I really should have thought that part through, one of the numerous problems that arise when I just get up every morning and write another section ... Well, anyway, the Bugs have in their possession a fighter-craft, which is identified as a Starkiller, and potentially a pilot, which will be of the race of the builders of the Starkiller, the Riven.speaker-to-trolls wrote:Good, good. When he says they have a starkiller does he mean a fighter or one of the actual starkiller creatures themselves?
[Sci-fi original] Multiverse Rogue
Moderator: LadyTevar
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-
darthdavid
- Pathetic Attention Whore
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- Joined: 2003-02-17 12:04pm
- Location: Bat Country!
- - - - -
“Where is the Revolution based?” asked Gerald while the Poll began projecting a map of the galaxy on a wall. Eve walked up to the galactic map and stared for a moment, and then she turned to Gerald. Both she and Murderwake looked better after cleaning up and getting a new set of clothing, though Murderwake was still in his single-suit which had somehow been merged to his skin. He pulled on some of the bulkier clothing from Gerald's stay in another universe.
“The planet is called Throne,” she said, “and located in the three hundred thirteenth Sector.”
“Got it,” said the Dying Poll, “there shouldn't be a problem getting there, I'm not reading anything big between us and them.”
“What about transmissions about our little escapade out by Sturm?” asked Murderwake.
“Which do you mean? The destroying of a Union fleet or the sudden appearance of an extra-universal aliens in your backyard?”
“Was it noticeable?” Gerald asked.
“The Grave Matters alone was pretty noticeable, when it took on the fleet, might as well hung up a large neon sign with an arrow pointing at us that says, 'Hey, look at this, guys!'” the Poll replied. “They're chattering about it a lot, but not as much as I'd expect.”
“If the Bugs go by their standard procedure, they'll make contact with what they recognize as the local body of authority, now that their presence is recognized,” said Gerald, “and from what I hear the local leader is unhinged.”
“General-President Corey is insane,” said Eve firmly, “she's a power hungry madwoman.”
“Poll?” Gerald asked.
“Checking local information spheres,” said Poll, “oh, and I set a course for Throne.”
“Alright, keep us off the radar,” said Gerald.
“Sure,” said Poll.
“I need to know if we can negotiate with this General-President,” Gerald said to them, and turned to focus on Murderwake, “What do you think? You grew up in a family with political clout.” Murderwake blinked at the question.
“Yes,” he said, “I did grow up on my family's estate, but I never got involved in the politics. After my early education I opted to go into archeology, which my family did not necessarily respect, but since I was the youngest son they did not care enough to stop me. From what I know all the Great Families are a bunch of scheming backstabbers invested only in making a profit and keeping their power.”
“That's good,” Gerald said, “at least they'll be predictable. What about the Revolution?” He directed the question to Eve.
“We have our own fleet and the secret support of hundreds of the more
industrialized worlds,” said Eve, “and besides, entire Sectors have fallen into barbarism under the reign of the Lord-President, all she cares about are the central Sectors, we've gained support there too.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “it's a start, so, we better go win a war.”
- - - - -
“Sir,” said one of the technicians, “we're reading a ship, right over us.”
General Martin Resnick turned to the technician and walked to his scope.
“How in the Hell did it just appear right over us?” he asked gruffly. The technician shook his head nervously.
“The sentry ships picked up nothing, and neither did the telescopes until it just appeared, sir. It's transmitting a high priority code.” General Resnick took one look at the code.
“Give them permission to land on dock seven,” he said, “I'm going to go speak with the Triad.”
“Yes, sir,” said the technician. General Resnick walked to an elevator and descended into the heart of the Revolution base, to the most heavily defended person in their movement. A team of guards cleared him as he walked down the corridor where they opened the massive vault door to reveal the chalky white triad wearing deep white robes lying on the floor. The General walked up to the pale young man and stiffly got down to his knees.
“There is another ship here, somehow they slipped past our sensors,” he said to the Triad, “what do you know of them?” The pale young man did not open his eyes, did not twitch, did not even look as if he was breathing.
“Don't bother General,” said a woman from behind Resnick, he turned to see the Countess Lee. He stood and bowed slightly to her.
“I didn't know they had alerted you, madam,” he said, “I was hoping that the Triad would have some insight into the ship above us.”
“The Triad,” the Countess cast her deeply dark eyes at the man lying on the floor, “lost conscious twenty minutes ago. At first we weren't concerned, he's often gone into trances, but I suspect that the two events are not unrelated.”
“The ship sent a code, it's an old code, there is an agent aboard that we thought was dead a long time ago, madam,” the General said.
“Do you think it's a trap?” she asked.
“Yes, madam, I do,” he replied. She smiled thoughtfully and turned away, pulling away a stray gray hair that had fallen into her face.
“Let them come but watch them closely,” she said, “and if they prove false to us, kill them.”
“Yes, madam,” said the General.
- - - - -
Throne was a tropical planet, most of the landmass, excepting the polar regions, was covered with dozens of different jungles. The only breaks in the forest canopy were carved out by the settlers and the Revolution, though they were small breaks in the sea of green. The vibrant excessive life made scans from orbit difficult for the life detectors of the Union ships.
“They probably won't trust me,” said Eve, “I've been out of contact for too long.”
“It's alright,” said Gerald, “I've got absolute faith things will be fine.” The Poll opened its door and lowered a ramp and they walked out to see a group of dark armored figures with rifles trained on them. Eve and Gerald raised their hands while Gerald just smiled and waited. A tall bearded man rounded a corner and walked out onto the dock.
“That's some ship,” said the man, wonderingly.
“General Resnick,” said Eve, saluting, “Agent Darkvoid reporting in for debriefing.”
“Darkvoid?” said Resnick, “We haven't heard for you for almost a year.”
“I was stranded on Sturm, ended up holing up until I could get safely off,” said Eve.
“Welcome back then,” he said, “you know the routine.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eve and turned to the other two, “this is Lord Murderwake and Gerald Underhill.”
“Greetings,” said Gerald, “I represent an interested faction willing to support your revolution here.”
“What faction is that?” asked the General warily.
“The best kind,” said Gerald, “one that has authorized me to extend as much aid as I can to your side. Are you authorized to negotiate or is there someone else I should speak with?”
“We should step inside,” said the General, leading them into the complex and into the mind probe room. Eve sat down on a chair that lowered a silvery crown upon her head.
“What's that?” Gerald asked Murderwake.
“Mind probe,” said Murderwake, startled by the question, “don't you have those?”
“Mind probe?” said Gerald, eyebrow raised, “Hardly.”
“We're going to subject all of you to the probe,” said the General, “I apologize for that but we have to be sure. The Union has experts in breaking individuals and reprogramming them into double agents, it's the only way to be sure.” Eve twitched a little but a few moments passed and the crown lifted and she got up, rubbing her head.
“The head ache afterwards is the worst,” she muttered. Murderwake sat down next as the General got a confirmation that Eve had not been modified. The crown lowered and there were a few moments while he sat looking around.
“Is your probe broken?” he asked.
“We're getting some kind of interference,” said one of the operators of the probe.
“Poll,” said Gerald, sub-vocally, “make them see whatever will get us through this.”
“Roger that,” said the Poll.
“He's clear,” said the operator suddenly. Murderwake got up and Gerald took his place, letting his implants handle the rest. He read clean as well, which one should hope so, since he certainly was not a double agent for the Union, so he almost did not need his implants to handle it..
“Wait, are we working for the Bureau again? I'm confused,” said the Poll suddenly, through the chip.
“For King and Quicksilver?” Gerald replied, “I've got family back in Quicksilver, just because I did one little thing-”
“They called that little thing treason,” said the Poll.
“-doesn't mean I want to see my friends and family destroyed by Bugs,” continued Gerald. “Besides, you're a deserter.”
“True,” said the Poll. It considered that for an infinitesimally small moment.
“Anyway, are we all clear?” asked Gerald. The General nodded and led them further into the complex. Eve was directed away for debriefing while Murderwake and Gerald were taken to meet a tall middle-aged woman with deep gray hair. Considering that body-mod technology seemed well within their range, Gerald was surprised that she let her hair go gray.
“The Countess Lee, this is Gerald Underhill and Lord Murderwake,” said the General, “these two aided our agent return. Mr. Underhill claims to be a representative of a group willing to support us.” The Countess looked up at Underhill questioningly.
“Is that so?” she asked him.
“Oh yes, Countess,” he said, “in fact the group I represent, who for the moment wish to remain unnamed, are very interested in making sure that your side emerges triumphant in your civil war.”
“What support can you offer?” she asked.
“For the moment there is only me, and my ship,” said Gerald, “but I assure you that we can be extremely effective, Countess.”
“One man and one ship, even one as strange as yours, hardly seems to be that much of a commitment by you and your superiors,” commented the Countess, studying him shrewdly through narrowed eyes.
“Allow me to prove my worth then,” said Gerald, and walked to a nearby computer terminal, “do you mind?” The Countess nodded slightly and he activated the terminal and held his multi-tool on it.
“What are you doing with your tool?” asked the Poll.
“Just making it look dramatic, transmit something secretive to them, like the Union database or something like, whatever you got from those Death Followers.” Gerald said silently.
“That was the Death Believers,” said the Poll, “and I'm putting some of the juicier stuff there now.” Gerald pulled back his multi-tool and gestured for the General to take a look. The General walked over and looked up, surprised.
“This is highly classified information,” he exclaimed, “identification codes, schedules of officials, fleet movements! Where did you get this?”
“Like I said, my ship and I are not a force to be underestimated,” said Gerald, smiling.
“And you, a Murderwake is it?” asked the Countess Lee, “Why would one of you be here?”
“I was journeying with Mr. Underhill when all this happened,” said Murderwake, “and, as a result, I fell into all of this. But I do believe that the Great Families are corrupt and that the General-President is a threat to the entire galaxy.”
“Now,” said Gerald, “that we've got the formalities out of the way, how about we discuss what we need you to do once we win you your war.”
“Are you that confident?” asked the Countess, “That you could claim to topple the Galactic Union?”
“Oh, definitely,” said Gerald, nodding. “The first thing we have got to do, though, is defend your information, I recommend that you let me at your systems. If I could easily get into the Union's information spheres that means that my enemies could do the same to yours.”
“Alright,” said the Countess, “allow him access to our systems.”
“Where is the Revolution based?” asked Gerald while the Poll began projecting a map of the galaxy on a wall. Eve walked up to the galactic map and stared for a moment, and then she turned to Gerald. Both she and Murderwake looked better after cleaning up and getting a new set of clothing, though Murderwake was still in his single-suit which had somehow been merged to his skin. He pulled on some of the bulkier clothing from Gerald's stay in another universe.
“The planet is called Throne,” she said, “and located in the three hundred thirteenth Sector.”
“Got it,” said the Dying Poll, “there shouldn't be a problem getting there, I'm not reading anything big between us and them.”
“What about transmissions about our little escapade out by Sturm?” asked Murderwake.
“Which do you mean? The destroying of a Union fleet or the sudden appearance of an extra-universal aliens in your backyard?”
“Was it noticeable?” Gerald asked.
“The Grave Matters alone was pretty noticeable, when it took on the fleet, might as well hung up a large neon sign with an arrow pointing at us that says, 'Hey, look at this, guys!'” the Poll replied. “They're chattering about it a lot, but not as much as I'd expect.”
“If the Bugs go by their standard procedure, they'll make contact with what they recognize as the local body of authority, now that their presence is recognized,” said Gerald, “and from what I hear the local leader is unhinged.”
“General-President Corey is insane,” said Eve firmly, “she's a power hungry madwoman.”
“Poll?” Gerald asked.
“Checking local information spheres,” said Poll, “oh, and I set a course for Throne.”
“Alright, keep us off the radar,” said Gerald.
“Sure,” said Poll.
“I need to know if we can negotiate with this General-President,” Gerald said to them, and turned to focus on Murderwake, “What do you think? You grew up in a family with political clout.” Murderwake blinked at the question.
“Yes,” he said, “I did grow up on my family's estate, but I never got involved in the politics. After my early education I opted to go into archeology, which my family did not necessarily respect, but since I was the youngest son they did not care enough to stop me. From what I know all the Great Families are a bunch of scheming backstabbers invested only in making a profit and keeping their power.”
“That's good,” Gerald said, “at least they'll be predictable. What about the Revolution?” He directed the question to Eve.
“We have our own fleet and the secret support of hundreds of the more
industrialized worlds,” said Eve, “and besides, entire Sectors have fallen into barbarism under the reign of the Lord-President, all she cares about are the central Sectors, we've gained support there too.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “it's a start, so, we better go win a war.”
- - - - -
“Sir,” said one of the technicians, “we're reading a ship, right over us.”
General Martin Resnick turned to the technician and walked to his scope.
“How in the Hell did it just appear right over us?” he asked gruffly. The technician shook his head nervously.
“The sentry ships picked up nothing, and neither did the telescopes until it just appeared, sir. It's transmitting a high priority code.” General Resnick took one look at the code.
“Give them permission to land on dock seven,” he said, “I'm going to go speak with the Triad.”
“Yes, sir,” said the technician. General Resnick walked to an elevator and descended into the heart of the Revolution base, to the most heavily defended person in their movement. A team of guards cleared him as he walked down the corridor where they opened the massive vault door to reveal the chalky white triad wearing deep white robes lying on the floor. The General walked up to the pale young man and stiffly got down to his knees.
“There is another ship here, somehow they slipped past our sensors,” he said to the Triad, “what do you know of them?” The pale young man did not open his eyes, did not twitch, did not even look as if he was breathing.
“Don't bother General,” said a woman from behind Resnick, he turned to see the Countess Lee. He stood and bowed slightly to her.
“I didn't know they had alerted you, madam,” he said, “I was hoping that the Triad would have some insight into the ship above us.”
“The Triad,” the Countess cast her deeply dark eyes at the man lying on the floor, “lost conscious twenty minutes ago. At first we weren't concerned, he's often gone into trances, but I suspect that the two events are not unrelated.”
“The ship sent a code, it's an old code, there is an agent aboard that we thought was dead a long time ago, madam,” the General said.
“Do you think it's a trap?” she asked.
“Yes, madam, I do,” he replied. She smiled thoughtfully and turned away, pulling away a stray gray hair that had fallen into her face.
“Let them come but watch them closely,” she said, “and if they prove false to us, kill them.”
“Yes, madam,” said the General.
- - - - -
Throne was a tropical planet, most of the landmass, excepting the polar regions, was covered with dozens of different jungles. The only breaks in the forest canopy were carved out by the settlers and the Revolution, though they were small breaks in the sea of green. The vibrant excessive life made scans from orbit difficult for the life detectors of the Union ships.
“They probably won't trust me,” said Eve, “I've been out of contact for too long.”
“It's alright,” said Gerald, “I've got absolute faith things will be fine.” The Poll opened its door and lowered a ramp and they walked out to see a group of dark armored figures with rifles trained on them. Eve and Gerald raised their hands while Gerald just smiled and waited. A tall bearded man rounded a corner and walked out onto the dock.
“That's some ship,” said the man, wonderingly.
“General Resnick,” said Eve, saluting, “Agent Darkvoid reporting in for debriefing.”
