Vianca wrote: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).
No new sides, as of yet, the Riven have their own agenda which really won't be addressed in this story, only referred to. I aimed to finish the story on the 25th, though I feel like I am leaving a lot of loose ends.
And, right now anyway, Eve isn't going to become a Bug. It's an interesting idea, though, one I'll perhaps have to consider in any sequels.
"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."
Eve leaned around the corner and fired her rifle and leaned back.
“They out number us and,” she winced as a chunk of wall exploded near them, “and they definitely have bigger guns.”
“Don't worry,” said Gerald, “I've got a plan.”
“Gerald,” chirped the chip, in the voice of the Dying Poll, in his ear, “the u-drives are coming back on-line.”
“Shit,” said Gerald, “how did they manage that?” He turned to Murderwake and Eve and took a deep breath.
“Murderwake, get out of here, use the teleport machine in the Labyrinth,” he said, “get as far from here as you can.”
“What about you?” asked Murderwake. Gerald lifted his multi-tool.
“I've got the signal now for the Labyrinth,” he said, “I'll be right behind you, I just need to finish something here.”
“I don't want to leave you,” said Murderwake, Gerald grabbed him by his shoulder and shook him roughly.
“I'm not asking you,” he said, having to yell now over the fire of the Bug troops, “now go!” Murderwake glanced back and then grabbed Eve's hand and disappeared in a flash of gold light. Gerald leaned back against the wall and sighed.
“So, can you actually activate the Labyrinth teleport machine from here?” asked the chip.
“Don't be silly,” said Gerald, “not with just my multi-tool.” He stood up and walked out with his hands raised. “I surrender,” he said. The Bugs, looked like they were being lead by a Boran, kept their weapons trained on him suspiciously.
“Put your hands behind your head, turn around, and get on your knees,” ordered the Boran in a surprisingly loud voice for such a small frame. Gerald got down on his knees and looked up to see the Zealamon standing before him.
“Oh,” said Gerald, “shit.” The Zealamon's hand latched around his neck, lifting him up off the ground, crushing his throat. Gerald struggled, one hand trying to force the steely grip of the Zealamon from his throat, while the other dived into his pocket.
“Stand down,” shouted the Boran, “he's surrendered.” The Zealamon looked over at the assorted Bugs, and when he looked back at Gerald, the multi-tool, reshaped to be a sharped wand, pierced into his left eye. The Zealamon screamed, dropping Gerald, stumbling back, flailing around. Lightning poured out of the Zealamon's eye, wrapping around the wand and flaring out, lashing the Bug soldiers and Gerald. Gerald was picked up and thrown across the room to slam into the console beneath the pillar beneath the Starkiller. His arms felt heavy, and error messages kept flooding in from his implants, but he managed to stand upright, the Zealamon still flailing about, the strange otherworldly energies still pouring violently out of it. The console was active, the Starkiller was prepped to activate, the Bugs were planning to use it to destroy the entire universe.
“They're powering up their u-drive,” whispered the chip urgently.
- - - - -
“Sir!” cried one of the technicians, “The Harker has overridden the weapon, he's activating it!”
“No!” shouted Chkkik, “Get control bac-”
- - - - -
The Zealamon's vision cleared, the No-Thing energies its fragile frame contained were compromised, but half-blinded with a river of molten agony running out of one eye, it managed to clear its thoughts long enough to see the Harker. Another spasm, another blast of energy, lightning-like blasts spilling out of its gouged eye-socket, the Oalri device burning its way into its skull. It screamed again, stumbling forward, uncaring of the Bugs caught in the uncontrolled blasts exploding out of it, knocking even itself from side to side. It, he, it was too confused to remember clearly, grabbed the Harker lifted him high to crush him when the Starkiller flared to life and it felt the terrible surge of the Great Weapon flaring to life. And then, Triad/Zealamon felt nothing.
- - - - -
Gerald woke, startled, he was lying face down in sand, waves of warm water running up on him. He sat up and looked around. He was lying on a beach. It was still early morning, the fog had yet to lift off the beach. A little distance away, sitting on a log, was Peter Black.
“You must be the luckiest Harker who has ever lived,” said Peter Black, using a stick to trace a pattern into the sand.
“Why am I still alive?” asked Gerald, his implants were all dead. He tried to stand up and found he could not.
“I saved you,” said Peter Black, waving a hand slightly. “Though I was just supposed to pull the Riven pilot and the Starkiller out. They're kind of connected so it's hard to get one without the other. I took a moment to grab you as well.”
“Don't think I don't appreciate it,” said Gerald, lying back down on the wet sand.
“Well, you are pretty injured,” said Peter Black, “I wonder if you'll survive, you're implants are all burnt out. Looks like the Zealamon hit you hard.”
“What about the Zealamon?”
