StarDestroyer.Net BBS

I've been working on my own fictional universe (named, oddly enough, Sindelin) for a long time, but I've never really felt confident enough about it to put up anything on SDN. Recently, however, I revised it considerably, and I was satisfied enough with the result to try and work out a centerpiece story for it (of course, I've done this three time before, and abandoned each version soon after its beginning). The outline I came up with turned out far better than any of my previous attempts, so I've taken the leap of writing the introduction. Any critiques or questions about the universe are welcome, and I hope that the actual first chapter will place this bit in better context.
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Prelude

Geduun was fairly certain that he didn’t like Far Shore very much. He had only been on the planet for a few hours, true, and the seasoned traveler had long since learned that snap judgments were often far more trouble than they were worth, but there was still something about the place that was thoroughly off-putting. Perhaps it was the lifeless, rocky landscape that stretched in all directions, interrupted only by shallow ravines and dark, fetid pools. Perhaps it was the fact that the largest settlement on the world’s surface, in which he grudgingly waited, bore the unimaginative and wholly inaccurate name ‘the City’. Then again, it may have been the simple fact that it was cold. And wet. Very, very wet.

Shivering under his thick, black overcoat, which seemed utterly incapable of keeping out the unrelenting, bitter rain, Geduun glared up at the opaque sky. He then promptly looked down, shaking away the water that had begun to collect in the gap between his eyes and the chitinous plate of his skull. Muttering a half-hearted and unintelligible curse, he shifted his focus to the other being who currently occupied the barren roof of one of the taller structures in ‘the City’. After watching the figure kneel motionless against the low barrier that hemmed in the building’s top for a respectfully long period (a few more seconds), Geduun deigned it appropriate to break the wind-swept silence.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your meditations, apoplectic one, but might I inquire as to how much longer you mean for us to sit up here? Of course, I don’t mean to rush you. I’m positively enchanted by this luxurious weather. It’s hard to believe that this place isn’t on the Galactic Recreation Registry.” Though the words were emitted by an implant on Geduun’s armored neck rather than from his pointed mouth, a necessity given the rather unique sounds his vocal organs would produce given the opportunity, the sarcastic tone of the comment was faithfully preserved.

Hunkered down beneath an equally waterlogged overcoat, Huin Cigel didn’t turn to face his friend, but a thin smile did cross his lips. The bony alien had a knack for enlivening even the dullest moments with playful banter, a valuable skill for those who made their living traveling the vast, empty void between the stars.

“What are you complaining about?” he replied at length, careful to give Geduun a moment more to stew in silence. “I thought Gengee liked water.”

Geduun shivered again, producing a muffled clanking sound as he did. “Of course we do. But this stuff isn’t water. This is sewage. Cold, bitter, sticky sewage. And it’s everywhere, too! I don’t even want to think about how long it’s going to take me to drain when we get back to the ship. Really, you Illians and your skin don’t know how good you’ve got it.” To punctuate his point, Geduun lifted up his lower left arm, prompting a small cascade of dark water to pour onto the roof from a pocket under his exoskeleton where it had been collecting.

Still smiling, Huin squeezed his left eye shut and settled back into watchful silence. Tweaking his right eyebrow in a particular way, his unaltered view of the drab landscape below was replaced by a shimmering and annotated screen, trimmed with a variety of light and depth indicators at the periphery of his vision. Another tweak magnified the image by a factor of two, replacing rusted rooftops and cluttered streets with worn walls and the forms of a numerous bustling figures that wound their way through the city’s ‘downtown’ area. The rectangular stretch of dilapidated roadway, which ran alongside Huin’s perch, wasn’t much different from the rest of the settlement; a few covered stalls and antique modular booths staring out at the roadway from the looming shadow of blocky buildings, most of them cobbled together from various prefab models. However, this particular section of the community at least showed signs of life, more than could be said for the rest of the city and the rocky foothills that surrounded it on every side.

The sixty or so visible individuals were mostly obscured by coverings similar to those of their unseen observer, but closer magnification revealed the faces of a few. A majority were wide-faced, greened-manned Daent. A lesser number were tall and black-skinned, members of Huin’s own species. A handful of stocky, insectoid Chall completed the crowd; all in all, a perfectly normal population mix, identical to dozens of other isolated fringe worlds. Also as expected, most of them moved with the familiar weight of drudgery and poverty on their shoulders, wearily buying ancient food packets and large clumps of hardy fungus that could be harvested from nearby ravine pools. Few who had the money for transportation would willingly choose to remain on a planet like Far Shore, and those who were left behind had to toil and fight for even the most meager of existences.

“You know, I suspect there are better ways of gleaning information from people than watching them from afar like carrion birds. Perhaps, I don’t know, talking to them?” Geduun was now at Huin’s side, peering at the citizens of the settlement with a small metallic viewer he had produced from beneath his cloak. The device was less convenient than the Illian’s ocular implant, but Geduun’s physiology made most standard cyborging procedures unfeasible. However, the being’s ability to literally look out the back and sides of his head through thin skull slats more than made up for that particular limitation.

“I’d rather not attract attention,” Huin replied. “These people look like their desperate for visitors of any kind, and I imagine they wouldn’t be too happy to learn that we landed the ship outside of town without paying the inevitable levies, dues, and port taxes.”

“So? You could tell them we’re from one of the other settlements we picked up coming in. This planet is pretty out there, but it’s got to have a population of at least twenty thousand or so, and I doubt the local visitor’s council has access to a planetary census. Throw around a few chits or some spare parts, and no one will be asking questions. Well, at least not until we’re long gone.”

Huin tightened his view again, watching an ancient motorized transport rattle into the market area. “And what about you?”

Geduun’s single primary eye fluttered out of sight behind his skull and then appeared at a slot facing his friend. The globular mass glowed a muddy, phosphorescent green. “What about me? I’m not quite as ugly as you seem to think, you know. Back in respectable parts, my carapace is considered to be quite distinctive.”

Huin chuckled. “We’re not in respectable parts, Geduun. That’s the problem. I haven’t seen a single Gengee since we landed, and there might not be any on the planet at all. These people might have never even heard of you people, or your distinctive carapaces. Census or no, if something a different as you shows up asking strange questions, you can bet that we’ll have ten times as many piled back on us in no time.”

A playful rumbling sound emanated from somewhere within the Gengee’s diaphragm. “Whatever you say, unimpeachable one.”

He shifted his eye forward once more and peered down through the device gripped in his claws. “No worries. These fellows probably aren’t of the most amiable sort, anyways. I’d be grumpy too if I had to eat that lumpy growth they’re buying up down there. Doesn’t look like it’s even still alive.”

After scanning the roadway again for anything that seemed out of place, Huin turned his attention to the actual reason the pair were in the city, or on the planet, at all. His target was an expansive, ziggurat-like structure that was seated at the very center of the community, perhaps a hundred meters away. Though only six stories in height, the building towered over most of the other structures in the area, many of which were little more than large packing crates. Its presence was increased further by the assortment of transceiver arrays and network columns that jutted from its roof in odd patterns, as if they had been installed without any master plan behind them at all. The rest of the building’s edifice also bore signs of ill-repair and formless design, but it was in far better condition than its neighbors, and Huin was beginning to suspect that the half hazard layout was intentional. In the wilds beyond civilized society, deceptive design was often better protection than the sturdiest armor plate.