“Darkvoid?” said Resnick, “We haven't heard for you for almost a year.”
“I was stranded on Sturm, ended up holing up until I could get safely off,” said Eve.
“Welcome back then,” he said, “you know the routine.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eve and turned to the other two, “this is Lord Murderwake and Gerald Underhill.”
“Greetings,” said Gerald, “I represent an interested faction willing to support your revolution here.”
“What faction is that?” asked the General warily.
“The best kind,” said Gerald, “one that has authorized me to extend as much aid as I can to your side. Are you authorized to negotiate or is there someone else I should speak with?”
“We should step inside,” said the General, leading them into the complex and into the mind probe room. Eve sat down on a chair that lowered a silvery crown upon her head.
“What's that?” Gerald asked Murderwake.
“Mind probe,” said Murderwake, startled by the question, “don't you have those?”
“Mind probe?” said Gerald, eyebrow raised, “Hardly.”
“We're going to subject all of you to the probe,” said the General, “I apologize for that but we have to be sure. The Union has experts in breaking individuals and reprogramming them into double agents, it's the only way to be sure.” Eve twitched a little but a few moments passed and the crown lifted and she got up, rubbing her head.
“The head ache afterwards is the worst,” she muttered. Murderwake sat down next as the General got a confirmation that Eve had not been modified. The crown lowered and there were a few moments while he sat looking around.
“Is your probe broken?” he asked.
“We're getting some kind of interference,” said one of the operators of the probe.
“Poll,” said Gerald, sub-vocally, “make them see whatever will get us through this.”
“Roger that,” said the Poll.
“He's clear,” said the operator suddenly. Murderwake got up and Gerald took his place, letting his implants handle the rest. He read clean as well, which one should hope so, since he certainly was not a double agent for the Union, so he almost did not need his implants to handle it..
“Wait, are we working for the Bureau again? I'm confused,” said the Poll suddenly, through the chip.
“For King and Quicksilver?” Gerald replied, “I've got family back in Quicksilver, just because I did one little thing-”
“They called that little thing treason,” said the Poll.
“-doesn't mean I want to see my friends and family destroyed by Bugs,” continued Gerald. “Besides, you're a deserter.”
“True,” said the Poll. It considered that for an infinitesimally small moment.
“Anyway, are we all clear?” asked Gerald. The General nodded and led them further into the complex. Eve was directed away for debriefing while Murderwake and Gerald were taken to meet a tall middle-aged woman with deep gray hair. Considering that body-mod technology seemed well within their range, Gerald was surprised that she let her hair go gray.
“The Countess Lee, this is Gerald Underhill and Lord Murderwake,” said the General, “these two aided our agent return. Mr. Underhill claims to be a representative of a group willing to support us.” The Countess looked up at Underhill questioningly.
“Is that so?” she asked him.
“Oh yes, Countess,” he said, “in fact the group I represent, who for the moment wish to remain unnamed, are very interested in making sure that your side emerges triumphant in your civil war.”
“What support can you offer?” she asked.
“For the moment there is only me, and my ship,” said Gerald, “but I assure you that we can be extremely effective, Countess.”
“One man and one ship, even one as strange as yours, hardly seems to be that much of a commitment by you and your superiors,” commented the Countess, studying him shrewdly through narrowed eyes.
“Allow me to prove my worth then,” said Gerald, and walked to a nearby computer terminal, “do you mind?” The Countess nodded slightly and he activated the terminal and held his multi-tool on it.
“What are you doing with your tool?” asked the Poll.
“Just making it look dramatic, transmit something secretive to them, like the Union database or something like, whatever you got from those Death Followers.” Gerald said silently.
“That was the Death Believers,” said the Poll, “and I'm putting some of the juicier stuff there now.” Gerald pulled back his multi-tool and gestured for the General to take a look. The General walked over and looked up, surprised.
“This is highly classified information,” he exclaimed, “identification codes, schedules of officials, fleet movements! Where did you get this?”
“Like I said, my ship and I are not a force to be underestimated,” said Gerald, smiling.
“And you, a Murderwake is it?” asked the Countess Lee, “Why would one of you be here?”
“I was journeying with Mr. Underhill when all this happened,” said Murderwake, “and, as a result, I fell into all of this. But I do believe that the Great Families are corrupt and that the General-President is a threat to the entire galaxy.”
“Now,” said Gerald, “that we've got the formalities out of the way, how about we discuss what we need you to do once we win you your war.”
“Are you that confident?” asked the Countess, “That you could claim to topple the Galactic Union?”
“Oh, definitely,” said Gerald, nodding. “The first thing we have got to do, though, is defend your information, I recommend that you let me at your systems. If I could easily get into the Union's information spheres that means that my enemies could do the same to yours.”
“Alright,” said the Countess, “allow him access to our systems.”
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
Thanks! I'm glad you like it.darthdavid wrote:Sweet.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
- - - - -
Peter Black took the private communication from the Bureau in his quarters. It was audio only because anonymity was part of his profession. Before the call came he had his hand checked again, the virus was still spreading, in fact extracting it from his body was rapidly becoming infeasible. He considered having it removed again but shrugged the thought aside. Whatever the virus wanted to do to him his own implants would prevent it from ever expanding too far into him. It had proved useful before and may prove useful again.
“Is the target eliminated?” asked the voice.
“Negative,” said Peter Black, “the target is not eliminated. We encountered a remnant of the Bugs and their plans to strike at Quicksilver, I was forced to coerce the target to our side to accomplish escaping and passing on the warning.” There followed a heavy silence as the Voice, the master of his entire existence though it had never been anything but a deep masculine sound, seemed to contemplate what he had said.
“Your course of action was determined to be correct,” it said at last with all the finality of a judgment from on high.
“The situation demanded adaptability, I offered him a deal,” said Peter Black, “we discovered that the Bugs had somehow acquired a Riven Starkiller.”
“Problematic,” said the Voice, “for currently the Bureau is preoccupied.”
“How so?”
“The Machinists are on the move,” said the Voice, “they have threatened several of the Federation holdings near the Golden Sphere.”
Peter Black leaned back in his chair. The Oalri, in their expansion across many universes, had encountered numerous other trans-universal cultures. The Machinists were the most recent encounter, a race of thinking machines that were extremely aggressive. Until recently, he had supposed, there had been a peace treaty between the Machinists and the Federation.
“The situation with the Bugs cannot wait,” said Peter Black, “we must act at once or else Quicksilver itself may be attacked.”
“It is impossible to breach the defenses of Quicksilver,” said the Voice, “not even the Riven could do that.” But Peter Black heard the minute cracks of uncertainty, microscopic as they were, in the Voice.
“What are my orders then?” he asked.
“You will wait-” the Voice cut off.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” said the Grave Matters quietly, “but there is some kind of anomaly in the Static Zone approaching us. Transmission is being disrupted.”
“Anomaly?” asked Peter Black.
“I am unaware of what it could possibly be,” said the Grave Matters, “but it is approaching rapidly and is quite large. Measurements in the Static Zone are difficult to take accurately, but I can say it is far larger than us and moving very fast.” Peter Black winced slightly as his hand pulsed, he looked down to see a faint blue light pulsing from the veined diagrams covering his hand, they shifted slightly as they seemed to come to life, drifting slowly like seaweed in the current of the ocean. Then he felt it, something out there, something old and hungry, a simple focused mind, vast and yet despite that strangely basic.
“Open communications,” said Peter Black, “attempt to communicate with it.”
“I'm trying to move us out of its path,” said the Grave Matters.
“No, remain where we are,” Peter Black said, picking up his jacket and putting it on. His hand pulsed again and a stream of ice water seemed to run up through his veins in his arm, when it reached his head his mind was filled with impressions, of great hunger, of thousands, if not millions, of different worlds, all strange and wondrous. “We cannot escape it.”
- - - - -
“The plan is simple, yes?” said Gerald to the others gathered at the table. General Resnick was there, and in the short time Gerald had spent with him he had noticed the faded scars that were partially hidden by the reddish brown beard, and an occasional distance to his eyes. There was something deeply personal about the war with the Union for the General, he had the Poll do some digging while Gerald began rewiring their computer systems. The Poll was also doing its best, from the distance, to augment their sensor system, so far the Bugs had not moved openly. Gerald was thankful for that, for if the Bugs were to reveal themselves they would probably support the Union, which would make his task even more difficult.
Information on the General revealed a record of a botched assassination attempt on his life which led to his defection to the Revolution. Gerald also looked up what he could on the Countess Lee and asked Murderwake about her.
“She's one of the old families, like the Murderwakes,” he said, “but I did not know she was one of the major figures in the Revolution.” Gerald considered this along with everything else. Meanwhile the Revolution doctors were puzzled by Murderwake's condition. His condition was so noticeable now that he had to explain to the Revolution how he was altered by an alien artifact which resulted in his enhanced strength and the strange new second skin that had been made from his single-suit.
“The plan,” continued Gerard, “is centered on the Lord-President, we take her out, the way she's set things up the Union will fall into chaos with her taken out of the picture. I can get you control of the capital's systems, orbital defenses, emergency override codes of fleets, all of it. I can't win the war for you, but you'll hold the capital, the question is can you keep the capital?”
“I believe so,” said the General, “there are several commanders in the fleet that I trust are waiting for such a move, the home fleet might fight, but with a move like that I think we can inspire most of the populace. The Lord-President is extremely unpopular.”
“Right,” said Gerald, “so my ship and I take on of your teams of soldiers, we slip into the capital, take the Lord-President into custody, I crack the capital systems, and your fleet arrives as the home fleet and capital defenses are both off-line. Practically bloodless.”
“Sir,” said an officer, behind the General. The General straightened and the man said something softly to the General.
“You are sure you can get into the capital?” asked the Countess Lee, “our own fleet strength is not enough to defeat the home fleet.”
“Can we get into the capital?” Gerald almost laughed, “Getting in is the easy part, the hard part is afterwards, when we're dealing with your alien invaders.”
“Aliens?”
“They've probably already infiltrated your Union's government,” said Gerald, “but I can't be certain of that until I'm on the capital.”
“Madam,” said the General, “the Triad is awake.”
“Triad?” asked Gerald.
“It's something they've got locked up in the complex, deep in the sub-basement,” said the Poll through the com chip. “You want me to check it out?”
“Yeah,” said Gerald sub-vocally. Then aloud he said, “What is the Triad?”
“The Union was secretly working on creating ... something,” said the Countess, “the General managed to steal one of their secret projects before he defected. It was the Triad.”
“That's no good,” said the Poll, “I'm scanning all the way down and I'm picking up a Zealamon.”
“Crap,” said Gerald to the ship, “doesn't anything stay dead in the multi-verse?”
“The Bugs must have given them the technology,” said the Poll, “there's no other way they could have done this on their own.”
“Countess, General,” said Gerald seriously, “you have to destroy that creature.”
“What, are you mad?” asked the General, “You don't know what it is! It's presence has been an enormous boon to the Revolution.”
“Yes, I know what it is, I know better than you do,” said Gerald, “what you've got down there was created through Bug technology, it's forbidden by my people, it's an abomination, it's a Zealamon.”
“Why would they help them create a Zealamon?” asked the ship.
“How better to strike at the Oalri than recreate our greatest enemy?” replied Gerald and then spoke aloud.
“I don't know what you think you've got down there, but it's a Zealamon, and all Zealamon are the same person, you understand? If they've managed to find a piece of one then it has the knowledge of it's entire race in it, and it's been playing you all this time.” Gerald said with as much seriousness as he could muster, “You have to kill it now. Trust me.”
“Oh, it's too late for that,” said someone in the conference room. Someone who wasn't there before. “I've already awakened.” They turned to see the pale young man standing in the room, the lights flickered out, leaving him to be illuminated by the faint blue lights of the computer screens. He smiled and his albino red eyes narrowed. “I didn't know what I was until you showed up, Oalri,” it said the last word hungrily, “and then I remembered, I remembered everything.”
“How did it get out?” asked the Countess, drawing back. An air of malevolence seemed to gather around the Zealamon, his presence was almost a tactile feeling, pressing up against their skin.
“It's complicated,” said Gerald, “and I never thought the Bugs would be so dumb.”
“Oh,” said Zealamon, “I'll help the Bugs, why not? If it will bring you down, cursed stupid Oalri with your little tricks and your meddling.” It stood very very still, swaying ever so slightly on the edge of perception, very much a deadly snake about to strike. It was fast, too fast, Gerald knew.
“Ship,” said Gerald silently.
“It can't hear you,” whispered the chip, “the Zealamon is cutting us off. I have no doubt that the Poll is preparing to destroy this continent.”
“Great,” said Gerald, slipping his multi-tool out of his pocket. The door opened suddenly and everyone nearly jumped, except the Zealamon who seemed to know it was coming, Murderwake and Eve entered the room only to see the Zealamon. Murderwake's markings seemed to burst with golden fire and the Zealamon charged him, moving so quickly he was a blur while Murderwake roared and charged back. They crashed into each other, the impact sending an concussive blast through the conference room. Murderwake punched the Zealamon so hard that it crashed through a wall and was moving so fast, a golden blur, that in a moment they were gone. Gerald got up and checked to see if the General and the Countess were alright. Several other officers were getting up, the General was already on the com ordering in troops.
“Don't bother,” said Gerald, “leave this to me.”
“What is it?” asked the Countess.
“There once was one of my people named Zealamon who created a race of creatures he named after himself, he intended them to be perfect, and they were fairly impressive as perfection goes,” Gerald said, “but, by Quicksilver, they were assholes. Killing every last one of them was necessary and hard.”
“Gerald!” said the Dying Poll, “I've can see the Zealamon is on the move!”
“See if you can-”
“It's gone,” said the Dying Poll, “I just lost it.”
“Gone to join the Bugs no doubt,” said Gerald. Murderwake reappeared, walking sheepishly back into the room, his glowing body now faded to a dull pulsing gold.
“I didn't know I could do that,” he said to Gerald, “all of a sudden I just went crazy.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “I'm glad you did, it would have killed all of us. Are you alright?”
“Oh yeah,” said Murderwake, “I got kind of a hit of its hatred, I can pick up feeling sometimes, that was the hardest part, I don't think it's sane.”
“It has the hatred of all the Zealamon,” said Gerald, “believe me when I say that they're anything but sane.” Several guards arrived to report. All of the Triad's guards were slain, the video recordings showed nothing, they were alive one moment, and then dead the next.
“The Bugs think they can control it,” said the Dying Poll.
Peter Black took the private communication from the Bureau in his quarters. It was audio only because anonymity was part of his profession. Before the call came he had his hand checked again, the virus was still spreading, in fact extracting it from his body was rapidly becoming infeasible. He considered having it removed again but shrugged the thought aside. Whatever the virus wanted to do to him his own implants would prevent it from ever expanding too far into him. It had proved useful before and may prove useful again.
“Is the target eliminated?” asked the voice.
“Negative,” said Peter Black, “the target is not eliminated. We encountered a remnant of the Bugs and their plans to strike at Quicksilver, I was forced to coerce the target to our side to accomplish escaping and passing on the warning.” There followed a heavy silence as the Voice, the master of his entire existence though it had never been anything but a deep masculine sound, seemed to contemplate what he had said.