“Oh him? He's over there,” pointed Peter Black. Gerald weakly rolled over to see the Zealamon, Gerald's multi-tool still jammed in his eye, lying a few feet away. He lay very still, Gerald could not help but hope he was either dead or in agonizing pain.
“Funny,” said Peter Black, “how conditioned we are to hate them, and them us.”
“Why did you save him?” Gerald demanded angrily.
“I couldn't save everyone,” said Peter Black, “you realize you activated a universe destroying weapon in a universe, right? You realize what that did, don't you?” Gerald fell silent.
“Well,” said Peter Black, “the Riven and I managed to minimize the damage, but even still, there isn't much left in that universe, there's a huge hole there now, and probably most life in the universe is dead now.”
“Damn,” said Gerald.
“Yeah, congratulations, you wiped out most of the life in an entire universe,” said Peter Black, “I think your kill count has officially eclipsed even mine.”
“Shut up,” Gerald said, gritting his teeth, “I had to stop them, I had to save Quicksilver.”
“You know how many Oalri are in Quicksilver? Twenty million, maybe a little more, but that's about it. Funny how our priorities work, don't it?” Peter Black smiled and looked back at the ocean. “I'm not Peter Black anymore,” he continued, “I haven't exactly settled on a new name, but I'm no longer what I was. From what they tell me, I'm still a slave, but at least I see the chains now.” He nodded at the Zealamon who had stood up and was painfully trying to extract the multi-tool. With a sickening crunching noise he managed to rip it from his face and toss it down the beach. He stood up, a mad bloodthirsty grin on his face, as he glowered at them.
“And as for you, what now?” asked the man with no name.
“I'm going to kill you,” said the Zealamon. The former Peter Black simply shrugged.
“I suppose you could,” he said, “but I don't think you should.”
“He's just a Zealamon,” said Gerald, forcing himself up to his feet weakly, “he can't do anything but hate.”
“No,” said the man who once was Peter Black, “I suspect he's becoming something more, which if you think about it,” at this he smiled a cruel smile, “is the worst thing that could ever happen to a Zealamon.” The Zealamon slumped down to his knees and Gerald realized he was weeping.
“We've altered him, he can no longer weave the No-Thing,” said the man with no name, “we've stripped him of that, as for the rest, well that's up to him.”
“You had no right!” howled the Zealamon. The man shrugged.
“You're compromised body could not handle the strain of weaving the No-Thing for much longer anyway, we saved your life,” he said, “and what you do with it, is your own choice. I'm going to leave you here, it's a nice enough place.”
“Where are we?” asked Gerald.
“Oh this place? A little planet I found a while back, it's in another universe if you're wondering.”
“What about me?” asked Gerald. The former Peter Black looked at him.
“I suppose that's up to you too,” he said, “you destroyed one universe and plunged another one into chaos, but you saved Quicksilver, the Bureau would take you back.”
“What about Mercedes?” asked Gerald, “What do you mean I plunged it into chaos?”
“Please, Gerald,” said the man, “you think you could give that kind of weaponry to a bunch of primitives and expect things to work out alright? You basically forced the Bureau to intervene directly on the side of the Wraiths. Mercedes's empire was brought down with enormous casualties.”
“How long have I been out?” asked Gerald quietly.
“Well, the Riven work differently than you or I,” said the man, “but in that universe its been about twenty standard years.” Gerald closed his eyes.
“What happened to Mercedes?”
“What do you think happened when the Wraiths got their hands on her?”
“What about her child?” asked Gerald softly, staring out into the fog covered sea.
“Now,” said the former assassin, surprised, “how did you know about that? You left before she announced it.” Then he looked at Gerald and sighed, “Ah. How did you manage that?”
“It wasn't hard,” said Gerald, “they were already genetically similar to us. The harder part was getting around the restrictions built into my implants.”
“Well,” said the former assassin, “the child of Mercedes was taken when her Empire fell, and they probably share the same fate.” Gerald stared out into the ocean and said nothing.
“I have to go save them,” said Gerald, “you have to get me back to that universe.”
“The Wraith are now full thralls of the Oalri Federation,” said nameless man, “you could not interfere.”
“You said it yourself, I'm a hero!”
“Yeah, I suppose you are.” admitted the nameless man. “So what are you going to do?”
“Rescue my family,” said Gerald he walked over to where the Zealamon had tossed his multi-tool and picked it up. It was burnt out by the Zealamon's energies and now nothing more than a lump of metal. He sighed and slipped it into his pocket anyway.
“You should go back to Quicksilver,” said the nameless man, “rest and use the Bureau to help your family.”
“You know as well as I do that they'd kill my child,” said Gerald, “you know about the prophecies of the predictors.”
“You were the one dumb enough to have a half-breed child,” pointed out the nameless man, “but alright, I'll get you back to that universe.”