That was why the good ship Sly and her fine freelancer crew were anywhere near Far Shore in the first place; deception. The anomaly had almost passed them by completely; while heading back into more civilized depths from an unusually distant haul, a salvage contract that had turned up exactly nothing, the Sly had stopped off near a remote, childless star to recheck its course and give an overworked translight drive some time to cool down. Always eager for a new contract, the third member of the motley team, a six-finned Biina who called himself Round (it wasn’t his real name of course, but the oft humorless pilot had made it clear that the issue was not up for discussion, and both Huin and Geduun knew better than to argue with the only member of the crew who knew anything about astrogation) had been using the dead time to modify the ship’s communications array for increased efficiency, all the better to pick up an errant distress signal or job offer with.

As part of a recalibration procedure devised by Geduun, the pilot was scanning local space on several different frequencies and monitor settings, one of which happened to pick up a few unusual types of background radiation. Round had been about the cycle to the next procedure, but Huin had caught sight if an odd reading at the last moment and had him take a closer look. An atypically dense emanation of subatomic particles, radiating at unusually highs speeds from an uncharted patch of deep space only a few light-years away. Neither of the other crewmembers had thought much of it, but the Illian knew better. He had seen the phenomenon before.

Using what little clout ‘captainship’ of the Sly afforded (and a rather rare bottle of inner-galactic liquor), Huin had convinced Round to head back out into the deepening void of intergalactic space for a short distance, straight towards the source of the expanding cloud. En route, a bit of digging through old star charts had uncovered Far Shore, which, due to an editorial oversight or its utter insignificance, had not found a place on any modern chart for nearly a century. The planet was not difficult to locate after that, and once they had, it didn’t take long for Huin’s suspicions to be confirmed.

Increasing the magnification of his eye to its maximum extent, the freelancer inspected one of the larger transmission poles, which sported three large parabolic repeater disks. That in itself was not particularly unusual, but the excessive number of heavy-duty power cables that curled up and down the tower’s expanse indicated a usage beyond simple signal redirection. Checking his suspicions, Huin focused on the closest of the repeaters, and then looked off into the endless rocky expanse towards which the disk faced. After a moment of searching, he found what he was looking for; a tall spire of stone that bore a large cleft at its peak, only just visible at that distance. Quick checks confirmed that the other repeaters were similarly positioned to face protruding natural structures, each at least fifteen kilometers away.

Huin nudged Geduun and related what he had discovered.

The Gengee crossed his lower set of arms. “So? Maybe its part of long-range communications grid. We didn’t see much of a satellite network on the way in, after all, and even fringe worlders get the urge to call away from home once in a while.”

“No, those peaks aren’t positioned well for ground to ground comm installations. Just look at that one to the North; the mountain valley it’s in would make redirecting transmissions in virtually any direction nearly impossible. Any directions save one, at least.” Squinting against the wind and rain, the Illian looked up at the turbulent, overcast sky.

Geduun shivered again. “Fine. You’ve obviously got a theory in mind, so let’s hear it. I may be made of sturdier stuff than you, but even I won’t spend hours on a stormy rooftop in the middle of thousands of desperate and potentially hostile people without at least knowing why. You mentioned something about a ruse on the way down.”

Huin grimaced. It was a reasonable request, but one he didn’t want to fulfill until he was certain that his suspicions had some merit. Just thinking about it, the idea seemed preposterous even to himself, and neither of his crewmates would let him live the little excursion down if he let on and ended up being wrong.

It was an obscure memory, from a period in his life that Huin had tried to repress for decades. He had been a soldier once, to his eternal regret, and had seen things that fewer and fewer of the living could still remember. One such remnant was the specifications of a device, designed by an old, long gone enemy as abhorrent to him as his own past. The Telemetric Mass Inhibitor, they had called it. The machine’s purpose, when in working in concert with dozens of other systems scattered across a planet, was to completely disrupt all remote communications on, to, and from the world’s surface. It was a rather impractical weapon as it also disrupted comms used by its own masters, but Huin had been at hand to witness the chaos it had inflicted one of the few times it was deployed.

The field of radiation that enveloped Far Shore’s atmosphere was not identical to the TMI phenomenon; it only seemed to prevent signals from being transmitted to and from space, leaving regular communications intact, and was so diffuse that it would seem like a natural effect of the planet’s ionosphere to the unfamiliar eye. Nevertheless, it was still similar enough to the military variety to catch the sapient’s eye, and the suspect transmission tower before him did bear a rough similarity to certain components of the TMI’s structure. And if the planet’s disruption network was indeed based on that old technology, then there was a small chance that the original designers had had some role in its construction…

Abruptly, Huin turned away from the edge of his perch and deactivated the magnification in his right eye. Geduun was staring at him inquiringly, evidently still waiting for an answer to his question.

“Well?”

“It was nothing,” he replied hastily. “I’ve don’t have a theory. I just wanted to check something out. A hunch, I guess, but it didn’t pay off. Come on; let’s get back to the ship and off this rock.”

Just a stupid hunch, he told himself again silently. An utterly impossible, foolish imagining. There was no way he would find what he was looking for, because it simply wasn’t there. The enemy was long gone, and it wasn’t coming back. Especially not to a remote, worthless hunk of misery like Far Shore. Was it odd that someone had managed to set up a rough facsimile of an obscure, alien technology without any outside help? Sure. Was strange that they wanted to completely cut off the planet from communication with the rest of the galaxy? Certainly. But the Fringe was a strange place through and through, and Huin knew better than to delve too deeply into its secrets.

It was a quite a feat for a being without an actual face to look incredulous, but Geduun managed it nonetheless. “You dragged us all the way out here on a hunch, and now you just want to leave? Really Huin, I think the loss of that last contract hit you a little too hard. I didn’t want to say anything, but you’ve been acting quite strange these last few days.”

The Illian hastily tied up the front of his cloak and donned its face-obscuring hood. “I’m all right, really. Now, let’s get out of here.”

Geduun shuddered worriedly, but nonetheless began to fasten up his own garment. “If you say so. I suppose it’s better than gallivanting off to check out the building, at least. Looks like it isn’t quite as deserted as it was a minute ago.” He nodded towards the foot of the nearby ziggurat.

Huin frowned and followed his comrade’s gaze downwards. Ever since they’d taken up posts atop the poor man’s high rise, neither had seen anyone even approach the larger structure, much less enter or exit it.

Sure enough, though, a group of half a dozen individuals dressed in identical black robes and hoods were rapidly emerging from the building. The exit they were using was set to the side of the structure, away from the activity of the city center, and the group seemed intent to avoid the crowd, swiftly making for a cluttered alleyway rather than entering the main thoroughfare.

Huin traced them until they disappeared from view behind the cracked edifice of a tenement house, and then imagined their further progress as the group made their way past cracked windows and corroded archways. One of them in particular stuck in his mind’s eye, the tallest of the group. That stride…

Without a word, the Illian whirled and headed for the simple trapdoor that lead to a stairway and the streets far below.

“You’re certain you want to head back?” Geduun called, hurrying to catch up.

“No,” Huin replied as he pried open the hatch and disappeared into the darkness below. “We’re following them.”

Geduun stopped short in surprise and shivered again. “Perhaps strange wasn't the right word. Insane, I think.”
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Fortunately, both the stairwell and the road beyond the dilapidated building were devoid of inquisitive natives or any other obstructions, and the two were able to catch up with the small group before they could fade into the city’s twisting maze of back streets. Though Huin as careful to keep far enough back as not to be noticed, he was still able get a better look at the lot. All were dressed in the same obscuring black fabric, devoid of any adornment or insignia, and each one was either masked or hooded, but he nevertheless was able to discern that at least two different species were present under their robes. Judging by their gait and overall body shape, five members of the group were roughly his size and build. The lead member, however, the one Huin had picked out from the rooftop, was far taller and more muscular than the rest, and continually scanned the alleyway as it moved, like a predatory beast in search of hidden prey.

More troubling, however, was the fact that each and every member of the party moved with the swift, precise stride of a soldier.