“Your course of action was determined to be correct,” it said at last with all the finality of a judgment from on high.
“The situation demanded adaptability, I offered him a deal,” said Peter Black, “we discovered that the Bugs had somehow acquired a Riven Starkiller.”
“Problematic,” said the Voice, “for currently the Bureau is preoccupied.”
“How so?”
“The Machinists are on the move,” said the Voice, “they have threatened several of the Federation holdings near the Golden Sphere.”
Peter Black leaned back in his chair. The Oalri, in their expansion across many universes, had encountered numerous other trans-universal cultures. The Machinists were the most recent encounter, a race of thinking machines that were extremely aggressive. Until recently, he had supposed, there had been a peace treaty between the Machinists and the Federation.
“The situation with the Bugs cannot wait,” said Peter Black, “we must act at once or else Quicksilver itself may be attacked.”
“It is impossible to breach the defenses of Quicksilver,” said the Voice, “not even the Riven could do that.” But Peter Black heard the minute cracks of uncertainty, microscopic as they were, in the Voice.
“What are my orders then?” he asked.
“You will wait-” the Voice cut off.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” said the Grave Matters quietly, “but there is some kind of anomaly in the Static Zone approaching us. Transmission is being disrupted.”
“Anomaly?” asked Peter Black.
“I am unaware of what it could possibly be,” said the Grave Matters, “but it is approaching rapidly and is quite large. Measurements in the Static Zone are difficult to take accurately, but I can say it is far larger than us and moving very fast.” Peter Black winced slightly as his hand pulsed, he looked down to see a faint blue light pulsing from the veined diagrams covering his hand, they shifted slightly as they seemed to come to life, drifting slowly like seaweed in the current of the ocean. Then he felt it, something out there, something old and hungry, a simple focused mind, vast and yet despite that strangely basic.
“Open communications,” said Peter Black, “attempt to communicate with it.”
“I'm trying to move us out of its path,” said the Grave Matters.
“No, remain where we are,” Peter Black said, picking up his jacket and putting it on. His hand pulsed again and a stream of ice water seemed to run up through his veins in his arm, when it reached his head his mind was filled with impressions, of great hunger, of thousands, if not millions, of different worlds, all strange and wondrous. “We cannot escape it.”
- - - - -
“The plan is simple, yes?” said Gerald to the others gathered at the table. General Resnick was there, and in the short time Gerald had spent with him he had noticed the faded scars that were partially hidden by the reddish brown beard, and an occasional distance to his eyes. There was something deeply personal about the war with the Union for the General, he had the Poll do some digging while Gerald began rewiring their computer systems. The Poll was also doing its best, from the distance, to augment their sensor system, so far the Bugs had not moved openly. Gerald was thankful for that, for if the Bugs were to reveal themselves they would probably support the Union, which would make his task even more difficult.
Information on the General revealed a record of a botched assassination attempt on his life which led to his defection to the Revolution. Gerald also looked up what he could on the Countess Lee and asked Murderwake about her.
“She's one of the old families, like the Murderwakes,” he said, “but I did not know she was one of the major figures in the Revolution.” Gerald considered this along with everything else. Meanwhile the Revolution doctors were puzzled by Murderwake's condition. His condition was so noticeable now that he had to explain to the Revolution how he was altered by an alien artifact which resulted in his enhanced strength and the strange new second skin that had been made from his single-suit.
“The plan,” continued Gerard, “is centered on the Lord-President, we take her out, the way she's set things up the Union will fall into chaos with her taken out of the picture. I can get you control of the capital's systems, orbital defenses, emergency override codes of fleets, all of it. I can't win the war for you, but you'll hold the capital, the question is can you keep the capital?”
“I believe so,” said the General, “there are several commanders in the fleet that I trust are waiting for such a move, the home fleet might fight, but with a move like that I think we can inspire most of the populace. The Lord-President is extremely unpopular.”
“Right,” said Gerald, “so my ship and I take on of your teams of soldiers, we slip into the capital, take the Lord-President into custody, I crack the capital systems, and your fleet arrives as the home fleet and capital defenses are both off-line. Practically bloodless.”
“Sir,” said an officer, behind the General. The General straightened and the man said something softly to the General.
“You are sure you can get into the capital?” asked the Countess Lee, “our own fleet strength is not enough to defeat the home fleet.”
“Can we get into the capital?” Gerald almost laughed, “Getting in is the easy part, the hard part is afterwards, when we're dealing with your alien invaders.”
“Aliens?”
“They've probably already infiltrated your Union's government,” said Gerald, “but I can't be certain of that until I'm on the capital.”
“Madam,” said the General, “the Triad is awake.”
“Triad?” asked Gerald.
“It's something they've got locked up in the complex, deep in the sub-basement,” said the Poll through the com chip. “You want me to check it out?”
“Yeah,” said Gerald sub-vocally. Then aloud he said, “What is the Triad?”
“The Union was secretly working on creating ... something,” said the Countess, “the General managed to steal one of their secret projects before he defected. It was the Triad.”
“That's no good,” said the Poll, “I'm scanning all the way down and I'm picking up a Zealamon.”
“Crap,” said Gerald to the ship, “doesn't anything stay dead in the multi-verse?”
“The Bugs must have given them the technology,” said the Poll, “there's no other way they could have done this on their own.”
“Countess, General,” said Gerald seriously, “you have to destroy that creature.”
“What, are you mad?” asked the General, “You don't know what it is! It's presence has been an enormous boon to the Revolution.”
“Yes, I know what it is, I know better than you do,” said Gerald, “what you've got down there was created through Bug technology, it's forbidden by my people, it's an abomination, it's a Zealamon.”
“Why would they help them create a Zealamon?” asked the ship.
“How better to strike at the Oalri than recreate our greatest enemy?” replied Gerald and then spoke aloud.
“I don't know what you think you've got down there, but it's a Zealamon, and all Zealamon are the same person, you understand? If they've managed to find a piece of one then it has the knowledge of it's entire race in it, and it's been playing you all this time.” Gerald said with as much seriousness as he could muster, “You have to kill it now. Trust me.”
“Oh, it's too late for that,” said someone in the conference room. Someone who wasn't there before. “I've already awakened.” They turned to see the pale young man standing in the room, the lights flickered out, leaving him to be illuminated by the faint blue lights of the computer screens. He smiled and his albino red eyes narrowed. “I didn't know what I was until you showed up, Oalri,” it said the last word hungrily, “and then I remembered, I remembered everything.”
“How did it get out?” asked the Countess, drawing back. An air of malevolence seemed to gather around the Zealamon, his presence was almost a tactile feeling, pressing up against their skin.
“It's complicated,” said Gerald, “and I never thought the Bugs would be so dumb.”
“Oh,” said Zealamon, “I'll help the Bugs, why not? If it will bring you down, cursed stupid Oalri with your little tricks and your meddling.” It stood very very still, swaying ever so slightly on the edge of perception, very much a deadly snake about to strike. It was fast, too fast, Gerald knew.
“Ship,” said Gerald silently.
“It can't hear you,” whispered the chip, “the Zealamon is cutting us off. I have no doubt that the Poll is preparing to destroy this continent.”
“Great,” said Gerald, slipping his multi-tool out of his pocket. The door opened suddenly and everyone nearly jumped, except the Zealamon who seemed to know it was coming, Murderwake and Eve entered the room only to see the Zealamon. Murderwake's markings seemed to burst with golden fire and the Zealamon charged him, moving so quickly he was a blur while Murderwake roared and charged back. They crashed into each other, the impact sending an concussive blast through the conference room. Murderwake punched the Zealamon so hard that it crashed through a wall and was moving so fast, a golden blur, that in a moment they were gone. Gerald got up and checked to see if the General and the Countess were alright. Several other officers were getting up, the General was already on the com ordering in troops.
“Don't bother,” said Gerald, “leave this to me.”
“What is it?” asked the Countess.
“There once was one of my people named Zealamon who created a race of creatures he named after himself, he intended them to be perfect, and they were fairly impressive as perfection goes,” Gerald said, “but, by Quicksilver, they were assholes. Killing every last one of them was necessary and hard.”
“Gerald!” said the Dying Poll, “I've can see the Zealamon is on the move!”
“See if you can-”
“It's gone,” said the Dying Poll, “I just lost it.”
“Gone to join the Bugs no doubt,” said Gerald. Murderwake reappeared, walking sheepishly back into the room, his glowing body now faded to a dull pulsing gold.
“I didn't know I could do that,” he said to Gerald, “all of a sudden I just went crazy.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “I'm glad you did, it would have killed all of us. Are you alright?”
“Oh yeah,” said Murderwake, “I got kind of a hit of its hatred, I can pick up feeling sometimes, that was the hardest part, I don't think it's sane.”
“It has the hatred of all the Zealamon,” said Gerald, “believe me when I say that they're anything but sane.” Several guards arrived to report. All of the Triad's guards were slain, the video recordings showed nothing, they were alive one moment, and then dead the next.
“The Bugs think they can control it,” said the Dying Poll.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-
darthdavid
- Pathetic Attention Whore
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Thanks! I'm so glad that you're enjoying it.darthdavid wrote:I love how you keep up the action through the whole story and never let it stagnate, you know, what with introducing new characters and plot lines and stuff.
The constant introduction of plot-lines and characters actually scares me. I'm concerned about tying all the plot-lines together in the end, especially since I plan on being mostly done by the 25th of January, but I guess there's nothing to do but keep writing.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
“Now the Bugs know everything we know,” muttered Gerald. “We go through with the plan anyway.”
“But you just said that the Bugs know everything,” the General observed.
“Zealamon are fast, but it will still take him some time to make it to the Bugs, we need to act quickly,” Gerald said, “give me the assault team you me to take in.”
“They were already being assembled,” said the General, “and I'm coming with you.”
“Kind of high ranking, aren't you?” asked Gerald.
“I have business on the capital,” the General said, “my team and I will meet you on the dock.” Gerald turned to the Countess.
“You'll have the fleet ready?” he asked.
“Admiral Al-Akalla assures me that we will arrive on time,” said the Countess, “do not fail us.”
“That won't be a problem,” said Gerald, “just make sure you're on time.” He walked out of the conference room and met Eve who was wearing black body armor like the other Revolution soldiers and carrying a blaster rifle.
“You're coming with us?” he asked. She smiled at him.
“You'd think I'd miss the moment the Union fell?” she replied. Murderwake was in body armor too and also carrying a rifle.
“I explained that I wanted to be along for the ride,” said Murderwake, “besides my new abilities might prove useful.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “I guess you two will be alright. Just make sure you don't mention anything about the Poll, for the moment I think they think it's an elaborately remotely controlled ship. I'd rather not test someone's religious sensibilities.”
“Just because us 'thinking machines' are so much better,” mused the Poll through his chip, “doesn't mean you have a right to keep us down.”
“Actually,” Gerald answered, “it does, are you ready?”
“I'm still cobbled together from a bunch of xenotech but yeah, I can get us there, I'm converting more of my mass to engine as we speak,” said the Poll. “The Revolution assault team is gathering too.”
“Let them aboard,” said Gerald. He turned to Murderwake and Eve.
“You two stay close to me,” Gerald said to them, “I'd rather have people I trust watching my back than these other guys.” They nodded and they walked to the Dying Poll.
“Ever wonder what this is all about?” asked the Dying Poll, “You know, the big picture?”
“Never really had the time,” said Gerald, “maybe after we destroy the Starkiller I'll put some contemplation into it.”
“I thought about it for a few hundred years,” continued the Dying Poll as Gerald walked into the ship.
“Come to any conclusions?”
“It's all about doing the best you can,” said the Dying Poll, “or at least that's my guess.”
“That's the best that a super-intelligent warship could come up with in a hundred years?”
“It's the best I could do,” confirmed the warship, unabashed. “I certainly wasn't built to be a philosopher, I had to learn from the ground up.”
“Alright, let's move out,” said Gerald, walking to the observation room where the General and the rest of the assault team had gathered and stored their equipment.
“How long till we get to the capital?” asked the General, looking around the ship, amazed.
“Well, if we push it to the maximum,” said Gerald, “we're talking about crossing a galaxy, but we want to go faster so the ship has been reconfiguring itself, so I guess a few hours.”
“How do you manage it without a crew?” asked the General, wonderment in his voice.
“Mind power,” said Gerald, putting a finger to his temple, “it's powered by my mind.” He heard the Dying Poll laughing in his chip. He smiled and then froze inside.
“Pardon me a moment, General,” said Gerald as he walked out of the observation room to his quarters.
“Poll,” he said aloud.
“What is it?” asked the ship.
“I can't remember something,” said Gerald, “I should know something and suddenly I didn't.”
“The damage to your neuro-implants were extensive,” said the ship, “we anticipated some memory loss.”
“I can't afford to screw things up right now,” said Gerald, “is there nothing you can do?”
“I've already replaced the most damaged implants, while the rest are repairing,” said the Dying Poll, “but the damage done to you will probably be permanent.”
“Permanent memory loss,” said Gerald softly, then hardened his voice, “scan ahead, give me everything you've can get on the Union computers, I need to make sure I can do this before we get there.”
- - - - -
The Zealamon teleported to another planet. He landed on a hillside overlooking a small forested valley complete with a few farmsteads in the distance. They lay lazily and quietly there, completely unaware of the creature that walked among them. It contemplated killing them because it hated them. Zealamon hated everything. But one hatred took priority over all the little hatreds, hatred of the Oalri and their machinations, for betraying the Zealamon long ago, for every death of every Zealamon that it had to live through over and over again in its clamoring chaotic memories of thousands of lives and deaths. It cast a signal strong enough for the Bugs to home in on, tapping into the frighteningly powerful abilities that even all the Zealamon did not fully understand. Then it waited while it dreamed a mirthful dream of dismembering Harkers. It was so consumed by the daydream that it did not notice the people approaching it until they were almost upon it. It turned to face them, they looked looked terribly small to it's newly awakened perception. It suffered a moment of doubled vision, looking at the world through the once-almost-human Triad, and as the Zealamon. There was an older man, short, a sun darkened farmer, and two obvious sons, each looking about as dull and work worn as their father. The father carried a rifle, an old projectile thrower, practically an antique.
“Who are you?” said the older man roughly. The Zealamon regarded them as did the Triad, observing and observing them, debating whether or not to kill them any everything else on this blighted planet. The Triad, the Zealamon who dreamed it was a human, regarded them almost sadly. But the Zealamon knew only hate.
“I am,” the Zealamon said, as if ripping each word from its chest, “I mean, my name is Triad.”
“What are you doing here?” asked the older man, fidgety. The sons were looking uncomfortable as well. The pale young man in the white robes seemed to almost glow faintly in the growing night. The Zealamon turned its thoughts inward, searching out the conflict that seemed to be growing within it, and then it knew the horrible truth. It was not full Zealamon! The Bugs, in their attempts to reconstruct it, were forced to build from incomplete understanding. There were non-Zealamon elements in its genetics! The horror! The abomination! It's thoughts turned madly inward, spiraling dizzyingly towards some great understanding. It, the Triad, the Zealamon, grabbed its head and swayed, moaning softly.