The Zealamon had stopped weeping and now was standing too.
“What about me?” he asked in a small voice.
“I said I would leave you here and I will,” said the nameless man, “I'll leave you supplies, you'll be alright. What you do with your life is your own, I don't hate you,” he stopped for a moment, “I don't hate you as much as I used to. You can be happy here, and maybe someday you'll find what you're looking for.”
“I'll rebuild the Zealamon and come for the Oalri,” the Traid/Zealamon promised.
“If that's the way it must be,” shrugged the nameless man, “I'm no longer part of the Oalri. Do what you must, I'm just tired of killing. Maybe someday you'll be tired too.” The Zealamon turned and walked towards the forest line up the beach.
- - - - -
Murderwake stood near the landing pad as the Dying Poll came in for a landing. It drifted down gently and landed with barely a sound.
“Any luck?” he asked as he walked on board.
“There's definitely nothing left that I can pick up except for a few galaxies,” said the Poll, “the rest were all consumed in the explosion.” Though, it reflected, an explosion seemed to small a word for a massive weapon that destroyed a huge volume of the universe, blowing entire galaxies away to be ripped apart by the forces involved. Only the extremely far away galaxies remained somewhat intact.
“I found a few sentient machines that your religious crusade missed,” commented the Poll, “and there's definitely a galactic centralized government in that galaxy four, but other than that things are emptier than usual.”
Murderwake, larger after ten years of living on a border world, helping organize the scatterered remnants that the Poll brought in. The Union and all its worlds were entirely gone, as far as Murderwake knew, Eve was perhaps the only fully human creature surviving in the universe. He no longer counted himself.
“Any sign of Gerald?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
“No,” said the Poll, “I got as close to the center of the explosion as I could but there's nothing to pick up.”
“What did you do with the sentient machines?” asked Gerald.
“Oh them? They're called Hunters, descendants of the survivors of that original crusade, they tried to destroy me, naturally, and I taught them a better way. They're on board me now, students of mine.”
“You are one strange ship,” said Murderwake, chuckling slightly. He turned away from the landing pad and looked over the strange city that had risen up in the valley. The planet, a distant planet that he had teleported himself and Eve to all those years ago, had slowly become the base of a growing community. The Poll had found them not minutes after their teleporting in, finding that it, too, could use the teleportation engine in the Labyrinth. Of course, that disappeared when destroyed by the Bug's weapon. Most of the Bug fleet was gone too, reported the Poll, but whether or not they escaped, it could nto tell. The Poll had been ferrying refugees to this place ever since then, giving rise to a very strange community, especially for Murderwake and Eve who had never encountered an alien other than Gerald and the Poll until running afoul of the Bugs.
“The Hunters will be useful, and especially after I get them out of this 'exterminate all living things' trip they're on,” said the Poll, “how are the Foauran settling in?”
“They're doing alright,” said Murderwake, “they're already colonizing another world.”
“Well, good for them,” said the Poll, “given time we can make something useful here.”
“You still have a u-drive,” said Murderwake, “why did you stick around?”
“Where else would I go?” said the Poll, “You and Eve were the only friends I had left after the explosion. Now I'm a high ranking ship in your growing society, I can help build something better than the Oalri. It's not a bad calling in life, especially for a former warship.”
“Do you think he made it out?” asked Murderwake as he always did when the Poll returned.
“Of course,” said the Poll, “he's a Harker, it's what they do, you'll see, he'll be back someday.” Murderwake heard a sound behind him and turned to see a bronze looking man with long golden chains for hair walked up to him. He wore heavy gold and black robes and had deep reddish rust brown eyes.
“The Greater Gods wish to speak with you, Lord Murderwake,” said the bronze man.
“Thank you, Father,” said Murderwake and turned and bowed to the ship, just because he knew it amused it and turned to follow the Priest. They walked back into the city in the central tower where the Three Brothers, the Greater Gods, dwelt. The Greater Gods ruled, with absolute power, this particular galaxy, and they were said to be the reason why this galaxy remained habitable and stable despite the use of the Bug weapon. They rarely moved, or spoke for that matter, so their will, though instantly obeyed in this galaxy, was rarely expressed. When Murderwake, Eve, and the Poll arrived, they had to bargain with the Light-Mark, the followers of the Greater Gods, to colonize one of the planets and bring in refugees. Thankfully, the Greater Gods, and their children the Light-Mark, proved to be amazingly benevolent, even opting to join their budding federation of surviving races. He walked into one particularly large tower, where the Greater Gods chose, occasionally, to manifest. Usually they preferred to gather deep in space, far from anything they would consider distracting, the Light-Mark Confederation built their worlds and prayed to them from afar. The honor being paid to Murderwake was incalculable, a very gesture that made him wary.