As they eased around a corner, Geduun noticed that his friend’s right hand now rested firmly on the sidearm hidden within the folds of his coverings. “Mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked, after ensuring that the volume of his artificial voice box was dialed down to a whisper. “Are these gentlemen old friends of yours, or is it just your hunch again?”

“I’m not entirely sure, myself, anymore,” Huin replied, and then glanced at Geduun’s hidden midriff. “Still, I think we’d better keep our options open.”

Catching the sapient’s meaning, Geduun placed a lower claw on the handle of his own weapon, tucked under a bone plate near his chest. He didn’t enjoy being lead anywhere without a clear purpose or destination in mind, but he had worked with Huin long enough to trust his judgment. When he wasn’t drunk, at least. And right then, the Gengee was beginning to wonder.

A few twists and turns later, and the narrow, cluttered back street gave way to a large open area of dense pavement. A quick survey of the landscape, which was host to numerous un-powered visual beacons, old scorch marks near the center of the square, paved court, and a prefabricated command tower off to one side identified it as the local starport, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Unwilling to push forward without more cover, Huin directed Geduun to halt behind an unused waste receptacle, and the two once again trained their viewing devices on the group, who were apparently still unaware that they had an audience.

When they reached the center of the landing strip, the band halted their advance and waited motionless until several more figures joined them from the command structure. These three were not wearing obscuring clothing, and a minor adjustment of Huin’s ocular lens showed them to be scraggly-looking Daent, one of whom had apparently let his greenish mane grow down nearly to his waist. Their dress was also motley and informal, but each hefted a surprisingly modern, military-grade charge rifle, a fact that served only to heighten Huin’s apprehension.

One of the shorter members of the group stepped forward and began to speak with the long-haired Daent. After a brief exchange, the thuggish-looking sapient indicated to one of the scorched areas of the landing court, and all nine of them moved away from it.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones who know that this rock is here,” said Geduun. His distance viewer was fixed on the stormy sky above. Huin followed his gaze, and caught sight of a tiny speck as it cleared the lowest levels of the cloud layer. The flyer arced towards the perimeter of the city, briefly disappeared behind several of the grim structures that flanked the landing strip, and then emerged again, now close enough to be clearly recognized as a starship.

As the boxy, gunmetal and navy craft circled the area one more time and buffeted slightly against the mounting winds, Huin was able to identify its make and model; a Dedic Corp. utility shuttle, one of the most common vessels on that side of the galaxy. It wasn’t a particularly luxurious model, but it was cheap and relatively reliable, both features essential for most of those who lived in the Fringe regions. However, the ships weren’t very large, and crews of more than one or two usually shunned them as their limited amount of interior space made long-haul voyages highly impractical. If the vessel intended to pick up the group of cloaked individuals, as Huin suspected it did, then they weren’t going far. Either there was a larger starship waiting somewhere in the system, or their final destination was quite close by.

The shuttle finally touched down, enveloped by a cloud of its own exhaust heat, and the bay door at its rear immediately sprang open. After receiving a command from the figure who had spoken to the Daent, the other robed sapients began to pace up the boarding ramp, hugging their cloaks tight against the ship’s exhaust blowback and the still-mounting wind. When only two remained, the apparent leader of the group and the tall, bulky watcher, the smaller of the two exchanged a few more words with the armed sapients, and began to make for the boarding hatch itself. However, before it could even make it a few steps, one of the other Daent unhooked a small communicator from his belt and held it his head, evidently trying to hear some message over the noise of the shuttle.

Then several things occurred almost simultaneously. Huin and Geduun’s own communicators buzzed urgently. The Daent who had received the call shouted something, and his companions dropped into combat poses, their rifles at the ready. A faint rumbling sound echoed down from the rocky heights above the city where the Sly was secreted. A gust of wind blew the tallest figure’s hood away from his face.

Geduun’s first reaction was to check on the message both of them had received, but Huin kneeled transfixed, unable to pry his vision from the face that had just been unveiled. Trim, white fur. A gapping maw of immaculate, razor teeth. Tiny eyes that almost glowed crimson. Another fragment from his past, surreally transposed on reality.

The last hooded figure, apparently just as aggravated by whatever news the thug had delivered as his fellows were, began to gesticulate rapidly, first ordering his exposed subordinate onto the waiting transport, and then relaying another set of instructions to the Daent. The trio acknowledged the command and moved off into the wind and rain, running full tilt for the command tower as soon as they had cleared the landing zone. As soon as they were gone, the figure made for the cover of the shuttle, but paused one last time to again prompt his bulky compatriot into the ship. Reluctantly, the creature complied, but not before casting a penetrating look into the darkness, dangerously close to where Huin and Geduun were hunkered. Before boarding, the figure briefly looked in the same direction, long enough for Huin to register some semblance of a face. It wasn’t much, but he did get a clear view of the being’s eyes, and that was enough to take his breath away.

Matte black orbs, each set with a pair of lolling, pure white pupils. The eyes of the enemy.

“We have to leave. Now.”

Geduun glared his companion. “Nice to see that you’ve finally deduced that. As I just said, Round just took off and is heading straight for the settlement. Apparently, someone found our landing spot.”

After slipping back into the alleyway with Geduun in tow, Huin raised the receiver mounted on his tunic cuff to his lips. “Come in, Sly. Your status?”

“Not quite dead, Captain.” Round’s throaty voice was heavily tinged by static, but it was clear enough to hear his obvious agitation. “I only just managed to get the ship out of the gully before they burned it. If I’d seen them a few seconds later…”

“Who?” Huin demanded. “Who found you?”

“Haven’t a clue. I just saw a pair of contacts closing in on my position from over the ridge, and decided I’d better get airborne. They look like old-style hunter-killers, atmospheric only. They tried to get me with a pretty low-yield striker, but I’m willing to bet they’re carrying heavier.”

Spotting an access ladder mounted on the side of one of the taller structures that hemmed them in on both sides, Huin began to climb. “Can you make it into the settlement before they catch up?”

“I’ve got a lead on them, but they’re fast. We’ll need to make this pickup in record time.”

“Can you see a set of old landing pads near the center of the city?” the Illian asked without stopping his ascent.

“Wait… yeah, I see it. I take it you’re not on that Dedic that’s lifting off.”

“Check the rooftops, about fifty meters south of the open strip.”

“Got it. I’ll be there in…”

The transmission suddenly cut out.

Huin tore up the last few rungs and spilled out onto the uneven rooftop, desperately scanning the dark sky as he jammed the communicator closer to his face. “Round! What’s going on? Come in!”

“… hit! New contact! Losing control, can’t keep… try… pull out…”

A resounding boom and three bright flashes of light split the storm, not from the roiling clouds, but the cityscape itself.

“There!” Geduun shouted, jabbing at the looming silhouette of the communications ziggurat in the distance as his other arms seized the last segment of the ladder.

For a brief moment Huin wasn’t sure what the Gengee meant, but another burst of light immediately dispelled his confusion. Mounted on the side of the building, free of the plating that hid it previously, was a huge weapon turret, a monstrous amalgam of metal and fierce illumination. As they looked on, the thing rattled on its foundation, hummed audibly, and then spat forth a volley of crystalline bolts, filling the air with another echoing blast.

The blinding fire soared from sight into the cloud cover almost instantly, but its afterglow lingered long enough to draw Huin’s attention to its intended target. The Sly listed sideways violently and evaded the bombardment, but the guttural fire flickering from one wing-mounted drive indicated it had not always been so fortunate. Struggling to reorient itself, the small vessel began to lose altitude, and its rounded nose drifted perilously close to rooftops below. Onboard, Round apparently noticed the ground rushing up at him and the primary breaking jets at the front of the vessel burst to life, cutting its momentum almost immediately. For an instant, the ship started to plummet outright, but another set of thrusters ignited, and the Sly rose again, missing a derelict energy pylon by the slimmest of margins.