“Pa,” said one of the boys, quietly, “I don't think he's quite right.”
“You get going now,” said the father and the Zealamon's eyes flickered open, deep pink and feral. It raised a hand to destroy the men, to destroy everything they knew and loved and then he sensed the approach of Bug ships. It grinned then, a fury blossoming within it to avenge its defilers, that they should have created him as a mockery to true Zealamon. But even as it prepared to attack the Bugs it new the greater truth, and perhaps the dream of Triad saw it, that the Oalri were the true enemies. It could not allow itself to be distracted. It turned back to the farmers.
“I'm terribly sorry for intruding,” it said in a new voice, a confident voice. It was all the Oalri's fault. They must all pay. This unifying principle healed the rift inside of it. And the Triad, the quiet unassuming young man gifted with powers beyond his ken, remained but separate. The Zealamon turned its awareness to the Bugs as they searched for it and teleported up to greet its masters and allies.
- - - - -
The Dying Poll raced towards the capital, hurtling through space with all the focus of a hunting beast. It used all of its active stealth abilities to hide from Union ships and planets, passing like death, silently and swiftly, through the core of the Union territory, penetrating like a dagger straight to the heart of the Union. They approached the planet and the Dying Poll dived into the atmosphere.
“Are you ready?” asked Gerald, donning a fresh armor suit that the fabricators had cobbled together. Superficially it resembled one of the Revolutions suits, but it was, by nature of being built by Oalri fabricators, superior. As all things Oalri, he thought, quietly amused with the old beliefs from childhood. The General nodded. “We've downloaded the schematics for the palace into your hand held terminals.”
“The plan looks good,” said General Resnick, “we should be able to catch the President in conference with her lackeys.”
“My ship is scanning now,” said Gerald, “and we think we've got a lock on her, I've modified your terminals to be able to lock onto her as well. She is, interestingly enough, amazingly modified up.”
“She's a paranoid megalomaniac,” said General Resnick, “I'm not surprised that she's probably cyber-wired up beyond all belief. Probably her fear of death.”
“We're within the palace perimeter,” said the Poll, “I'm doing everything I
can right now, I don't think we'll be noticed for a while.”
“Alright,” said Gerald, “when the fun starts get ready.”
“Everyone get ready,” commanded the General and his soldiers prepared. Gerald pulled out his multi-tool and the door opened and they ran into the palace as the security monitors were all suddenly were scanning in other areas. Doors, opened delicately by the Poll, slid open as they approached them and people that crossed their paths, officials or servants or guards, were quickly dispatched silently until they reached the conference room. They opened the door and the assault team flooded in, surrounding the President and her councilors. Gerald looked at the President as he walked in, she was a tall pale woman with long blond hair and a surprisingly intense gaze, her body guards were good, they were already in motion when the General and his men shot them down. The rest of the councilor froze.
“I'm jamming all transmissions out,” said the Poll, Gerald nodded at the General. The General turned to the President.
“General Resnick,” sneered the President, “why am I not surprised that the traitor returns?” The General raised his rifle and fired it twice, two fist sized chunks were blown out of the President's chest, and he lifted his rifle and blew away most of her head. Gerald looked up, startled.
“The plan was to take her prisoner so she could stand trial,” he pointed out. The General turned to him coldly and said nothing. There was something in his eyes that were distant and angry and all at the same time quiet.
Gerald turned and nodded to Murderwake and Eve, “We're going to the palace computer core,” he said aloud. The General nodded and rounded up the rest of the councilors and followed after them. They descended further into the palace until they reached the core of the computer section. Gerald pulled out his multi-tool and ripped open a panel to find that the Union computers were definitely upgraded with some advanced technology, probably from the Bugs, but not advanced enough. He began rewiring, rapidly cutting through the system, within moments he and the Dying Poll were in control of the entire palace computer core and through that most of the capital city. It was merely child's play after that to simple to deactivate all the home fleets central systems, weapons, targeting, engines. Gerald sat down and sighed heavily.
“All done,” he said, “all we need to do now is quietly wait for the calvary to arrive.”
“Gerald,” said the Dying Poll in a tone he recognized.
“Shit,” said Gerald, “what is it?”
“But you just said that the Bugs know everything,” the General observed.
“Zealamon are fast, but it will still take him some time to make it to the Bugs, we need to act quickly,” Gerald said, “give me the assault team you me to take in.”
“They were already being assembled,” said the General, “and I'm coming with you.”
“Kind of high ranking, aren't you?” asked Gerald.
“I have business on the capital,” the General said, “my team and I will meet you on the dock.” Gerald turned to the Countess.
“You'll have the fleet ready?” he asked.
“Admiral Al-Akalla assures me that we will arrive on time,” said the Countess, “do not fail us.”
“That won't be a problem,” said Gerald, “just make sure you're on time.” He walked out of the conference room and met Eve who was wearing black body armor like the other Revolution soldiers and carrying a blaster rifle.
“You're coming with us?” he asked. She smiled at him.
“You'd think I'd miss the moment the Union fell?” she replied. Murderwake was in body armor too and also carrying a rifle.
“I explained that I wanted to be along for the ride,” said Murderwake, “besides my new abilities might prove useful.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “I guess you two will be alright. Just make sure you don't mention anything about the Poll, for the moment I think they think it's an elaborately remotely controlled ship. I'd rather not test someone's religious sensibilities.”
“Just because us 'thinking machines' are so much better,” mused the Poll through his chip, “doesn't mean you have a right to keep us down.”
“Actually,” Gerald answered, “it does, are you ready?”
“I'm still cobbled together from a bunch of xenotech but yeah, I can get us there, I'm converting more of my mass to engine as we speak,” said the Poll. “The Revolution assault team is gathering too.”
“Let them aboard,” said Gerald. He turned to Murderwake and Eve.
“You two stay close to me,” Gerald said to them, “I'd rather have people I trust watching my back than these other guys.” They nodded and they walked to the Dying Poll.
“Ever wonder what this is all about?” asked the Dying Poll, “You know, the big picture?”
“Never really had the time,” said Gerald, “maybe after we destroy the Starkiller I'll put some contemplation into it.”
“I thought about it for a few hundred years,” continued the Dying Poll as Gerald walked into the ship.
“Come to any conclusions?”
“It's all about doing the best you can,” said the Dying Poll, “or at least that's my guess.”
“That's the best that a super-intelligent warship could come up with in a hundred years?”
“It's the best I could do,” confirmed the warship, unabashed. “I certainly wasn't built to be a philosopher, I had to learn from the ground up.”
“Alright, let's move out,” said Gerald, walking to the observation room where the General and the rest of the assault team had gathered and stored their equipment.
“How long till we get to the capital?” asked the General, looking around the ship, amazed.
“Well, if we push it to the maximum,” said Gerald, “we're talking about crossing a galaxy, but we want to go faster so the ship has been reconfiguring itself, so I guess a few hours.”
“How do you manage it without a crew?” asked the General, wonderment in his voice.
“Mind power,” said Gerald, putting a finger to his temple, “it's powered by my mind.” He heard the Dying Poll laughing in his chip. He smiled and then froze inside.
“Pardon me a moment, General,” said Gerald as he walked out of the observation room to his quarters.
“Poll,” he said aloud.
“What is it?” asked the ship.
“I can't remember something,” said Gerald, “I should know something and suddenly I didn't.”
“The damage to your neuro-implants were extensive,” said the ship, “we anticipated some memory loss.”
“I can't afford to screw things up right now,” said Gerald, “is there nothing you can do?”
“I've already replaced the most damaged implants, while the rest are repairing,” said the Dying Poll, “but the damage done to you will probably be permanent.”
“Permanent memory loss,” said Gerald softly, then hardened his voice, “scan ahead, give me everything you've can get on the Union computers, I need to make sure I can do this before we get there.”
- - - - -
The Zealamon teleported to another planet. He landed on a hillside overlooking a small forested valley complete with a few farmsteads in the distance. They lay lazily and quietly there, completely unaware of the creature that walked among them. It contemplated killing them because it hated them. Zealamon hated everything. But one hatred took priority over all the little hatreds, hatred of the Oalri and their machinations, for betraying the Zealamon long ago, for every death of every Zealamon that it had to live through over and over again in its clamoring chaotic memories of thousands of lives and deaths. It cast a signal strong enough for the Bugs to home in on, tapping into the frighteningly powerful abilities that even all the Zealamon did not fully understand. Then it waited while it dreamed a mirthful dream of dismembering Harkers. It was so consumed by the daydream that it did not notice the people approaching it until they were almost upon it. It turned to face them, they looked looked terribly small to it's newly awakened perception. It suffered a moment of doubled vision, looking at the world through the once-almost-human Triad, and as the Zealamon. There was an older man, short, a sun darkened farmer, and two obvious sons, each looking about as dull and work worn as their father. The father carried a rifle, an old projectile thrower, practically an antique.
“Who are you?” said the older man roughly. The Zealamon regarded them as did the Triad, observing and observing them, debating whether or not to kill them any everything else on this blighted planet. The Triad, the Zealamon who dreamed it was a human, regarded them almost sadly. But the Zealamon knew only hate.
“I am,” the Zealamon said, as if ripping each word from its chest, “I mean, my name is Triad.”
“What are you doing here?” asked the older man, fidgety. The sons were looking uncomfortable as well. The pale young man in the white robes seemed to almost glow faintly in the growing night. The Zealamon turned its thoughts inward, searching out the conflict that seemed to be growing within it, and then it knew the horrible truth. It was not full Zealamon! The Bugs, in their attempts to reconstruct it, were forced to build from incomplete understanding. There were non-Zealamon elements in its genetics! The horror! The abomination! It's thoughts turned madly inward, spiraling dizzyingly towards some great understanding. It, the Triad, the Zealamon, grabbed its head and swayed, moaning softly.
“Pa,” said one of the boys, quietly, “I don't think he's quite right.”
“You get going now,” said the father and the Zealamon's eyes flickered open, deep pink and feral. It raised a hand to destroy the men, to destroy everything they knew and loved and then he sensed the approach of Bug ships. It grinned then, a fury blossoming within it to avenge its defilers, that they should have created him as a mockery to true Zealamon. But even as it prepared to attack the Bugs it new the greater truth, and perhaps the dream of Triad saw it, that the Oalri were the true enemies. It could not allow itself to be distracted. It turned back to the farmers.
“I'm terribly sorry for intruding,” it said in a new voice, a confident voice. It was all the Oalri's fault. They must all pay. This unifying principle healed the rift inside of it. And the Triad, the quiet unassuming young man gifted with powers beyond his ken, remained but separate. The Zealamon turned its awareness to the Bugs as they searched for it and teleported up to greet its masters and allies.
- - - - -
The Dying Poll raced towards the capital, hurtling through space with all the focus of a hunting beast. It used all of its active stealth abilities to hide from Union ships and planets, passing like death, silently and swiftly, through the core of the Union territory, penetrating like a dagger straight to the heart of the Union. They approached the planet and the Dying Poll dived into the atmosphere.
“Are you ready?” asked Gerald, donning a fresh armor suit that the fabricators had cobbled together. Superficially it resembled one of the Revolutions suits, but it was, by nature of being built by Oalri fabricators, superior. As all things Oalri, he thought, quietly amused with the old beliefs from childhood. The General nodded. “We've downloaded the schematics for the palace into your hand held terminals.”
“The plan looks good,” said General Resnick, “we should be able to catch the President in conference with her lackeys.”
“My ship is scanning now,” said Gerald, “and we think we've got a lock on her, I've modified your terminals to be able to lock onto her as well. She is, interestingly enough, amazingly modified up.”
“She's a paranoid megalomaniac,” said General Resnick, “I'm not surprised that she's probably cyber-wired up beyond all belief. Probably her fear of death.”
“We're within the palace perimeter,” said the Poll, “I'm doing everything I
can right now, I don't think we'll be noticed for a while.”
“Alright,” said Gerald, “when the fun starts get ready.”
“Everyone get ready,” commanded the General and his soldiers prepared. Gerald pulled out his multi-tool and the door opened and they ran into the palace as the security monitors were all suddenly were scanning in other areas. Doors, opened delicately by the Poll, slid open as they approached them and people that crossed their paths, officials or servants or guards, were quickly dispatched silently until they reached the conference room. They opened the door and the assault team flooded in, surrounding the President and her councilors. Gerald looked at the President as he walked in, she was a tall pale woman with long blond hair and a surprisingly intense gaze, her body guards were good, they were already in motion when the General and his men shot them down. The rest of the councilor froze.
“I'm jamming all transmissions out,” said the Poll, Gerald nodded at the General. The General turned to the President.
“General Resnick,” sneered the President, “why am I not surprised that the traitor returns?” The General raised his rifle and fired it twice, two fist sized chunks were blown out of the President's chest, and he lifted his rifle and blew away most of her head. Gerald looked up, startled.
“The plan was to take her prisoner so she could stand trial,” he pointed out. The General turned to him coldly and said nothing. There was something in his eyes that were distant and angry and all at the same time quiet.
Gerald turned and nodded to Murderwake and Eve, “We're going to the palace computer core,” he said aloud. The General nodded and rounded up the rest of the councilors and followed after them. They descended further into the palace until they reached the core of the computer section. Gerald pulled out his multi-tool and ripped open a panel to find that the Union computers were definitely upgraded with some advanced technology, probably from the Bugs, but not advanced enough. He began rewiring, rapidly cutting through the system, within moments he and the Dying Poll were in control of the entire palace computer core and through that most of the capital city. It was merely child's play after that to simple to deactivate all the home fleets central systems, weapons, targeting, engines. Gerald sat down and sighed heavily.
“All done,” he said, “all we need to do now is quietly wait for the calvary to arrive.”
“Gerald,” said the Dying Poll in a tone he recognized.
“Shit,” said Gerald, “what is it?”
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-
speaker-to-trolls
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1182
- Joined: 2003-11-18 05:46pm
- Location: All Hail Britannia!
Now I maybe reading too much into this, but I think it's interesting that this bit, written from the Zealamons' POV, refers to the Bugs as its 'masters'. Is it perhaps possible that the Bugs have done a better job of reprogramming this thing than either it or Gerald believe?and teleported up to greet its masters and allies
Post Number 1066 achieved Sun Feb 22, 2009 3:19 pm(board time, 8:19GMT)
Batman: What do these guys want anyway?
Superman: Take over the world... Or rob banks, I'm not sure.
Batman: What do these guys want anyway?
Superman: Take over the world... Or rob banks, I'm not sure.
I think that might be a distinct possiblity. Gerald, and most Oalri, are pretty arrogant about their abilities, and since the Zealamon are one of their creations obviously the Bugs are out of their league.speaker-to-trolls wrote:Now I maybe reading too much into this, but I think it's interesting that this bit, written from the Zealamons' POV, refers to the Bugs as its 'masters'. Is it perhaps possible that the Bugs have done a better job of reprogramming this thing than either it or Gerald believe?
I didn't even catch that, thanks for pointing it out!
