distant consoles. A male voice, tinged with the smoothness of education and the roughness of the underworld in equal measure.

"Law enforcement? Pirate hunter? Maybe another pirate? A lot of people have tried to track us down over the years. I want to know who finally pulled it off before we have to start shooting."

"Just someone who needs your ship."

The pirate laughs.

"Good enough for me. When you get to heaven, tell them that No One killed you."

You train your weapon on the space above that console, ready to open fire the moment he shows himself. But when he leaps out, it's from behind the one to your right instead.

You dive aside from the blaze of his twin pistols.

"Heh. Got me."

The pirate slumps. The dark helmet encasing his head thuds against the metal floor. He rolls onto his back, and you sense the eyes behind the featureless black visage meeting yours.

"The others will hunt for you," he rasps.

"That's fine. I'll be invisible."

The pirate begins to laugh. It becomes a splutter.

"Do one thing for me," he says. "Leave my helmet on."

"Okay."

"Thanks..."

There's the sound of escaping air, the final note of life that you've heard so many times before.

You walk over to the communications terminal and press a few buttons.

"It's done, Talia. The ship's ours."

"Good work, captain," she says. There's little joy in her voice.

"How's Sun Xi?" But even as the words leave your mouth, flung into the electronic ether between you and the gunslinger, you know.

"She didn't make it."

The Princess bends down. Her lips brush Mistress Sun's forehead.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

Watching her feels like an intrusion, a violation. So you allow your gaze to roam around the small chamber. Images of cogs and gears spin in silence on its walls, picked out in a soft and gentle light. Perhaps to TALOS' mourners they're a source of strength and comfort -- a reminder of what they and the departed held dear in life. But they fill your head with images of a meat grinder, an engine of war and sacrifice that has churned up so many good men and women -- and will continue to do so until the death of the universe.

You pull your stare away from the wall, trying to banish the disturbing vision, and look back at the Princess once more. She's slipping a cylinder, a rolled-up piece of canvas, into the side of the coffin. This done, she reaches up and grasps the casket's raised lid.

It descends noiselessly, sealing the psychic beneath a surface decorated with the imperial seal.

The two of you leave the room in silence, passing into the small antechamber beyond. A large window consumes the entirety of one wall. Through it you can see the distant burning mass of the sun.

Princess Illaria looks to the adjacent wall, that one dominated by a screen of almost the same dimensions. The sun blazes more brightly there, larger and fiercer.

After a moment she turns around and presses the red button on the wall beside the door you entered from. Then she stares out of the immense window.

The casket is launched in silence, not even your aural implant violating the quietness with a relay of fabricated sound. You watch as it flies towards the distant star that will consume it, and the woman within.

Illaria leans against you, and you reach your arm around her shoulders.

You search for words, but none seem adequate. So you simply hold her. </tabber>

LotS/The Story/The Right Tools

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