Another roar sounded over the storm, this one continuous and mounting. From the low clouds, a pair of wing-like aircraft dove into view, outstripping the wounded starship by a considerable rate. Showing little regard for their own safety or the lives in the city below, the fighters did not break their powered fall, and instead accelerated further, bringing themselves within a wingspan of the floundering transport in seconds. Then they abruptly broke off, splitting off from one another and rocketing away from their target, seemingly without firing a shot.

But both Huin and Geduun had seen a maneuvering drive burst to life in the empty air behind the Sly, and Round must have picked it up too. Like the ship that had fired it, the missile was an old design, intended for precision strikes above and in urban environments. Generally deployed against exposed personnel or un-reinforced structures, the weapon didn’t pack the power of other devices its size, and a military airship might have been able to simply to shrug off the blow. However, a damaged, malfunctioning civilian transport was not up to the task.

The explosion ripped off the Sly’s damaged wing entirely and breached its hull. Even if Round had survived the overpressure wave of the detonation and the splintering of his ship, he could do nothing to prevent its fall. The vessel dove and spun out of sight into the dark horizon. A final flash tinted the sky red. Then, silence.

Neither comrade spoke as acrid rain lashed their exposed skin and bone. There was nothing that could be said. Not so soon. Reality would return to them in time, but both knew what had to be done first. Find shelter from the storm. They would have to face it for a long time.

Sheesh, sucks for them. There were enough vague references to Huin's past to capture my interest. I noticed it's not human-centric at all yet (assuming there are even humans in this universe). That's a pretty refreshing departure from extant conventions.

Darth Raptor wrote:Sheesh, sucks for them. There were enough vague references to Huin's past to capture my interest. I noticed it's not human-centric at all yet (assuming there are even humans in this universe). That's a pretty refreshing departure from extant conventions.

Hoo-mens?



Your observation is quite correct; I haven't written humankind into my current version of the universe, and I don't intend to. Freeing oneself of a convention like "Humans must be at the center of everything that happens in the universe" is quite liberating from an artistic perspective, even if it does pose some literary challenges (like not being able to use the term "man" at all, for example).

Looks good so far! (one tiny English nazi nitpick -- "aggravated" =! "irritated" ) I definitely like the lack of humans as well (what, me? Fancy that!) and the general construction of the universe, neatly tucked into some of the quick sentence phrases.

Do you plan to draw anything from your story?

Pick wrote: Do you plan to draw anything from your story?

I hope so; I've got a vested interest in Sindelin, and I want Noble Ire to do more art for it!

Pick wrote:Do you plan to draw anything from your story?

Well, I already have a handful of of sketches from earlier drafts, and I think they're still fairly in keeping with my current vision of Sindelin. They've already been posted on another site (the world-building community Omniverse Zero), but I'm not sure if I've displayed all of them here yet.




A Deldeian, one of the more unusual species I've come up with.




A Vkkerysh in battle armor (think giant spider; you'll see one in the next chapter, sans outfit).




A concept sketch for a soldier, faction undetermined. You may remember it from my old drawing thread.

And then here are a couple from some of the fine people on OZ:




Another version of the Vkkerysh in power armor, courtesy of our own MuffinKing.




A gentler interpretation of the Deldeian above, by H.P. Grenade.


I plan on drawing more of the universe's different species in the future, although right now I'm stuck in the design phase on a lot of them. The Gengee, for example, are proving rather difficult to put onto paper, even if I have a fairly good idea of how I want them to look.

The Deldeian looks rather intresting, and the story itself is very good. Cosider this the standard issuance of "Do continue, for I will read it."

Sorry the next chapter took so long; there's a lot of exposition that I need to get into these first few, and I had to do some modifying to make it coherent (at least, I hope it is).

Also, I plan on complementing the main story with articles on details and minutae unrealted to the main plot line, probably hosted elsewhere. If there's any aspect of Sindelin you're particularly interested in, let me know, and I can expand upon it.
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Chapter One


Triumph. The word embodied the struggles, the losses, and the victories of a thousand worlds. It spoke of the accomplishments of thinkers, soldiers, merchants, and workers alike who had forged prosperity and unanimity from the chaos of star systems and species divided. It told of sapients united, wars won, discoveries made; more than four centuries of unparalleled success where all others had failed or fallen to corruption. It personified the pride and achievement of quadrillions of souls and a dozen species, proud of their pasts and confident in their futures. What better a name was there, then, for their capitol?

Triumph Star Platform glided elegantly through space, affixed to the planet Illus’ single, large moon by the undeniable force of gravity. A true titan of metal and polished plate, the sculpted disk was nearly four kilometers in diameter, its glistening surface adorned with countless enormous viewing windows, circular docking ports, and fin-like systems assemblies, each artfully incorporated into its bulk. As much a city as the giant metropolises that played across the surfaces of the station’s larger neighbors, Triumph was home to two and a half million sapients from every portion of the galaxy, from the wilds of the Fringe to the dense and radiant Core. The lifestyles and livelihoods of these creatures were equally as varied, for Illus and its satellites were among the focal points of all galactic travel and commerce, but the station was nevertheless dominated by a single, foremost pursuit. Politics.

Beneath layers of harden armor plate, artfully hidden weaponry and defensive systems, docking stations, and cargo bays, the habitation area proper was oriented around the government sector, which occupied a massive dome at the station’s vertex. Beyond deceptively unassuming layers of security, tens of thousands of bureaucrats, politicians, and functionaries from every division and level of the Union of Incorporated Systems went about their varied works. The orderly and efficient public walkways that bisected most levels of the sector belied the sheer complexity of the capitol; keeping affairs between thousands of worlds over dozens of light-years in order was no simple task, and there was always more work to be done.

Of course, even the most robust political body required sustenance and diversion occasionally, and the station was well populated to serve every whim. Beyond endless blocks of offices, computer cores, and meeting halls, a huge, open conduit ran around the circumference of the platform, where shops, corporate annexes, theaters, hotels, entertainment modules, parks, and eateries of every description crowded deck plate and high walls, all of them trimmed by panoramic views of the stars above and below. The foreign embassies that skirted the governmental sector and legions of officials from far-flung quarters of the Union ensured that the businesses were as diverse as they were numerous.

Sealed within the huge shell too were places of culture and history. Memorials to the achievements and tragedies of a galaxy and its people dominated the uppermost levels of Triumph’s central dome. Museums, displays, statues, vaults, and libraries lined the halls, each a portal into a different aspect of history throughout the millennia. There lay the last remnants of long dead civilizations, ancient tomes of vast significance, and images of the heroes of legend and record. There also were icons and landmarks that only the children of a few distant worlds could appreciate, obscure and yet no less important to the heritage of the cosmos. Not all who came to the station cared to pass through the vaulted halls, but those who did rarely forgot the experience.

No where was that more the case than Pinnacle Court, positioned at the very peak of Triumph’s imposing mass. The largest open area on the station, more than a hundred meters tall and twice as wide, the space was host to an unparalleled collection of monuments, all of them arrayed at the very entrance of the Chambers of the High Council, nexus of the entire city. The arrangement was designed to be impressive and symbolic, reminding spectator and politician alike of the presence of the past on modern life even at the highest levels, but on that particular day it served just as well as an expedient, at least for one figure, as it pushed its way through throngs of awed tourists and preoccupied officials.