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
- - - - -
Peter Black disappeared from the Grave Matters. The Grave matters searched anxiously through itself but found only a trace teleport signature where Peter Black used to be. It remained stationary relative to the massive Static Zone distortion which hung like a giant Christmas ornament outside of it, dark and silent. It could not locate Peter Black and it felt its anxiety grow but remained stationary. The anomaly made no aggressive movements that the Grave Matters could discern so it resolved to wait patiently for either Peter Black's return or a sign of the anomaly's hostility.
- - - - -
Peter Black stood in a rust colored desert under a deep blue sky. He scanned the horizon but the only thing he could see consisted of an unbroken skyline of desert and sky. The sun hung fat and heavy over him, balefully glaring yellow above the desert. He scanned the environment with his implants but most of his scans were baffled by some kind of ambient jamming. Apparently he could only rely on his eyes, ears, and the rest of his biological sensory devices. He glanced down at his hand, at the dark thorny vines that blossomed around around his wrist and wove, he knew, all the way up to his elbow. He flexed his hand, extending it up, and tried to feel. He felt something the in the distance, something faint and old, but little more than that. He sighed and checked his pistol. The pistol felt cold and still in his hand, he checked its status and saw that somehow it had been disabled through the teleport. He holstered his pistol and started walking towards the distant presence he felt.
He sank heavily into the sand and the ground seemed to soak up and emanate the heat, he trudged on anyway with all the single minded resolve of a landslide. After what he judged to be a standard hour he noticed something break the endless repetition of sand dunes, a rocky outcropping that jutted out of the desert like a pimple. He made his way towards that, now covered with rust colored dust. Upon reaching it he found that the rocky outcropping formed an opening to a cave, a deep dark looking cave. He felt a strange twinge pass through his arm and he rolled up his sleeve in response, the mark on his arm gave off a dark bluish light. He held his arm up and began walking into the cave, down and down he walked, there were no stairs, only a slight decline that proved treacherous again and again, sliding up from beneath him, but he nimbly recovered his balance and continued on. He walked until he the hallway opened up to a large chamber that housed an underground lake. The air cooled considerably and the moisture seemed like a solid presence after the dry desert air.
A slight hissing drew his attention and he turned to see an old woman, wearing a black robe, sitting on the ground with a large walking stick sitting over one shoulder. She looked up at him, her face hidden by a hood, but he felt ancient mad eyes on him. In his mind they were gray, he did not draw his pistol, despite the interference his implants whispered that bigger things were lurking beneath the depths of this place, larger unknown things that were ancient and vast. His mark sent packets of sadness through his arm, pieces of a sadness so great that he could barely comprehend them.
“Assassin,” said the old woman, croaked like a crow, “why have you come here?”
“You brought me here,” Peter Black pointed out, sitting across from her.
“You were marked by the Laments,” the woman said, clucking softly, gesturing with a wizened hand towards his mark, “not a good thing at all. It was not meant for your kind.”
“It happened by accident,” Peter Black said, “I'll get it removed eventually.”
“Oh? Will you get it removed evenutally?” mocked the woman chuckling softly, “How will you do that now?”
“My people are very skilled,” Peter Black said, “we can remove it.”
“No,” said the woman, “you will never be freed from the mark.” Her voice seemed slightly different, the slight humor that filled it before faded almost as quickly as it arrived. Peter Black sensed, through his mark and by other means, the presence of oracular machinery, someone was using predicting the future.
“That's dangerous,” he said, “to use predictors.”
“You know of that, then? How clever you must think you are. Tell this old old woman why it is so dangerous,” the woman said, sounding irritated now.
“My people are still debating whether or not you create the future when you use a predictor, and the further along in the future you predict, the greater the potential damage can arise from that,” said Peter Black, “my own capabilities extend about fifteen seconds into the future.” Surprised that he revealed something so secret he fell silent. The hooded woman regarded him for a moment.
“It is a dangerous thing,” she said at last, “which is why we waited for you.” She raised a hand as he started to ask a question, “No, you were not who we expected, which is good, we do not want you too weighed down by prophecy. You are the one we waited for, who would lead us to paradise.”
Peter Black looked around and though he saw nothing he suddenly sensed, abstractly through his mark again, that the deep still lake in the cavern teemed over with strange massive life. Vertigo seemed to overwhelm him for a moment as he got the distinct impression that the lake could perhaps be bottomless.
“I don't understand,” he said.
“You were born a slave,” said the woman and a hammer blow slammed into his lower spine. He grunted and fell forward, pain crashing through his head, he spun around but only an empty cave behind him greeted him.
“You were designed to not question,” continued the woman as if nothing happened. Another sharp blow, another crash of pain, and he spasmed again. The pain did not disappear, but remained, slightly lessened, at a consistent level. He looked up at the woman.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked.
“Finding now if your masters have broken you too fully for us to use you,” said the woman, “you're time with them is now at an end.” He tried to stand but his limbs did not respond, having suddenly become heavier.
“You will be our vengeance, our wrath,” said the woman almost sadly, “as you were the wrath of your people, the mysterious ghost, the slayer of your own kin. Assuming, of course, you are the one, we don't know for sure yet. And that's the key, we can't be absolutely certain, for you were right, little killer, certainty is often death.” He began to sink into the ground, slowly at first, but then quicker.
“We will test you and if you prove worthy then you will lead us to paradise,” said the old woman, the sand rose up to his face and he tried to yell, to move, but could do nothing but close his eyes as he sank away.
- - - - - -
The Zealamon who dreamed he was the man Triad stood in a large silver chamber. Before him hovered the silver gold spheres, the representatives of the Ancient Igma, one of the most important founders of the All Unification, the Bugs own name for themselves. Gathered around him were hundreds of different creatures from the civilizations that had joined the All Unification. All were exiles now, of course, since the Unification was driven from their universes by the Oalri, the small tyrants. They gathered like a giant costumed ball, all united by the glowing blue badges they wore, the symbol of the All Unification, drawing light from the Unification Heart, the great source of power built by the Igma long ago when they launched the Great Project. One of the badges, suspended by force fields from one of the spheres, hung before Triad/Zealamon. He, for the moment he considered himself a he, regarded it. Then he reached up and took it in his hand. The badge, modified to be sized for him, felt cool in his hand despite the constant blue light.
“You can understand us now,” said a giant Rex, an ancient member of its species. Its gold and green carapace having faded and cracked. It stood before Triad/Zealamon and he could feel a great weariness upon it. “You were one of the two weapons we forged for our revenge.”
“I am my own revenge,” snorted the Triad/Zealamon, “I-”
“You are a flawed mirror image of an Oalri nightmare,” said one of the spheres in a deep crooning voice, cutting him off.
“We plucked your remains from time,” said another sphere, this voice high and crackly, “it was a great effort, but we could not make you whole.”
“We would not make you whole,” said the third silver gold sphere, this voice little more than a whisper, “you were not perfect, but you were alive, but the Oalri were fools in their design. They committed the crime of killing their children.”
“A crime we have made some attempt to correct,” said the crooning sphere.
“I will kill them all,” said last Zealamon, “but I very much want to kill you for making me as I am, death is preferable for a Zealamon.”
“Ah, but you are more than just all the Zealamon, aren't you?” asked the Rex, and the Triad/Zealamon turned to him, detecting an ancient amusement.
“The Oalri madman, Zealamon, gave his children many gifts but only a capacity for hatred,” spoke the crackling sphere, “and we ... 'completed' his project.”
“You are whole now,” said the whispering sphere, “and perhaps someday you can forgive us for that.”
“What have you done to me?” asked the Triad/Zealamon.
“We finished you, healed the flaw,” said the crooning sphere, “you are still the Zealamon, but you are now the Triad as well, you were born a mortal.”
“But now our second weapon is complete,” said crackling sphere, “and this is where you are needed.”
“The defenses of Quicksilver are impregnable to us,” said the whispering sphere, “but not to a Zealamon, not to one of the Oalri's creations.”
“You need me to deliver the weapon?”
“It cannot be activated fully without damaging too many universes,” said the Rex, “we need you to weave the No-Thing, as is your birthright, to hide it from the Oalri, to slip it through their defenses.”
“They will hunt us through the multi-verse, so great is their madness,” said the crackling sphere, “they must be stopped.”
“You are our savior,” said the crooning sphere.
“You are our great sin,” said the whispering sphere,” for we will sacrifice you for all of us.”
“Why should I help you?” asked Triad/Zealamon, turning to the assembled crowd of aliens, “Why should I help you? You don't know how each moment is agony for me! I never asked for this.” The badge burned in his hand and his racial memories were flooded over with thousands of other memories, impressions, feelings. He suddenly knew why. Through the badges, the Tools of Unification, he could feel everything that was ever connected through the Unification Heart, but what more, he could feel the ocean, the infiniteness, of the Unification Heart's nobility, a tired tragic nobility, but a love too, a great patient love. The Zealamon in him raged and withdrew while the man in him drowned. Then he was whole again, on the floor of the great gathering chamber.
“You will sacrifice yourself for the whole,” sang the spheres in unison. “Because you are now part of us. Even the Zealamon.”
Peter Black disappeared from the Grave Matters. The Grave matters searched anxiously through itself but found only a trace teleport signature where Peter Black used to be. It remained stationary relative to the massive Static Zone distortion which hung like a giant Christmas ornament outside of it, dark and silent. It could not locate Peter Black and it felt its anxiety grow but remained stationary. The anomaly made no aggressive movements that the Grave Matters could discern so it resolved to wait patiently for either Peter Black's return or a sign of the anomaly's hostility.
- - - - -
Peter Black stood in a rust colored desert under a deep blue sky. He scanned the horizon but the only thing he could see consisted of an unbroken skyline of desert and sky. The sun hung fat and heavy over him, balefully glaring yellow above the desert. He scanned the environment with his implants but most of his scans were baffled by some kind of ambient jamming. Apparently he could only rely on his eyes, ears, and the rest of his biological sensory devices. He glanced down at his hand, at the dark thorny vines that blossomed around around his wrist and wove, he knew, all the way up to his elbow. He flexed his hand, extending it up, and tried to feel. He felt something the in the distance, something faint and old, but little more than that. He sighed and checked his pistol. The pistol felt cold and still in his hand, he checked its status and saw that somehow it had been disabled through the teleport. He holstered his pistol and started walking towards the distant presence he felt.
He sank heavily into the sand and the ground seemed to soak up and emanate the heat, he trudged on anyway with all the single minded resolve of a landslide. After what he judged to be a standard hour he noticed something break the endless repetition of sand dunes, a rocky outcropping that jutted out of the desert like a pimple. He made his way towards that, now covered with rust colored dust. Upon reaching it he found that the rocky outcropping formed an opening to a cave, a deep dark looking cave. He felt a strange twinge pass through his arm and he rolled up his sleeve in response, the mark on his arm gave off a dark bluish light. He held his arm up and began walking into the cave, down and down he walked, there were no stairs, only a slight decline that proved treacherous again and again, sliding up from beneath him, but he nimbly recovered his balance and continued on. He walked until he the hallway opened up to a large chamber that housed an underground lake. The air cooled considerably and the moisture seemed like a solid presence after the dry desert air.
A slight hissing drew his attention and he turned to see an old woman, wearing a black robe, sitting on the ground with a large walking stick sitting over one shoulder. She looked up at him, her face hidden by a hood, but he felt ancient mad eyes on him. In his mind they were gray, he did not draw his pistol, despite the interference his implants whispered that bigger things were lurking beneath the depths of this place, larger unknown things that were ancient and vast. His mark sent packets of sadness through his arm, pieces of a sadness so great that he could barely comprehend them.
“Assassin,” said the old woman, croaked like a crow, “why have you come here?”
“You brought me here,” Peter Black pointed out, sitting across from her.
“You were marked by the Laments,” the woman said, clucking softly, gesturing with a wizened hand towards his mark, “not a good thing at all. It was not meant for your kind.”
“It happened by accident,” Peter Black said, “I'll get it removed eventually.”
“Oh? Will you get it removed evenutally?” mocked the woman chuckling softly, “How will you do that now?”
“My people are very skilled,” Peter Black said, “we can remove it.”
“No,” said the woman, “you will never be freed from the mark.” Her voice seemed slightly different, the slight humor that filled it before faded almost as quickly as it arrived. Peter Black sensed, through his mark and by other means, the presence of oracular machinery, someone was using predicting the future.
“That's dangerous,” he said, “to use predictors.”
“You know of that, then? How clever you must think you are. Tell this old old woman why it is so dangerous,” the woman said, sounding irritated now.
“My people are still debating whether or not you create the future when you use a predictor, and the further along in the future you predict, the greater the potential damage can arise from that,” said Peter Black, “my own capabilities extend about fifteen seconds into the future.” Surprised that he revealed something so secret he fell silent. The hooded woman regarded him for a moment.
“It is a dangerous thing,” she said at last, “which is why we waited for you.” She raised a hand as he started to ask a question, “No, you were not who we expected, which is good, we do not want you too weighed down by prophecy. You are the one we waited for, who would lead us to paradise.”
Peter Black looked around and though he saw nothing he suddenly sensed, abstractly through his mark again, that the deep still lake in the cavern teemed over with strange massive life. Vertigo seemed to overwhelm him for a moment as he got the distinct impression that the lake could perhaps be bottomless.
“I don't understand,” he said.
“You were born a slave,” said the woman and a hammer blow slammed into his lower spine. He grunted and fell forward, pain crashing through his head, he spun around but only an empty cave behind him greeted him.
“You were designed to not question,” continued the woman as if nothing happened. Another sharp blow, another crash of pain, and he spasmed again. The pain did not disappear, but remained, slightly lessened, at a consistent level. He looked up at the woman.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked.
“Finding now if your masters have broken you too fully for us to use you,” said the woman, “you're time with them is now at an end.” He tried to stand but his limbs did not respond, having suddenly become heavier.
“You will be our vengeance, our wrath,” said the woman almost sadly, “as you were the wrath of your people, the mysterious ghost, the slayer of your own kin. Assuming, of course, you are the one, we don't know for sure yet. And that's the key, we can't be absolutely certain, for you were right, little killer, certainty is often death.” He began to sink into the ground, slowly at first, but then quicker.
“We will test you and if you prove worthy then you will lead us to paradise,” said the old woman, the sand rose up to his face and he tried to yell, to move, but could do nothing but close his eyes as he sank away.
- - - - - -
The Zealamon who dreamed he was the man Triad stood in a large silver chamber. Before him hovered the silver gold spheres, the representatives of the Ancient Igma, one of the most important founders of the All Unification, the Bugs own name for themselves. Gathered around him were hundreds of different creatures from the civilizations that had joined the All Unification. All were exiles now, of course, since the Unification was driven from their universes by the Oalri, the small tyrants. They gathered like a giant costumed ball, all united by the glowing blue badges they wore, the symbol of the All Unification, drawing light from the Unification Heart, the great source of power built by the Igma long ago when they launched the Great Project. One of the badges, suspended by force fields from one of the spheres, hung before Triad/Zealamon. He, for the moment he considered himself a he, regarded it. Then he reached up and took it in his hand. The badge, modified to be sized for him, felt cool in his hand despite the constant blue light.
“You can understand us now,” said a giant Rex, an ancient member of its species. Its gold and green carapace having faded and cracked. It stood before Triad/Zealamon and he could feel a great weariness upon it. “You were one of the two weapons we forged for our revenge.”
“I am my own revenge,” snorted the Triad/Zealamon, “I-”
“You are a flawed mirror image of an Oalri nightmare,” said one of the spheres in a deep crooning voice, cutting him off.
“We plucked your remains from time,” said another sphere, this voice high and crackly, “it was a great effort, but we could not make you whole.”
“We would not make you whole,” said the third silver gold sphere, this voice little more than a whisper, “you were not perfect, but you were alive, but the Oalri were fools in their design. They committed the crime of killing their children.”
“A crime we have made some attempt to correct,” said the crooning sphere.
“I will kill them all,” said last Zealamon, “but I very much want to kill you for making me as I am, death is preferable for a Zealamon.”
“Ah, but you are more than just all the Zealamon, aren't you?” asked the Rex, and the Triad/Zealamon turned to him, detecting an ancient amusement.
“The Oalri madman, Zealamon, gave his children many gifts but only a capacity for hatred,” spoke the crackling sphere, “and we ... 'completed' his project.”
“You are whole now,” said the whispering sphere, “and perhaps someday you can forgive us for that.”
“What have you done to me?” asked the Triad/Zealamon.
“We finished you, healed the flaw,” said the crooning sphere, “you are still the Zealamon, but you are now the Triad as well, you were born a mortal.”
“But now our second weapon is complete,” said crackling sphere, “and this is where you are needed.”
“The defenses of Quicksilver are impregnable to us,” said the whispering sphere, “but not to a Zealamon, not to one of the Oalri's creations.”
“You need me to deliver the weapon?”
“It cannot be activated fully without damaging too many universes,” said the Rex, “we need you to weave the No-Thing, as is your birthright, to hide it from the Oalri, to slip it through their defenses.”
“They will hunt us through the multi-verse, so great is their madness,” said the crackling sphere, “they must be stopped.”
“You are our savior,” said the crooning sphere.
“You are our great sin,” said the whispering sphere,” for we will sacrifice you for all of us.”
“Why should I help you?” asked Triad/Zealamon, turning to the assembled crowd of aliens, “Why should I help you? You don't know how each moment is agony for me! I never asked for this.” The badge burned in his hand and his racial memories were flooded over with thousands of other memories, impressions, feelings. He suddenly knew why. Through the badges, the Tools of Unification, he could feel everything that was ever connected through the Unification Heart, but what more, he could feel the ocean, the infiniteness, of the Unification Heart's nobility, a tired tragic nobility, but a love too, a great patient love. The Zealamon in him raged and withdrew while the man in him drowned. Then he was whole again, on the floor of the great gathering chamber.
“You will sacrifice yourself for the whole,” sang the spheres in unison. “Because you are now part of us. Even the Zealamon.”
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
- - - - -
“Would you believe that a Bug fleet has just appeared over the capital?” asked the Poll.
“Certainly,” said Gerald, pulling his multi-tool out of the central computer cores.
“They seem to be powering up their weapons,” said the Poll, “I suspect they are going to try and destroy us,” it paused, “and possibly the rest of the planet.”
“I'll take that as a compliment,” said Gerald and turned to General Resnick.
“General, change in plans, the capital is about to be destroyed, you need to get your men back to the Dying Poll now,” Gerald said.
“What about you?” asked General Resnick, motioning for his assault team to start moving out.
“I'm going to try and save the world,” said Gerald, shifting his multi-tool again, “I think that the Bugs have augmented the computer technology enough for me to make a difference.”
“Alright,” said the General, and he ordered his team out, they escorted the high ranking Union officials with them as they left the computer core. Darkvoid and Murderwake remained.
“What are you guys doing?” asked Gerald, as he ripped out some more wiring.
“I figured you could use some help,” said Murderwake.
“Besides,” said Eve, “saving the world sounds more interesting than running for our lives.”
“Once they're aboard,” Gerald said to the Poll, “get them out of here.”
“Roger that,” said the ship.
“Well, if you're going to stay I guess I could use the help,” said Gerald, he motioned towards one of the large computers, a towering black box with blinking red lights. “See if you can't open that one up, I'm going to need it.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Eve, as Murderwake reached up and ripped off a side of the computer with a gentle tug, metal screeched and warped as he easily pulled it off.
“The computer cores here have been upgraded with Bug technology and they are in control of a huge portion of the capital and home fleet,” said Gerald, “I hope to build a weapon to use against them.”
“You can do that?” asked Eve.
“I can try,” said Gerald, adjusting his multi-tool so that it broke into two identical pieces. He gripped one in his mouth while he began altering the computer Murderwake had ripped open.
“The Bugs have built in monitoring devices,” said Gerald, “I think I can use that to my advantage, and,” he punched in a code into a keyboard, “the home fleet and planetary defenses are now back on-line so that should buy us some time.”
“How much time?” asked Murderwake.
“Five minutes if the home fleet is lucky,” said the Dying Poll, “everyone's aboard except you guys.”
“Get going,” said Gerald, “I want you to be clear if the planet gets destroyed.”
“I don't want to leave you guys to die,” said the Poll.
“We won't,” said Gerald, “I've got a plan, just keep your distance and be ready to pick us up.” He took his split multi-tool, a piece in each hand, and began working furiously. In the distance they could hear the palace alarms activating.
“Murderwake,” said Gerald through gritted teeth, “I'm closing the doors but we may get company soon why don't you and Eve get ready, I'm too busy to do anything about them.” He turned his attention back to the computers, the palace was built around a massive power generator and transmitter, so at least he had something to work with. Sweat gathered on his face and he occasionally glanced over at the screen monitoring the planetary defenses. A blast near where his head was a moment before caused him to look up to see that the palace guard had found them and overridden the door. Murderwake and Eve were both behind cover, firing on them with their rifles. The back and forth of blaster rifle fire threatened to do damage that Gerald could not afford. Irritated, Gerald reached over and re-overrode the door, closing it again, cutting them off, for a few moments, from the palace guard.
“Got it,” muttered Gerald, and noticed the Revolution fleet appearing on the monitors. He activated his weapon, using the Bug's own monitoring devices to bypass their security systems, the palace transmitted an energy pulse that ripped through the Bug fleet, tearing through their systems, burning them out as it passed through them. The Bug fleet, once giant and invincible, now hung as lifeless hulks. Gerald turned and whooped, “Got it!”
“How did you do that?” asked Eve, not looking up from the door where the sounds of someone cutting through it were emanating.
“I really don't have time to go into it,” said Gerald, “we just have to get out of here now,” he ran up to the door, reunited his multi-tool, and set it to scan. “There are way too many guards on the other side of this door.”
“Uh ... Gerald,” said the Poll. Murderwake looked up towards the ceiling as if seeing something off in the distance. “This xeno-tech stuff, the stuff that I haven't gotten around to integrating fully, it's acting weird, I think I'm picking up a u-drive.”
“Where?” asked Gerald, “Maybe it's the Bureau forces.”
“No,” said the Poll, “this thing is huge, and it's moving out from here. The thing is, I can't sense it, it's some weird readings I'm get from the chunks made from that alien artifact.”
“It's right,” said Murderwake, “I can't feel it but I can feel the Bugs surviving on those ships. They're happy about something. The weapon. Something about the Weapon.”
“Could they have launched their weapon already?” asked Gerald, “Could they have launched the Starkiller?”
“I can't pick up anything,” said the ship, “and I should be able to, the schematics you found for it was massive. All I can get is a faint reading from these alien sensors which I can barely understand.”
“The Zealamon,” said Murderwake suddenly, “he's out there somewhere, he's hiding it I think.” Gerald cursed and slammed his fist onto a table.
“They're using his No-Thing weavings to hide it from us! Poll you have to get back to us now!”
“I'm on my way!” said the Poll.
“No,” said Murderwake, his voice distant, “it's too late, they're already on they're way, I don't think we can catch them.”
“Poll!” said Gerald, “I didn't come all this way to fail, we've got to go now.”
“I can catch it.” Murderwake said. Eve looked at him incredulous. Gerald looked up.
“How?” he asked Murderwake who looked at him almost startled that he had said it.
“The alien artifact, it's one giant teleport machine, right? I think I can activate it remotely and have it teleport us to that weapon,” said Murderwake, “at least, I think I can.” The marks on his body began to glow, the gold light pouring from him almost too bright for Gerald to look at him directly.
“Well do it then,” said Gerald and the gold light that engulfed Murderwake flared like an explosion.
- - - - -
Peter Black endured an eternity of pain. When he again opened his eyes the absence of pain was almost terrifying so sharp was the contrast. He stood up and saw that he was back in the cave, the old woman still sitting, still watching him. He looked down at himself and saw that the dark swirling marks had again expanded, and that he was naked. The blue marks had grown from his arm to cover most of his chest and back, all the way down to his stomach.
“You are already much altered by your own people with their clever artifices,” said the old woman, “it made what we had to do easier, though harder in some ways since the things in you were stubborn. I apologize for the pain but we had to be sure.”
“What does the pain prove?” asked Peter Black.
“Nothing,” said the old woman, “but there was no way to shield you from it while we made our adjustments.” She pointed an old finger, like the branch from an ancient tree, and Peter Black turned to see his clothing. He dressed quickly, and found his pistol had still been somehow disabled.
“What do you want from me?” he asked when dressed.
“We want you to save us,” said the old woman, “but first we would like you to save one of us. Then the rest. We cannot interfere in what is happening but you, our instrument, can.”
“The Starkiller,” said Peter Black, “you're the Riven.”
“That is what you call us, yes,” said the old woman, “but we have gone by many names.”
“Why can't you interefere?” asked Peter Black, “And what's with this?” He lifted his arm to show her the charcoal blue gray markings.
“We cannot interfere for reasons that are complicated beyond even the Oalri's reasonings,” said the old woman, “long ago we made a mistake involving time and have been caught in our own prison that we built until you've found us.” Peter Black sat down beside her.
“I'm an Oalri assassin,” he said, “I can't help you, I can't betray the Oalri.” Surprised he even said that much he turned his mind inward and found suddenly he felt differently.
“They conditioned you from the moment you came into existence,” said the old woman, “and that is unfortunate. With time we could perhaps break the chains that bind you, but time is something,” he sensed a bitter laughter in her voice, “we do not have enough of, so we simply changed your loyalties, altered the bonds of loyalty to us.” He looked within himself and found it to be true, he felt no more loyalty to the Oalri. Even his implants, their simple intelligences, were now whole-heartedly devoted to the cause of the Riven.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, a calmness of certainty falling over him. Complete certainty that he knew because, no matter what happened to him, he was Peter Black and Peter Black had no time for hesitation or doubt.
- - - - -
The light faded and they found themselves in a hallway far from the palace. Gerald whipped his multi-tool around. The floors were black and highly polished, the walls were gray and unadorned, light came from light fixtures above them.
“Well,” said Gerald, “we're definitely on a ship, and there is definitely something really weird at this things core.” He smiled at the others and said, “We better go stop it.”
- - - - -
Triad/Zealamon looked up from where he stood on the bridge of the Great Vengeance. He tasted the air with a flick of his tongue. He turned to one of the Bug officers.
“Is there intruders on the ship?” he asked.
“Internal sensors have detected nothing,” said the officer, checking a screen.
“Check again,” said the Zealamon, “I taste something in the air.”
“There was a strange energy pulse a few minutes ago,” reported one of the officers, “but with all the strange emissions from the Starkiller we assumed it was due to that.”
“Where was it centered?” asked the Zealamon.
“Around level twenty,” said the officer, “but, like I said, with all the strange readings we keep getting from the Starkiller, it's not unusual.”
“No,” said Triad/Zealamon, “there's a Harker here, I can feel it.”
The officer, a young Rex, turned to him. “How can you sense it?”
“You know that feeling, when the thing you hate most in the world is standing right next to you and all you want to do is pull away in revulsion or be sick?” The Rex looked at him, confused. He continued, “It's like that.”
“Dispatch the Quick,” said the Captain, an Erfor named Chkkik, a rather tall praying mantis looking creature, except that it was a deep red, and long claws ended in manipulating tentacle like fingers.
“Would you believe that a Bug fleet has just appeared over the capital?” asked the Poll.
“Certainly,” said Gerald, pulling his multi-tool out of the central computer cores.
“They seem to be powering up their weapons,” said the Poll, “I suspect they are going to try and destroy us,” it paused, “and possibly the rest of the planet.”
“I'll take that as a compliment,” said Gerald and turned to General Resnick.
“General, change in plans, the capital is about to be destroyed, you need to get your men back to the Dying Poll now,” Gerald said.
“What about you?” asked General Resnick, motioning for his assault team to start moving out.
“I'm going to try and save the world,” said Gerald, shifting his multi-tool again, “I think that the Bugs have augmented the computer technology enough for me to make a difference.”
“Alright,” said the General, and he ordered his team out, they escorted the high ranking Union officials with them as they left the computer core. Darkvoid and Murderwake remained.
“What are you guys doing?” asked Gerald, as he ripped out some more wiring.
“I figured you could use some help,” said Murderwake.
“Besides,” said Eve, “saving the world sounds more interesting than running for our lives.”
“Once they're aboard,” Gerald said to the Poll, “get them out of here.”
“Roger that,” said the ship.
“Well, if you're going to stay I guess I could use the help,” said Gerald, he motioned towards one of the large computers, a towering black box with blinking red lights. “See if you can't open that one up, I'm going to need it.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Eve, as Murderwake reached up and ripped off a side of the computer with a gentle tug, metal screeched and warped as he easily pulled it off.
“The computer cores here have been upgraded with Bug technology and they are in control of a huge portion of the capital and home fleet,” said Gerald, “I hope to build a weapon to use against them.”
“You can do that?” asked Eve.
“I can try,” said Gerald, adjusting his multi-tool so that it broke into two identical pieces. He gripped one in his mouth while he began altering the computer Murderwake had ripped open.
“The Bugs have built in monitoring devices,” said Gerald, “I think I can use that to my advantage, and,” he punched in a code into a keyboard, “the home fleet and planetary defenses are now back on-line so that should buy us some time.”
“How much time?” asked Murderwake.
“Five minutes if the home fleet is lucky,” said the Dying Poll, “everyone's aboard except you guys.”
“Get going,” said Gerald, “I want you to be clear if the planet gets destroyed.”
“I don't want to leave you guys to die,” said the Poll.
“We won't,” said Gerald, “I've got a plan, just keep your distance and be ready to pick us up.” He took his split multi-tool, a piece in each hand, and began working furiously. In the distance they could hear the palace alarms activating.
“Murderwake,” said Gerald through gritted teeth, “I'm closing the doors but we may get company soon why don't you and Eve get ready, I'm too busy to do anything about them.” He turned his attention back to the computers, the palace was built around a massive power generator and transmitter, so at least he had something to work with. Sweat gathered on his face and he occasionally glanced over at the screen monitoring the planetary defenses. A blast near where his head was a moment before caused him to look up to see that the palace guard had found them and overridden the door. Murderwake and Eve were both behind cover, firing on them with their rifles. The back and forth of blaster rifle fire threatened to do damage that Gerald could not afford. Irritated, Gerald reached over and re-overrode the door, closing it again, cutting them off, for a few moments, from the palace guard.