Imi Tec Idia couldn’t believe that he was actually late. There he was, on the very doorstep of one the most powerful ruling bodies in the history of the galaxy, entrusted with a position and responsibility that most could only dream of, and he was tardy. True, he was only late because the corridor he usually took was blocked off by maintenance teams, and he had gotten lost while trying to find an alternate route, but it was still his fault. He should have taken more care in memorizing the layout of the station; after all, he had been there for nearly three months already. There was no excuse, not for any mature, adult sapient, and certainly not for one given the responsibilities he had so eagerly taken on.

Skirting past a group of lumbering Gernaaskan visitors, each of whom was nearly four times his own height, Imi pondered for the thousandth time just how he had managed to fall into his newest job, and just how many beings across the stars were better suited and more competent candidates for it than himself.

Everyone had expected him to become a pilot. He had expected to become a pilot. Chall like himself were naturally suited for space travel, small in stature, relatively low maintenance, and possessing of brains highly adept at the complex, analytical nature of astrogation and starship upkeep. Whole extended families, his own included, were almost completely dominated by captains, crewers, and engineers going back to the very dawn of spaceflight. It was simply something that they were inherently good at, and the particular field was just still just as viable as it had been four thousand years before. Certainly, plenty of Chall followed different paths, and few looked down on them for it, but for the Idia clan, space travel was the past, present, and future. Imi’s own grandfather had been one of the most successful stellar surveyors of the last century, and even older forebears were still names of common knowledge, admirals of great wars and pioneers of unparalleled feats of exploration.

Of course, all of the fine heritage in the universe couldn’t negate a simple fact; Imi wasn’t a very good pilot. It had taken him years and half a dozen failed flight academy courses, but when the chief proctor of the Noi Dema Naval Institute had paid him a visit in person and pointed out the benefits of an education in the fine arts, he had finally been forced to accept the inevitable. His kin had been understandably disappointed, even if they had tried to hide it beneath awkward consolations and intonated offers of employment in well-paying and utterly bland corporate posts, but it was Imi’s own sense of displacement in the world that had promoted him to embark upon a period of aimless travel and self-discovery, far away from the comfort of home and family. For a long time, he didn’t think the extended journey had done much more than diminish his personal finances, but in retrospect, he must have done something right. It had only been a few short years since he had half-heartedly chosen to settle down as a municipal clerk on the planet Vkker, and yet somehow there he was, Attendant to the Union of Incorporated Systems First Directory, personal assistant of the ruler of a million stars.

Worriedly scanning the chronometer fitted to his wrist, Imi stopped short in the middle of one of the main walkways that ran through Pinnacle Court and quickly inspected his surroundings. The huge chamber was unusually crowded, and towering monuments that sprung up all around him made seeing anything clearly at a distance difficult, but he had visited the Court numerous times before, and quickly located the path he needed to take. After tightening his grip on the processor pad cradled in his four-fingered hand, the Chall dove back into the milling crowd, intent on cutting straight through the center of the chamber.

He had little time to take in the sights as he strode between pillars of stone and metal-cast figures, but Imi recognized many of them nonetheless. Though he’d never been particularly enamored with history or politics before arriving on Triumph, he had discovered to his surprise that absorption of the historical and governmental minutiae that abounded on the station came quite easily to him. Over the last several months, he had found himself spending more and more free time, what very little of it there was, engrossed in policy treatises, or wandering through quiet museum corridors in search of artifacts from Union lore. Of course, knowledge in such areas was essential for one in his position, but the fact that he actually enjoyed the learning experience was a welcome surprise.

Affixed to a triangular dais that passed to his left stood a representation of Nao Kiaha, the towering Illian who had been one of the principle figures in the founding of the Union. Rendered in lustrous ebony stone that made up most of the other structures in the Court, the slender sapient stretched his arms out to either side, each hand beckoning to an unseen observer. Imi was unfamiliar with the particular work, as it was one of the lesser known pieces that dotted the perimeter of the hall, but he immediately recognized what his pose implied; the outstretched fingers sought to unite the civilizations of the Daent and his own people, who, in their roles as galactic superpowers in centuries long past, had nearly torn known space apart with aggressive expansionism, ill-conceived alliances, and a terrible and pointless war.

A dozen meters beyond the statue, a more abstract monument rose from polished gray tiles. Jutting from a shallow, black basin of water, ten thin rectangles of glistening metal formed a perfect circle around the focal point of the piece, a large, metallic orb partially submerged in liquid, as if it was perpetually rising from the depths. On the face of each freestanding spire a simple series of symbols was carved, one of the ten fundamental equations on which the laws of physics and engineering were based. Imi knew this one far better, and would have stopped to appreciate it more fully had he had the time. Quite simply, the structure represented birth. The genesis of an entire species, not one of flesh, but of metal and circuitry. Truly thinking, feeling artificial intellects had been considered an impossibility for millennia, but the Regulators had come into being nonetheless, and flourished despite all odds against them.

The Chall sped past the work, realizing that it reminded him of someone who would likely be even less pleased with his tardiness than he was.

With his back to the massive, unobstructed pane of transparent alloy that formed an entire wall of Pinnacle Court, a feature that afforded visitors an unparalleled view of Illus or its principle moon depending upon Triumph’s rotation, Imi pressed onward, flitting by masterpiece after monument, each one a priceless window onto an event or personage that had contributed in some way to what the Union had become. They were enormously varied as well; some were civil works, others private donations; many were oriented to the aesthetics of certain species, others appealed universally. Each and every one of them, though, carried the underlying theme of hope and pride, an aspect that Imi considered to be the most masterful and meaningful component of the whole collection. They all symbolized the power and beauty of a thousand different voices working in concert. The Union’s underlying and essential strength, upon which all else was built; unity.

Rounding a large replica of the first Daent vessel capable of breaking the light barrier, the rear wall of the huge chamber came into view and with it the entrance of the Union High Council’s principle assembly complex. A wide, low set of steps suited to accommodate even the most expansive of strides lead up to a massive gate, four meters high and fitted with a pair of old-style doors, each of them embossed with the Union seal. The symbol, a trio of obtuse crescents imposed around a circle, was based on the ancient Chall Sind, the arc of infinity. Used in a set of three, the formation evoked the Sindelin, the Universe. It was a sign of commonality and unity, themes suggested almost all Union symbolism and rhetoric. Without those fundamental values the state, built upon the diverse strengths and assets of groups, ethnicities, and species almost beyond number, could not function.

The Sindelin could also be found in prominence in front of the steps, outstanding on a massive monument set apart from all the others, and Imi could not help but stop a moment and marvel at it, even though he had seen it many times before.

The structure, carved of a pure white stone that contrasted the darker tones of most of the others, was reminiscent of a giant flower, unfurling towards the sky with its half dozen pedals outstretched. Set upon each were representations of different individuals, each one of them of a different nation, species, race, or creed, dozens in total. Some of them wore uniforms and bore buckler and rifle, the symbols of war. Others carried pens or implements of study, meant to suggest diplomacy and science. A few were proudly dressed as technicians, laborers, and merchants.

Behind them, at the open heart of the structure, was the centerpiece of the monument. Hundreds of tiny globes, each smaller than Imi’s fist, floated in a pillar of crystalline light, gently orbiting one another in a slow, complex dance. Every ball, suspended by a soundless and carefully hidden antigravity device, was carefully carved and colored to represent the surface of a different planet or moon. The sheer intricacy of each was striking; every detail, from snowy mountain peaks to the glimmer of mercury seas, was faithfully preserved. Hiycteth, Dantillee, Illus, Vkker, Commerce, Strana; the components of the Union hovered alongside holdings of half a dozen other states, and still more planets that few of any nationality had ever heard of filled the illuminated space. Though vastly different in innumerable of ways, the worlds which the spheres represented were all unified by a common bond. For a time, all had fought as one.