“Got it,” muttered Gerald, and noticed the Revolution fleet appearing on the monitors. He activated his weapon, using the Bug's own monitoring devices to bypass their security systems, the palace transmitted an energy pulse that ripped through the Bug fleet, tearing through their systems, burning them out as it passed through them. The Bug fleet, once giant and invincible, now hung as lifeless hulks. Gerald turned and whooped, “Got it!”
“How did you do that?” asked Eve, not looking up from the door where the sounds of someone cutting through it were emanating.
“I really don't have time to go into it,” said Gerald, “we just have to get out of here now,” he ran up to the door, reunited his multi-tool, and set it to scan. “There are way too many guards on the other side of this door.”
“Uh ... Gerald,” said the Poll. Murderwake looked up towards the ceiling as if seeing something off in the distance. “This xeno-tech stuff, the stuff that I haven't gotten around to integrating fully, it's acting weird, I think I'm picking up a u-drive.”
“Where?” asked Gerald, “Maybe it's the Bureau forces.”
“No,” said the Poll, “this thing is huge, and it's moving out from here. The thing is, I can't sense it, it's some weird readings I'm get from the chunks made from that alien artifact.”
“It's right,” said Murderwake, “I can't feel it but I can feel the Bugs surviving on those ships. They're happy about something. The weapon. Something about the Weapon.”
“Could they have launched their weapon already?” asked Gerald, “Could they have launched the Starkiller?”
“I can't pick up anything,” said the ship, “and I should be able to, the schematics you found for it was massive. All I can get is a faint reading from these alien sensors which I can barely understand.”
“The Zealamon,” said Murderwake suddenly, “he's out there somewhere, he's hiding it I think.” Gerald cursed and slammed his fist onto a table.
“They're using his No-Thing weavings to hide it from us! Poll you have to get back to us now!”
“I'm on my way!” said the Poll.
“No,” said Murderwake, his voice distant, “it's too late, they're already on they're way, I don't think we can catch them.”
“Poll!” said Gerald, “I didn't come all this way to fail, we've got to go now.”
“I can catch it.” Murderwake said. Eve looked at him incredulous. Gerald looked up.
“How?” he asked Murderwake who looked at him almost startled that he had said it.
“The alien artifact, it's one giant teleport machine, right? I think I can activate it remotely and have it teleport us to that weapon,” said Murderwake, “at least, I think I can.” The marks on his body began to glow, the gold light pouring from him almost too bright for Gerald to look at him directly.
“Well do it then,” said Gerald and the gold light that engulfed Murderwake flared like an explosion.
- - - - -
Peter Black endured an eternity of pain. When he again opened his eyes the absence of pain was almost terrifying so sharp was the contrast. He stood up and saw that he was back in the cave, the old woman still sitting, still watching him. He looked down at himself and saw that the dark swirling marks had again expanded, and that he was naked. The blue marks had grown from his arm to cover most of his chest and back, all the way down to his stomach.
“You are already much altered by your own people with their clever artifices,” said the old woman, “it made what we had to do easier, though harder in some ways since the things in you were stubborn. I apologize for the pain but we had to be sure.”
“What does the pain prove?” asked Peter Black.
“Nothing,” said the old woman, “but there was no way to shield you from it while we made our adjustments.” She pointed an old finger, like the branch from an ancient tree, and Peter Black turned to see his clothing. He dressed quickly, and found his pistol had still been somehow disabled.
“What do you want from me?” he asked when dressed.
“We want you to save us,” said the old woman, “but first we would like you to save one of us. Then the rest. We cannot interfere in what is happening but you, our instrument, can.”
“The Starkiller,” said Peter Black, “you're the Riven.”
“That is what you call us, yes,” said the old woman, “but we have gone by many names.”
“Why can't you interefere?” asked Peter Black, “And what's with this?” He lifted his arm to show her the charcoal blue gray markings.
“We cannot interfere for reasons that are complicated beyond even the Oalri's reasonings,” said the old woman, “long ago we made a mistake involving time and have been caught in our own prison that we built until you've found us.” Peter Black sat down beside her.
“I'm an Oalri assassin,” he said, “I can't help you, I can't betray the Oalri.” Surprised he even said that much he turned his mind inward and found suddenly he felt differently.
“They conditioned you from the moment you came into existence,” said the old woman, “and that is unfortunate. With time we could perhaps break the chains that bind you, but time is something,” he sensed a bitter laughter in her voice, “we do not have enough of, so we simply changed your loyalties, altered the bonds of loyalty to us.” He looked within himself and found it to be true, he felt no more loyalty to the Oalri. Even his implants, their simple intelligences, were now whole-heartedly devoted to the cause of the Riven.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, a calmness of certainty falling over him. Complete certainty that he knew because, no matter what happened to him, he was Peter Black and Peter Black had no time for hesitation or doubt.
- - - - -
The light faded and they found themselves in a hallway far from the palace. Gerald whipped his multi-tool around. The floors were black and highly polished, the walls were gray and unadorned, light came from light fixtures above them.
“Well,” said Gerald, “we're definitely on a ship, and there is definitely something really weird at this things core.” He smiled at the others and said, “We better go stop it.”
- - - - -
Triad/Zealamon looked up from where he stood on the bridge of the Great Vengeance. He tasted the air with a flick of his tongue. He turned to one of the Bug officers.
“Is there intruders on the ship?” he asked.
“Internal sensors have detected nothing,” said the officer, checking a screen.
“Check again,” said the Zealamon, “I taste something in the air.”
“There was a strange energy pulse a few minutes ago,” reported one of the officers, “but with all the strange emissions from the Starkiller we assumed it was due to that.”
“Where was it centered?” asked the Zealamon.
“Around level twenty,” said the officer, “but, like I said, with all the strange readings we keep getting from the Starkiller, it's not unusual.”
“No,” said Triad/Zealamon, “there's a Harker here, I can feel it.”
The officer, a young Rex, turned to him. “How can you sense it?”
“You know that feeling, when the thing you hate most in the world is standing right next to you and all you want to do is pull away in revulsion or be sick?” The Rex looked at him, confused. He continued, “It's like that.”
“Dispatch the Quick,” said the Captain, an Erfor named Chkkik, a rather tall praying mantis looking creature, except that it was a deep red, and long claws ended in manipulating tentacle like fingers.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-
darthdavid
- Pathetic Attention Whore
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Thanks! I didn't feel so confident about the last few but having written something is always better in my book than nothing.darthdavid wrote:Good work. I'm liking where this is going.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
- - - - -
Gerald ran, followed by Murderwake and Eve. Gerald kept his using his multi-tool to guide him until he found a terminal.
“You two watch my back,” said Gerald, “I've got to shut down their u-drive before they exit this universe.” With that he turned around and began taking apart the terminal.
“That's your solution to everything,” muttered Murderwake, “just take it apart and rebuild it, why don't you ever try something new?” Eve motioned for him to walk down to one corner while she went to the other end of the hallway and got down on one knee, rifle held up to her shoulder.
“I expected you two to be a bit more jovial since we just won your War with the Union,” grunted Gerald as he worked.
“Gerald, something is coming, something fast,” said Murderwake urgently, raising his rifle, “They're really fast.” Eve tensed as well, Gerald looked up and licked the air like a snake smelling for prey.
“Oh, that's bad,” he said, “there are Quick on the move, they're going slow, but they're definitely approaching.”
“Can you do anything about them?” asked Murderwake.
“I can't until I get this u-drive off-line, or better yet exploding,” said Gerald, “you're the man of exceptional talents, can't you do anything?”
“You won't be able to do a damn thing if your dead,” snarled Eve, “do something Gerald!” She saw flickers of movement, like moving shadows, the Quick were indeed moving slowly, she opened fire, the hallway lights dying instantly in one moment at the same time lit by the muzzle flashes of her rifle.
“Shit, the Quick have cut the power in this section,” said Gerald, “what I wouldn't give for a graphuron ...”
A Quick appeared beside Eve, wrenching the rifle from her hand and raising up a dark metal fist to punch through her. It happened so quickly she could only turn in horror. The fist slammed into her head, the fist punching through the wall. Only Eve was not there any longer. Murderwake stood beside the Quick, Eve held at one side. Murderwake looked down the dark hallway with eyes that were cobwebbed with golden veins.
“There are three of them,” he said.
“Buy me a few minutes,” said Gerald, reaching down and hooking the terminal to his multi-tool, “I'm almost done.”
“Sure,” said Murderwake and then disappeared. Eve watched down the dark hallway as flashes of gold light burst out almost at random. At moments she saw Murderwake frozen in midair, three dark humanoid shapes clinging to him. The bursts of light started to come faster and faster and the air started to whirl and howl like a tornado was building in the hallway.
- - - - -
“Sir!” said one of the ensigns, “The u-drive is off-line! We falling back into real space!”
“It's that damn Harker,” said Triad/Zealamon. Chkkik spun around on its four legs and pointed a long tentacled arm at its second, a small but competent Boran.
“Get that drive back on-line! Locate and exterminate the Harker!”
“We've lost contact with the Quick dispatched to level twenty, there's some kind of jamming down there!” said another ensign. Chkkik cursed all the brood mothers from beyond the pale of time. The massive Great Weapon out-massed the planet that Chkkik's people originally came from, and unfortunately the Bugs designed it to be highly automated.
“I'll deal with them,” said the Zealamon, Chkkik turned one of its eyes to the strange creature. There was an aura of malevolence around the creature, an instability at its core that Chkkik wondered at the wisdom of the leaders of the Unification why they brought this creature into existence. But Chkkik trusted its hatred, that was pure and predictable.
“Go then,” said Chkkik, “our mission must not fail.” The Zealamon smiled and suddenly gone with a popping of air. Chkkik snarled at another ensign and ordered the precious core of the Great Weapon sealed off.
“The Harker is in our systems,” said the ensign, “he's slipping past our security systems! Corrupting our intelligences!” Chkkik, for a moment, remembered when he was but a little larva, back on his homeworld, members of the Unification gained the benefits of the Unification longevity technology, and remembered when the Destroyer, the Harker that had come to the Unification long ago and destroyed them and the Thousand Homeworlds.
“Do whatever it takes,” said Chkkik, “buy us time if you have to, until we can kill him.” He felt the old hatred stir in his hearts, and knew that the Unification did not teach hatred, but he felt it anyway. The Unification never managed to catch the Destroyer and the lack of revenge irked Chkkik his entire life.
“We must get to Quicksilver,” he muttered to himself.
- - - - -
Murderwake's fist slammed into a dark humanoids head, slamming into the ground as another one kicked him in the back at a speed that would have shattered his spine and most of his internal organs, but instead it just hurt like hell, and he flew forward to land on one hand and kick both feet out to kick the Quick into a wall, that crumpled and rippled outward as the Quick made impact. Another fist connected with his head, sending him spiraling away, but he landed on all fours and leaped back at them, and the fray continued.
- - - - -
“They're going to kill him!” shouted Eve.
“Probably,” said Gerald, “I wish I had gotten a better look at that nanotech virus he had been infected with, the capabilities he exhibiting are well beyond what the Poll and I expected.” He typed something into the terminal and then read some of the graphs that it displayed. He smiled and turned the multi-tool at the Quick and waved it once, it gave off a weak blue light and then suddenly the darkened hallway was filled with three inert robotic forms of the Quick. Murderwake stood in the center, holding one above him with both arms, he looked surprised and confused.
“I was winning,” he said aloud, though hard to make out since the entire left side of his face was swollen up. His body armor, ripped away, revealed the golden pulsing webbed pattern of golden lines that covered his entire body over the single-suit he wore, which Gerald noticed seemed to have hardened into a kind of armor of its own.
“Yes, but really slowly,” said Gerald, “we have to go now, to the core. I erected some shielding around this area, it cut the Quick off from their source of power.” He turned and ran, Eve followed him. Murderwake, tossing the Quick aside, limped after them. Gerald would occasionally stop and pull out his multi-tool and make some small adjustments, it would shift shapes a few times in his hands as he manipulated it in some way neither Eve or Murderwake could understand then kept running.
“I'm keeping the Bugs off guard,” said Gerald, “keeping them jammed out of as much of this damned ship as I can.” He stopped at an elevator and then checked the controls with his multi-tool.
“Murderwake,” Gerald said without looking up from the controls, “open this door would you?” Murderwake nodded and walked forward, pushing his fingers into the single line dividing the elevator doors and, gritting his teeth, pulled as hard as he could. The doors screeched and then slowly began to bend. Murderwake adjusted his grip and pulled them so that they flared out towards him. The massive cavernous elevator shaft greeted them.
“Well,” said Gerald, “going down.” He looked into the shaft and then climbed gingerly in, reaching into a pocket and retrieving a small pellet, and slipped it into his multi-tool. He pointed it at a far wall and the pellet shot out and stuck to the opposite wall.
“You two hold onto me,” said Gerald, “because we're going down as fast as I can manage.” They walked forward and took a hold of him from either side and then he jumped off the small ledge.
- - - - -
“We've lost control of several of the levels,” said the ensign, “they could be anywhere!”
“They're heading to the core,” said Chkkik. It turned and its second, a Boran named Nereb, appeared caring the small metallic shape of a rather esoteric weapon that Chkkik had only met two other sentients capable of mastering.
“Permission to lead a group of volunteers to the core to defend the Starkiller, sir,” said Nereb. Chkkik looked at his old friend, a strange pairing, considering the Boran was less than half Chkkik's height, a small furry big eared creature that almost looked ridiculous, until you watched Nereb's eyes when he spoke of the Thousand Homeworlds. Then it was very easy to fear him.
“Take whomever you need,” said Chkkik, and as Nereb turned to go he added, “and good luck.”
“Yes sir,” said Nereb, “I won't let you down.” Chkkik turned back to monitor the teams working on the u-drive. The current estimate was they could get the u-drive on-line again in eight standard minutes, too slow by far if the Harker got to the core.
- - - - -
Triad/Zealamon was forced to walk through portions of the volume of the ship, due the jamming that the Harker had erected in sections of the ship. It prevented him from just teleporting around, though teleporting was always more accurate over long distances than short anyway, so it walked. It could almost smell the presence of the Oalri and the strange golden creature it fought on the Revolution world but it felt in no hurry. In the distance of its own mind it felt a strange certainty that they would meet again before this was all done. Other Zealamon, figments, memory ghosts, gathered around him as he walked towards the core. They regarded him coldly, too proud to speak to their half-Zealamon successor, ashamed of him, hating him, but needing him nonetheless and hating him all the more because of that. He regarded them sadly, knowing them to be true and perfect and himself to be flawed beyond saving.
“I will not fail you,” he said to them, to all of them, but they did not listen. They only turned their eyes towards the Harker, the only thing that could eclipse their hatred of an abomination like Triad/Zealamon was an Oalri.
“I will kill the Harker,” said Triad/Zealamon, breaking into a run, “I will kill them all, and join you.” He knew if he destroyed Quicksilver, even if he died in the process, they would accept him. They would accept him, even forgive him for consorting with the Bugs, even forgive him for existing and in those moments he would be alone no longer.