The only real clue to the memorial’s true nature was found on the six projected displays that were affixed to the base of each towering arm. Each perpetually cycled a list of millions of names for the universe to see, each one a small remembrance for a dead patriot, not a partisan of a specific state, but a citizen of the galaxy. This monument remembered a war that had transcended even the oldest cultural bounds, and cast all that was known into turmoil. It marked the coming of the Brimafel.

They had appeared with little warning, intruding upon a period of peace with an ultimatum: submit quietly, or be ground into subservience. None had heard of the Preeminence or the distant galaxy it dominated before, and few were willing to lay down their arms in the face of an unknown threat. The response was swift and furious; the Brimafel and their host of minions fell upon known space with the resources of a million worlds and millennia of war-honed strategies and technology. Slowly, the peoples of the Galaxy had come together to face the threat, but it could never have been enough. Unstoppable and merciless, the Brimafel seized control of world after world, exploiting each to feed their engines of conquest, and by the seventh year of the onslaught, the Union and its allies were on the verge of collapse. For a time, complete surrender had seemed an inevitability. The Galactic Conflagration, as it came to be called, was almost lost.

And then, without prelude or explanation, the invaders withdrew. Within only a few weeks, the massive armadas that were poised on the edges of the last few standing strongholds of resistance passed into the trans-galactic void en masse, and worlds that had been occupied from the first battles of the war were abandoned, not a single soldier or piece of valued material left behind. Though it was no victory, the states of the galaxy had survived intact, but the price of their existence was almost unimaginable, and even after four long decades of reconstruction, scars and haunting memories of the conflict could be found on worlds all across the great disk. And, of course, there was always the fear of the Preeminence’s return.

It was this uncertainty had made the truly diverse nature of the monument before Imi possible. To ensure that the galaxy would be ready for another siege, were one to come, the major powers, some of them age-old adversaries, had formed the Fringe Protection Initiative, a military compact intended to coordinate the defense and surveillance of the outermost regions of known space. In addition to constructing observation bases and synchronizing the movements of patrol fleets, the agreement had opened the door to an unprecedented age of multinational cooperation, one which had been vital to the titanic reconstruction efforts that had been needed almost universally. The Union had been able to accomplish the feat in remarkably short order, but the cost in resources had been tremendous. More importantly, the effort had stirred up old attitudes in some quarters that had been long restrained by prosperity and apathy; not everyone was as altruistic as the Union’s First Director, who had been instrumental in spearheading it.

Reluctantly tearing himself from the elegant remembrance, the Chall sallied across the last open portion of the court and charged up the broad steps that lead into the principle government complex. His course almost brought him to the main gates, which hung open to admit a wide variety of individuals as they passed in and out, all of them under the watchful eye of six silent Capitol Sentinels. However, the black-garbed soldiers brought to Imi’s mind matters of protocol, and he split away from the main door at the last moment, instead making for an inconspicuous hatch off to one side.

The lone guard tending the closed entrance shifted into an attentive stance as he noticed the attendant approaching. “This is a secured access way, sir. Please use the main entrance to your right.”

Imi clacked his small mandibles once in consternation, and then hurriedly produced his left hand. He had only used the side doorway once or twice before, and it was unsurprising that its guard didn’t recognize him. He’d still need to provide proof of identity, anyways. “I am Imi Tec Idia, of the Office of the First Directory. I require admittance to the adjunct corridor here by the directive of the First Director herself. I present myself for biometrics examination.”

If the guardsman was bemused by the sapient’s excessive, nervous formality, he didn’t let it show (the stiff, toothy jaw of Gilnnd didn’t provide much latitude for subtle facial expressions, anyways), and accepted the outstretched manipulator without comment. Unclipping a small reading device from his belt, the soldier inspected a small metal square that was just barely visible at a joint in Imi’s thick exoskeleton. The removable implant transmitted a short burst of data: rank, clearance, basic biographical information, and a group of security codes, one of which the guard made Imi recite from memory.

Then he was lead to a computer terminal set in the wall, beside which appeared a large slot, the interior of which glowed a soft blue. Imi rolled back a fold of his robes and inserted his right arm up the elbow, its four rough digits splayed. Silently, the machine scanned every bit of his appendage, inside and out, analyzing distinct contours in the chitin’s surface, measuring the space between his fingers, and remotely imaging his DNA. The guard punched a few codes into the device’s interface, waited a moment for a result to appear on the visual display, and then turned back to his charge.

“You’re cleared, sir. Thank you for cooperating with security protocol, and fine period.”

“Fine period, sentinel.”

The Gilnnd opened the hatch for him, and Imi hurried inside, intent on making up time lost at the checkpoint. Had he taken the main foyer, the identification process would have been largely automatic, better suited to accommodate the higher volume of traffic, but even with its requisite delay, Imi knew his way was faster. While the main door lead a curving path to numerous departments, lifts, and public areas all around the station’s apex, the security hall was far more direct, and cut a path straight to the heart of the expansive complex, the main Convocation Hall of the High Council. Besides, security might be high in the public causeway as well on that day. After all, the Council was in full session.

After a few minutes of nondescript, well-lit walls, simply marked doors, and the occasional guard or monitoring device, the back hall opened into another security checkpoint, this one large and better staffed. As banks of scanning devices and functionaries worked near a collection of busy lifts and main corridors, another sentinel accosted Imi, and only after another thorough check guided him towards a more private row of personnel movers to one side of the chamber. Each was immaculately clean and finely carpeted, as well as being large enough to accommodate even the largest of frames. The attendant settled on one of them, simply marked ‘Office of the Directory’, and entered, leaving his escort behind as the door to the oblong cubicle clamped shut. Imi cleared his throat.

“Observation room,” he said clearly, trying not to sound as self-conscious as he felt. He dared not look at his chronometer again, but he knew all the same just how late he really was.

A soft ping of confirmation emanated from the ceiling, and the car began to climb upward. Imi was somewhat taken aback. He had expected a curt and chiding response, or at least an acknowledgement of his lateness. It’s not like him to let the First Director go anywhere on the station without him lurking nearby, Imi mused, now concerned for a completely different reason.

After a few moments, the door slid open, and the Chall found himself in a well-appointed room only a few times larger than the lift cab. It was completely oriented around the long, slanted window that filled the gently-curving wall on the chamber’s far side. Aside from a long row of variously-shaped seats along the viewport, a handful of sculpted light fixtures that illuminated gray and blue interior, and a generously-proportioned hatchway that flanked the lift entrance, the place was rather spartan. And completely empty.

Once again, Imi was perplexed. The absence of habitation was unexpected and somewhat troubling; most scheduling changes reached him in plenty of time, and he was certainly not early. Of course, something could have come up abruptly, but that would most likely not be a good thing. Especially not now.

After making sure that the communicator he kept within his robes was functioning and stowing his datapad, Imi approached a wall-mounted messaging device linked directly with the chamber that he had just left.

“Secondary security section, Convocation area,” the reply came promptly.

“This is Imi Tec Idia. The First Director is not in her observation room. Are you aware of her current location?”

“We were just notified that she has been temporarily delayed, and will be arriving in a few minutes.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing, sir. As far as we know, she is just behind schedule.”

Imi thanked the sentinel on the other end and closed the line. He would have preferred more of an explanation than just ‘temporarily delayed’, but at least nothing seemed to be seriously amiss.

With nothing to do except wait for the leader’s arrival, the Chall made his way over to the bank of seats, but rather than sit, he walked right up to the edge of the broad window beyond it and looked out. The invisible barrier afforded a singularly impressive view; the great legislative hall of the Union was a spectacle second to none of the station, at least for the uninitiated. Beyond the reinforced material, another dozen long viewports stretched around the upper perimeter of a huge, oval chamber easily large enough to accommodate a small warship. At either end, an enormous obelisk, each meant to represent one of the twin virtues of prudence and munificence, anchored the bowl-shaped space, and between them ran ranks of formal sitting areas. Each one was depressed into the steeply-declining wall, made of gray stone shot with lines of black and white. There were more than two hundred such notches, each of them fully capable of fitting a small delegation, and the upper heights of the slanted surface held room for many more.

At the center of the massive chamber, raised far above the access and security pit at the very bottom of the room, the top of an enormous gray pillar held two ranks of desks, seats, podiums, and amplification devices, each one facing a side of the room. When it was required, sound partitions could effectively split the chamber into two, allowing each section of the body to tackle a specific vote or debate, increasing its efficiency markedly. Via an omnipresent speaker system, interfaced networks, swift material and personnel movers that crisscrossed the exterior and interior of the chamber’s walls, and innumerable visual screens, some of which, like the pair mounted under each side of the center platform, were many times Imi’s height, a wide variety of discourse could be maintained by a session of the Council at any one time.

Today, however, every single imaging plate and audio pickup was focused on a lone point. Atop another spire that rose from the central platform, the place reserved for those who had the clout and desire to speak to a full assembly of the High Council, an Illian female stood erect, gesticulating and emoting confidently to the throng of politicians around her. Imi punched a pad set on one of his window’s support braces, and a segment of the clear surface in front of his face flickered with projected light and then displayed a clear image of the speaker as she turned slowly to face another portion of the hall. Though he had expected the face that now floated before his glassy eyes, the attendant retracted his mandibles into a tight grimace.

Though she was not one of the more venerable or experienced members of the Council, Betun Guire was certainly one of the most prominent and influential. She, along with her two ancillary councilors, was the elected representative of Grid Ii, which encompassed the Illian homeworld Illus, that of the arachnid Vkkerysh, and forty six other star systems, most of them ancient colony worlds. One of the eight so-called ‘homeworld grids’, collections of worlds that had been economically and politically pivotal to the Union since its inception, Ii boasted an enormous and diverse population, several of the largest shipyards and trading centers on its side of the galaxy, and virtually unparalleled historical significance. The pair of sapient species that had evolved within its bounds had been instrumental in forging not only the Union itself, but the political shape of virtually every modern galactic state as well, facts dimmed little by the passage of centuries.

Representing such a constituency alone would have given Guire a great deal of authority, but she was also the chief proponent and spokesperson for the Preservation Coalition, one of the most prominent political organizations in the Union. Founded twelve years after the unexpected Preeminence withdrawal, it was initially a reaction to the increased taxation used to help fund galaxy-wide reconstruction efforts, but as the economic crisis lessened over the intervening decades, it had latched onto a wide variety of interest groups and ideologies, becoming a body that found wide-spread allegiance on almost every planet of the Union. Externally, the Preservation Coalition’s platform centered around the “protection of the culture, heritage, and sustainability of every world, species, group, and individual”. It was an admirable goal, but many Union citizens, Imi among them, saw something else hidden behind their funding of cultural education programs, improving intra-grid governmental efficiency, and historical restoration efforts. Something far more perilous.

Imi punched another key, and the viewing room filled with Guire’s crisp, confident alto.

“…must be considered. I admire and appreciate the efforts of our allies in this endeavor, but many of them are simply not capable of contributing sufficient amounts of resources and personnel, and they should not be pressured into doing so. The Fringe Protection Initiative was not created to tap the resources of its members, and were it allowed to do so, the organization’s founding premise would be undermined.”

“I understand, we all understand, that the FPI has been a great force for security, unity, and growth in the past, but times have changed, and we cannot sustain it on memories alone. The Union of Incorporated Systems alone simply cannot bear the military and economic burden that the initiative had become, nor should it be expected to. We may be in a time of prosperity and promise, but even all of the stars in the sky cannot provide unlimited resources, and increasing military expenditures must not be allowed to infringe upon what we do have. If Empress Tidalla was willing to listen to further negotiations on the Clift’mal Empire’s part in this alliance and consider widening its role, then perhaps the situation would be different, but as the situation stands, the Fringe Protection Initiative simply cannot be maintained in its current form. To do so would not be fair to the alliance’s other members. It would not be fair to the citizens of the Union who would have to shoulder the load. It would not be fair for our soldiers, deployed so long, so far from their homes.”

“Our soldiers. Their well-being is a factor that has been so unjustly been pushed further and further from the forefront of this issue of late. Here we stand now, fortunate recipients of decades of peace, and yet millions of our citizens are consigned to spend years beyond the borders of civilization, patrolling the empty blackness of space for phantom threats and petty pirates, or sitting holed up in fortresses on backwater planets, surrounded by criminals, profiteers, and anarchists. The Fringe is a perilous place, as is proven all the more with every brutal raid and failed relief expedition. Why should we expose so many of our citizens to the dangers of such a region, year after year?”

“The most obvious answer, of course, is to defend the galaxy from the return of the Brimafel. That is why the FPI was founded, after all. That aim has a always been a noble and rational one, and if the Preeminence were ever to return, the early warning that such a buffer could provide would no doubt save many lives and worlds. However, forty one years have passed since the last foe warship disappeared into trans-galactic space, and not a single Preeminence vessel or errant transmission has again infringed upon the sovereignties this galaxy. There is always a threat, yes, but no state of alert can stand forever. No force can defend against an opponent unseen since its inception indefinitely, and certainly not on such a galactic scale.”

“We all know of the pirate raid on the Omegew III fleet supply facility just five short periods ago. We will all remember the twenty four loyal soldiers who perished in the line of duty, defending their installation from unprovoked aggression, but I ask you, my colleagues, have you taken time to wonder if their sacrifices were truly worthwhile? Two dozen families, clans, pods, have lost a cherished part of their whole. Are you willing to tell them that the wound they all bear is a necessary one?”

“The Union and its people must never forget the menace that lies beyond our great disk, but we must not allow ourselves to be consumed by watchfulness, either. It would be folly to fully abandon our arms and means of defense, but so to is it folly to risk the lives of our citizens as egregiously as we do now. They stand almost alone in the darkness, steadfastly facing a foe that may never come, ever imperiled by dangers all around them. Is a tiny measure of your peace of mind really worth such a toll?”

“She’s quite the orator, don’t you think?” a slow voice from behind Imi inquired.

Startled, Imi muted the audio feed and spun around to face the newcomer.

Of all the sapient species known to galactic civilization, the Vkkerysh were by far one of the most physically impressive. Though numerous species were evolved from the arthropods and insects that found niches on most of the inhabitable realms of the cosmos, most had adopted bipedal postures and recognizable limb structures before attaining intelligence. In stark contrast, the Vkkeryshi form still strongly resembled its primeval, predatory ancestors, if scaled up by a significant margin. Built upon a dense, russet exoskeleton, occasionally perforated by large, barbed sensory hairs, the arachnidan frame suspended a huge thorax and raised abdomen on a set of eight muscular legs. The average Vkkeryshi female could easily raise her table-sized body well over a meter into the air, on legs twice as long again. An additional pair of appendages flanked a grizzly and mandibled maw; comparatively short and agile, each was fitted with a set of precise, manipulating digits, evolutionary descendants of bloated pedipalps.

However, the species’ arcane size and appearance belied their true nature. A race almost unparalleled in longevity the galaxy over, the Vkkerysh were renowned for their patience, wisdom, and disarming composure. First Director Kevaryom was no different.