- - - - -
They slammed into the bottom of the elevator shaft, when the smoke cleared though they were unharmed. Gerald turned and waved his multi-tool and then motioned for Murderwake to open the elevator door in front of them. Eve and Murderwake were both surprised to be alive, they kept touching their heads and looking around at the small crater they had formed in landing.
“Come on, Murderwake,” said Gerald, “we don't have all day.”
Murderwake walked forward and simply punched through this door, tearing through the metal as if it were clay and they found themselves in a large chamber built around a strange mass of cables, forming a pillar in the center, tangled in the heart of it was a long dear-drop looking object, as large as a star-fighter. Only its surface seemed to be made of water, the cables from the ceiling and the floor seemed to be attached to it.
“What is it?” asked Eve, gazing up at it as they walked in.
“It's a Starkiller,” said Gerald, “it's the heart of this weapon. All we have to do is- get back!” Pushing both her and Murderwake back as chunks of the wall around them exploded. Whirling fire from the distance and on the other side of the room Gerald could make out shapes of Bugs approaching. He looked around and saw there was a control panel at the base of the pillar containing the Starkiller.
“I need to get over there,” he said to Murderwake and Eve.
Gerald ran, followed by Murderwake and Eve. Gerald kept his using his multi-tool to guide him until he found a terminal.
“You two watch my back,” said Gerald, “I've got to shut down their u-drive before they exit this universe.” With that he turned around and began taking apart the terminal.
“That's your solution to everything,” muttered Murderwake, “just take it apart and rebuild it, why don't you ever try something new?” Eve motioned for him to walk down to one corner while she went to the other end of the hallway and got down on one knee, rifle held up to her shoulder.
“I expected you two to be a bit more jovial since we just won your War with the Union,” grunted Gerald as he worked.
“Gerald, something is coming, something fast,” said Murderwake urgently, raising his rifle, “They're really fast.” Eve tensed as well, Gerald looked up and licked the air like a snake smelling for prey.
“Oh, that's bad,” he said, “there are Quick on the move, they're going slow, but they're definitely approaching.”
“Can you do anything about them?” asked Murderwake.
“I can't until I get this u-drive off-line, or better yet exploding,” said Gerald, “you're the man of exceptional talents, can't you do anything?”
“You won't be able to do a damn thing if your dead,” snarled Eve, “do something Gerald!” She saw flickers of movement, like moving shadows, the Quick were indeed moving slowly, she opened fire, the hallway lights dying instantly in one moment at the same time lit by the muzzle flashes of her rifle.
“Shit, the Quick have cut the power in this section,” said Gerald, “what I wouldn't give for a graphuron ...”
A Quick appeared beside Eve, wrenching the rifle from her hand and raising up a dark metal fist to punch through her. It happened so quickly she could only turn in horror. The fist slammed into her head, the fist punching through the wall. Only Eve was not there any longer. Murderwake stood beside the Quick, Eve held at one side. Murderwake looked down the dark hallway with eyes that were cobwebbed with golden veins.
“There are three of them,” he said.
“Buy me a few minutes,” said Gerald, reaching down and hooking the terminal to his multi-tool, “I'm almost done.”
“Sure,” said Murderwake and then disappeared. Eve watched down the dark hallway as flashes of gold light burst out almost at random. At moments she saw Murderwake frozen in midair, three dark humanoid shapes clinging to him. The bursts of light started to come faster and faster and the air started to whirl and howl like a tornado was building in the hallway.
- - - - -
“Sir!” said one of the ensigns, “The u-drive is off-line! We falling back into real space!”
“It's that damn Harker,” said Triad/Zealamon. Chkkik spun around on its four legs and pointed a long tentacled arm at its second, a small but competent Boran.
“Get that drive back on-line! Locate and exterminate the Harker!”
“We've lost contact with the Quick dispatched to level twenty, there's some kind of jamming down there!” said another ensign. Chkkik cursed all the brood mothers from beyond the pale of time. The massive Great Weapon out-massed the planet that Chkkik's people originally came from, and unfortunately the Bugs designed it to be highly automated.
“I'll deal with them,” said the Zealamon, Chkkik turned one of its eyes to the strange creature. There was an aura of malevolence around the creature, an instability at its core that Chkkik wondered at the wisdom of the leaders of the Unification why they brought this creature into existence. But Chkkik trusted its hatred, that was pure and predictable.
“Go then,” said Chkkik, “our mission must not fail.” The Zealamon smiled and suddenly gone with a popping of air. Chkkik snarled at another ensign and ordered the precious core of the Great Weapon sealed off.
“The Harker is in our systems,” said the ensign, “he's slipping past our security systems! Corrupting our intelligences!” Chkkik, for a moment, remembered when he was but a little larva, back on his homeworld, members of the Unification gained the benefits of the Unification longevity technology, and remembered when the Destroyer, the Harker that had come to the Unification long ago and destroyed them and the Thousand Homeworlds.
“Do whatever it takes,” said Chkkik, “buy us time if you have to, until we can kill him.” He felt the old hatred stir in his hearts, and knew that the Unification did not teach hatred, but he felt it anyway. The Unification never managed to catch the Destroyer and the lack of revenge irked Chkkik his entire life.
“We must get to Quicksilver,” he muttered to himself.
- - - - -
Murderwake's fist slammed into a dark humanoids head, slamming into the ground as another one kicked him in the back at a speed that would have shattered his spine and most of his internal organs, but instead it just hurt like hell, and he flew forward to land on one hand and kick both feet out to kick the Quick into a wall, that crumpled and rippled outward as the Quick made impact. Another fist connected with his head, sending him spiraling away, but he landed on all fours and leaped back at them, and the fray continued.
- - - - -
“They're going to kill him!” shouted Eve.
“Probably,” said Gerald, “I wish I had gotten a better look at that nanotech virus he had been infected with, the capabilities he exhibiting are well beyond what the Poll and I expected.” He typed something into the terminal and then read some of the graphs that it displayed. He smiled and turned the multi-tool at the Quick and waved it once, it gave off a weak blue light and then suddenly the darkened hallway was filled with three inert robotic forms of the Quick. Murderwake stood in the center, holding one above him with both arms, he looked surprised and confused.
“I was winning,” he said aloud, though hard to make out since the entire left side of his face was swollen up. His body armor, ripped away, revealed the golden pulsing webbed pattern of golden lines that covered his entire body over the single-suit he wore, which Gerald noticed seemed to have hardened into a kind of armor of its own.
“Yes, but really slowly,” said Gerald, “we have to go now, to the core. I erected some shielding around this area, it cut the Quick off from their source of power.” He turned and ran, Eve followed him. Murderwake, tossing the Quick aside, limped after them. Gerald would occasionally stop and pull out his multi-tool and make some small adjustments, it would shift shapes a few times in his hands as he manipulated it in some way neither Eve or Murderwake could understand then kept running.
“I'm keeping the Bugs off guard,” said Gerald, “keeping them jammed out of as much of this damned ship as I can.” He stopped at an elevator and then checked the controls with his multi-tool.
“Murderwake,” Gerald said without looking up from the controls, “open this door would you?” Murderwake nodded and walked forward, pushing his fingers into the single line dividing the elevator doors and, gritting his teeth, pulled as hard as he could. The doors screeched and then slowly began to bend. Murderwake adjusted his grip and pulled them so that they flared out towards him. The massive cavernous elevator shaft greeted them.
“Well,” said Gerald, “going down.” He looked into the shaft and then climbed gingerly in, reaching into a pocket and retrieving a small pellet, and slipped it into his multi-tool. He pointed it at a far wall and the pellet shot out and stuck to the opposite wall.
“You two hold onto me,” said Gerald, “because we're going down as fast as I can manage.” They walked forward and took a hold of him from either side and then he jumped off the small ledge.
- - - - -
“We've lost control of several of the levels,” said the ensign, “they could be anywhere!”
“They're heading to the core,” said Chkkik. It turned and its second, a Boran named Nereb, appeared caring the small metallic shape of a rather esoteric weapon that Chkkik had only met two other sentients capable of mastering.
“Permission to lead a group of volunteers to the core to defend the Starkiller, sir,” said Nereb. Chkkik looked at his old friend, a strange pairing, considering the Boran was less than half Chkkik's height, a small furry big eared creature that almost looked ridiculous, until you watched Nereb's eyes when he spoke of the Thousand Homeworlds. Then it was very easy to fear him.
“Take whomever you need,” said Chkkik, and as Nereb turned to go he added, “and good luck.”
“Yes sir,” said Nereb, “I won't let you down.” Chkkik turned back to monitor the teams working on the u-drive. The current estimate was they could get the u-drive on-line again in eight standard minutes, too slow by far if the Harker got to the core.
- - - - -
Triad/Zealamon was forced to walk through portions of the volume of the ship, due the jamming that the Harker had erected in sections of the ship. It prevented him from just teleporting around, though teleporting was always more accurate over long distances than short anyway, so it walked. It could almost smell the presence of the Oalri and the strange golden creature it fought on the Revolution world but it felt in no hurry. In the distance of its own mind it felt a strange certainty that they would meet again before this was all done. Other Zealamon, figments, memory ghosts, gathered around him as he walked towards the core. They regarded him coldly, too proud to speak to their half-Zealamon successor, ashamed of him, hating him, but needing him nonetheless and hating him all the more because of that. He regarded them sadly, knowing them to be true and perfect and himself to be flawed beyond saving.
“I will not fail you,” he said to them, to all of them, but they did not listen. They only turned their eyes towards the Harker, the only thing that could eclipse their hatred of an abomination like Triad/Zealamon was an Oalri.
“I will kill the Harker,” said Triad/Zealamon, breaking into a run, “I will kill them all, and join you.” He knew if he destroyed Quicksilver, even if he died in the process, they would accept him. They would accept him, even forgive him for consorting with the Bugs, even forgive him for existing and in those moments he would be alone no longer.
- - - - -
They slammed into the bottom of the elevator shaft, when the smoke cleared though they were unharmed. Gerald turned and waved his multi-tool and then motioned for Murderwake to open the elevator door in front of them. Eve and Murderwake were both surprised to be alive, they kept touching their heads and looking around at the small crater they had formed in landing.
“Come on, Murderwake,” said Gerald, “we don't have all day.”
Murderwake walked forward and simply punched through this door, tearing through the metal as if it were clay and they found themselves in a large chamber built around a strange mass of cables, forming a pillar in the center, tangled in the heart of it was a long dear-drop looking object, as large as a star-fighter. Only its surface seemed to be made of water, the cables from the ceiling and the floor seemed to be attached to it.
“What is it?” asked Eve, gazing up at it as they walked in.
“It's a Starkiller,” said Gerald, “it's the heart of this weapon. All we have to do is- get back!” Pushing both her and Murderwake back as chunks of the wall around them exploded. Whirling fire from the distance and on the other side of the room Gerald could make out shapes of Bugs approaching. He looked around and saw there was a control panel at the base of the pillar containing the Starkiller.
“I need to get over there,” he said to Murderwake and Eve.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-
speaker-to-trolls
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1182
- Joined: 2003-11-18 05:46pm
- Location: All Hail Britannia!
Aha, very good, now how the hell is Gerald going to have time to do whatever he needs to do with a Bug fire team and Triad/Zealamon trying to take him down?
Post Number 1066 achieved Sun Feb 22, 2009 3:19 pm(board time, 8:19GMT)
Batman: What do these guys want anyway?
Superman: Take over the world... Or rob banks, I'm not sure.
Batman: What do these guys want anyway?
Superman: Take over the world... Or rob banks, I'm not sure.
Thank you! I'm not exactly sure myself. Especially since I intend to keep writing until the twenty fifth, whether or not if I have any story left ... I'm hoping to avoid anything too deus ex machina ...speaker-to-trolls wrote:Aha, very good, now how the hell is Gerald going to have time to do whatever he needs to do with a Bug fire team and Triad/Zealamon trying to take him down?
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
That does seem to be the way it's going ... Thanks for reading this far!Vianca wrote:Gues that it is Black to the rescue.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
The Grave Matters and the Dying Poll aren't approaching Starkiller status, at least at this time, at best the Dying Poll is gaining abilities somewhat similar to Murderwake's or Black's plot-powers.Vianca wrote:Are Grave Matters and Dying Poll getting Starkiller/Riven status?
Will Eve almost become a bug (for 100%)?
Would be fun.
The Eve becoming a Bug would be kind of interesting, but I don't think that's going to happen either. Still, it would be cool.
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-
speaker-to-trolls
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1182
- Joined: 2003-11-18 05:46pm
- Location: All Hail Britannia!
She hasn't shown any indication of really sympathising with them, maybe a bit when the blue dude tried to give her and Murderwake his side of the story, but at the moment it's the Bugs who are trying to kill her and Gerald who's brought down the 'evil empire' she's spent so long fighting, so she probably hasn't given their point much consideration (probably hasn't had time to either, things move fast around here 
).
I think she might become a Bug if she was captured and they explained the situation in detail to her toward that end, but I can't think why they would want to do that.
).I think she might become a Bug if she was captured and they explained the situation in detail to her toward that end, but I can't think why they would want to do that.
Post Number 1066 achieved Sun Feb 22, 2009 3:19 pm(board time, 8:19GMT)
Batman: What do these guys want anyway?
Superman: Take over the world... Or rob banks, I'm not sure.
Batman: What do these guys want anyway?
Superman: Take over the world... Or rob banks, I'm not sure.
That's actually pretty true now that I think about it. I also tend to, when writing, to just try and throw something at the characters if the plot starts to slow, hence the things-happen-really-fast-all-of-a-sudden phenomenon.speaker-to-trolls wrote:She hasn't shown any indication of really sympathising with them, maybe a bit when the blue dude tried to give her and Murderwake his side of the story, but at the moment it's the Bugs who are trying to kill her and Gerald who's brought down the 'evil empire' she's spent so long fighting, so she probably hasn't given their point much consideration (probably hasn't had time to either, things move fast around here
I think she might become a Bug if she was captured and they explained the situation in detail to her toward that end, but I can't think why they would want to do that.
I intended, from nearly the beginning, for the Bugs to be actually the good guys while the Oalri were xenophobic assholes. I'm not sure how well that came across. Anyway, hopefully the last bit will be done sometime tomorrow and I'll post that. Thanks again for reading!
"Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people – they betrayed themselves."
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
-Gaheris Rhade, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda
In most off the cases, there is no good side, or a bad side.
Think World War 1, one stupid thing started a complete World War.
Its like the 11 of sept 2001 giving bird to World War 3.
Its bad, bud not so bad that it gives reason to be so bad.
And unless both sides are willing to stop, there will be No end to it.
So, are you going to give both sides a New enemy in the Starkillers/Rivens?
Maybe Eve becomes partly a bug, only to become a Riven (something).
Think World War 1, one stupid thing started a complete World War.
Its like the 11 of sept 2001 giving bird to World War 3.
Its bad, bud not so bad that it gives reason to be so bad.
And unless both sides are willing to stop, there will be No end to it.
So, are you going to give both sides a New enemy in the Starkillers/Rivens?
Maybe Eve becomes partly a bug, only to become a Riven (something).
Nothing like the present.