Clicking her jaws together once in a weary sigh, the high official slowly stepped from the large lift cab into the observation room, placing one clawed foot in front of the other in careful, ponderous sequence. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long, Imi. I should have had Ascendant inform you of the delay.”

The Chall attendant rushed to his leader’s side, concern obvious in his posture. “There is no need to apologize for anything, Mistress Director. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. I should have arrived early this morning and accompanied you from your chambers. What happened? The Guard would only tell me that you had been temporarily delayed.”

Finally reaching the wide, padded dais that served as a Vkkerysh seat, Kevaryom slowly lowered her body until she could safely take the weight off her four pairs of legs. “Another episode, as we were exiting the lineway. It was quite inconsequential, I only blacked out for a few seconds, but it was enough for this lot to call down a whole host of physicians upon me. I suppose it’s their job, but I really do think the trouble was more than it was worth. It ended up being just a regular flutter, but I still couldn’t shoe away Doctor Cediia until we made it to that lift. I imagine he’s still hovering about down below.”

His nerves soothed somewhat by the fact that the First Director seemed to be well within her normal faculties, Imi at last turned his attention to her waiting entourage.

Three other figures had emerged from the lift and were now standing in the center of the small room, looking at the pair. The two standing in the rear, a tall, black-skinned Illian female and a thickly-plated Gengee, stood formally, flanking the sealed doors with their hands folded in front of them. Their uniforms were elegant and functional; each wore a short, cobalt and black cloak which spread from their shoulders down to cover gray tunics and pants, as well as the firearms that hung within the easy reach of each. Underneath these trappings were undoubtedly layers of body armor, along with any number of technologies that a state-of-the-art guardian might employ. Gengee rarely wore raiment so complex and covering, but the second figure didn’t seem at all discomforted. Wearing a tight uniform was a small price to pay to be a steward and protector of the highest office in the land, after all.

The third was quite clearly not a guard, or even a living creature. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a thinking being at all. In spite of this handicap, however, it still often enough served as a principle aide to the First Director, and as Imi’s senior colleague. The tall automaton, a smooth and contoured assemblage of polished metal and plates of lustrous, black ceramic composite, was actually a puppet of sorts, manipulated by a mind that hovered around them all, entwined in the computer networks that tied Triumph together. Like many mature individuals of the intellect’s ‘species’, the beings who had designed the metallic monument outside in Pinnacle Court, this mind preferred to associate with more corporeal entities through a remotely controlled intermediary. Unlike other Regulators however, most of whom chose to express their unique imaginations and perspectives through modification to their ‘bodies’, Attendant Ascendant’s form bore little alteration from the factory standard, save for cobalt-blue stripes that adorned his shoulders, a small Union insignia emblazoned below his neck column, and the shade of his rounded, featureless faceplate, which was actually even plainer and darker than those of assembly line models.

Ascendant said that the final alteration was intended to keep others from being distracted from their work by any unneeded physical curiosity, but Imi suspected that he had implemented the change to unnerve the functionaries he dealt with on a daily basis. Though the machine was externally quite humorless while on duty, Imi knew from personal experience that Ascendant was the sort who secretly relished watching uninitiated underlings worry and squirm. After all, the Chall was still a novice himself.

“You understate the severity of the matter, Mistress Director,” the computerized marionette put in crisply. “As your personal physician as said time and time again, you should be extremely conscious of events like this one, especially during periods of elevated activity. I still recommend we truncate this visit and return to your residence promptly, where more appropriate medical attention is more accessible.”

“I won’t hear of it,” the ruler replied, her artificial voice synthesizer exuding a tired obstinacy. “I haven’t missed a full meeting of the High Council in more than a decade, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Mistress, it would not be difficult to access coverage for the assembly from your private chambers. I can easily…”

Kevaryom pivoted on her couch away from the attendant and towards the wide viewing window and muted display screen, and then cut her aide off mid-sentence. “Attendant Idia, kindly reactivate the audio feed. I’ve already missed the rest Councilor Guire’s speech, and I don’t want to miss the next.”

The automaton’s featureless head turned slightly to fix the diminutive Chall in what was probably a glare (Imi got the impression that most of Ascendant’s looks were just that), but the chamber promptly filled again with sound from the arena below before Imi could even reach the input stud on the wall. The artificial mind could be obstinate and even controlling, but he was also unswervingly loyal to the First Director, and his unique makeup generally enabled him to carry out orders far more efficiently than his organic counterparts.

He also happened to be completely right about the severity of First Director Kevaryom’s condition. Quite simply, she was dying.

One of the first things that Imi had been briefed upon after assuming his post was that the leader of the Union was afflicted with a degenerative neurological condition. The revelation had come as quite a shock; no one, save her personal staff, closest advisors, a few physicians on Triumph and her homeworld, and the next level below the Vkkerysh on the chain of command, Second Director Tonin Lyjiaa, knew of the illness, even though it had been diagnosed for nearly a standard year. Initially, Imi had been apprehensive about the fact that Kevaryom’s condition was being kept a state secret, but over the last few months, he had come to realize the necessity of the deception. Firstly, although her illness did occasionally lead to muscular spasms and blackouts, the First Director’s renowned mental faculties seemed mercifully unaffected, and she was still mobile enough to keep up a reduced schedule of public appearances and conferences. Besides, she was barely two centuries old, still in the prime of life for her kind, and otherwise quite fit; there was still a good chance that a regimen of medical procedures she was undergoing could lead to a full recovery.

Secondly, the Union was mired in political turmoil unseen since the last war. Despite the success of the policies of Kevaryom and her administration, an increasing number of Union citizens were demanding wide-reaching change. Spear-headed by the principle group opposed to the First Directory and its holdouts on the High Council, Guire’s Preservation Coalition, dissenting factions seemed to spring up daily on almost every aligned world. They demanded reductions of taxation; they demanded increasing local power; they demanded government reform. Of course, there had always been groups opposed to the powers-at-be, there always were in functioning, free societies, but recent events, foreign and domestic, had cast a shadow of doubt on the effectiveness Kevaryom’s regime, and the divergent voices rose in a chorus with them.

The Union was a relatively stable body, but it was nevertheless made up of thousands of distant worlds, each of them harboring their own set of interests and agendas. A strong executive had always been required to keep the often conflicting voices in harmony, and the need was as strong as ever. Even if many disagreed with her, almost everyone in mainstream Union society respected their First Director for her considerable accomplishments over the last decades of her rule. Moreover, her characteristic Vkkeryshi patience and openness made her a key moderating force even in the most heated of political debates in the Council, and she had been instrumental in resolving or at least diffusing many crucial points of contention in the past few years, even as her health began to decline.

If Kevaryom’s status was compromised by worries about her health, the slim majority that her affiliates held on the Council would likely dissolve, and the ensuing political chaos would almost certainly see the rise of Guire’s party. And Imi had come to realize that, though it might be built upon good intentions, the Preservation Coalition had drawn upon far too many divergent constituencies to gain power, and it was difficult to see them working together if given a chance to dictate state policy. The very core of the Union could devolve into an ineffective morass. Or worse yet, some of the more unsavory elements of the Coalition power base could seize power in the confusion, a prospect that Imi did not relish; isolationism and racism had not been major influences on the Union for a long time, but such biases could not ever truly fade into the blackness.

Imi stared thoughtfully at his leader’s gently-heaving side as she immersed herself the precarious dance that was playing out below. He still didn’t quite comprehend how he had come into her service, or what she had seen in the Chall to give him such an opportunity, but he was determined to prove that the decision had been the right one, whatever it took. There was far too much riding on this new responsibility to do anything less.

You've got a very elaborate and interesting setup going here, although I couldn't get images of South Park's Queen Spider out of my head.