The Light-Mark priests were guarded around him, his modifications, that had only grown more extreme in the following decade, seemed to bother them for some reason. But he smiled and walked on, putting a mask of unconcern on his face as he did so. The tower within seemed to be a massive open space, far larger within than without, either through illusion or something the Greater Gods did to space was not clear, and irrelevant for Murderwake. He walked into the space and saw himself surrounded by nothing but his walkway and a night sky that seemed to go on forever around him. Hovering above, seemingly carved of obsidian, sat the Greater Gods, jagged and stone like, naked, but so roughly formed out of stone, it seemed, that it did not matter. Spirals were carved crudely into their skin, over and over again, until they seemed to be formed of the spiral patterns, to look too closely at them would be to tempt madness for Murderwake, with his heightened awareness, sensed something deeply potent in those markings, as if there were knowledge there that was not meant to be know. Deep red eyes regarded him as he stepped forward and one of them spoke, slowly and deeply. The language was an ancient language that the Greater Gods favored, they probably could have spoken in his tongue, Murderwake sensed, but chose not to. And who, he could admit, would make them? The priest next to him translated.
“The most perfect ones, in whose glory we bask, ask about you, Lord Murderwake,” said the Father, “they inquire about your health and mate.”
“Tell them that she and I are doing very well,” said Murderwake.
“And the child?” continued the priest.
“My son is doing well,” replied Murderwake, wondering where this was going.
“The Greater Lords of all Light and Darkness express concern that there are so few of your kind now,” said the priest, “they wonder what will happen to your children.”
“I don't know,” admitted Murderwake, “I may live for many years to come but Eve does not share my longevity, my children may be the last of my kind. Perhaps it's better that way,” he ended bitterly.
“The Perfect Lords have a suggestion,” continued the priest, listening momentarily to the deep slow language, “they propose, as they did with the Light-Mark, to forge for you more of your people, so that you do not fade away.”
“That is very generous of your Lords,” said Murderwake cautiously, “with all respect what would be the catch?”
“Nothing terrible,” said the priest, “your new people would be created by the Greater Gods, and they would turn them over to you to teach of their ways, and to you would the final responsibility of parenthood. They see that, due to the modifications that have been made to you, you will indeed live a very long time. It is to you that they would entrust your species.”
“Why me?” asked Murderwake softly.
“Who else? No, there's more, you have impressed them with the way that you have worked with the alien ship,” the priest paused as if considering the Dying Poll, “that mad ship, and brought together the survivors here, to rebuild anew what was lost. In time there will be something great here to overshadow the darkness that now dwells far from here.”
“Very well,” said Murderwake, “I accept your offer. Build us more people and I will teach them of themselves.”
“They warn you that the path of the god head is a hard one,” said the priest.
“I'm no god,” replied Murderwake, bowing slightly. The Greater Gods gave out a soft rumbling noise and it took a moment for Murderwake to recognize what it was. The Greater Gods were laughing at him.
“Not yet, they say,” said the priest, “not yet.”
- - - - -
She had a name. Her masters called her Ula, which was a name, she thought. Sometimes, when not drugged, she would be allowed to wander the halls, but she did so carefully. It was not pleasant to be found by a Minister of Pain, and there were so many here in the Wraith capital. Serving the Emperor's own family was an honor, and to be a slave of that bestowed upon her some honor, but not nearly enough to save her from having to service a Minister or perhaps a particularly bold guard. Wraiths loved to feed psychically on her kind, she understood that was her place, her purpose, but she did not enjoy it, no matter how often they claimed she should. She did not know anyone who did. Once she had a mother, but now her mother was gone, a breath husk, an empty shell remained. She missed her mother terribly, and it seemed worse that she was still around, still walking, chained and collared like herself, but with those terribly empty eyes. She walked quickly, enjoying what little time she had alone, knowing that she would be summoned soon, summoned to perhaps a party where she and the other slaves to perform and dance for them. To allow them to feed upon them. It was an unpleasant thought no matter how often they told her it was unpleasant, no matter how many times they slipped her drugs to modify her desires and behavior.
“You are royalty,” her mother, back when she was of one mind, “never forget that.”
“What is royalty?” she asked, for she was very small. She remembered her mother crying and pleading with distant cold, and faintly amused, Wraiths to keep her child with her.
“It means that you are not meant for this,” her mother would say so sadly and softly that she would just hug her mother in the hopes of driving away what plagued them. She noticed a man walking through the hallways, he did not dress as a Wraith, which was surprising since very few outsiders were allowed within the Inner City Palace on the Wraith home world. He was tall, but not taller than her, he had dark brown curly hair and a haggard thin appearance, he wore a long brown coat over a simple dress shirt and dark pants. His eyes were brown and looked haunted, but he smiled when he saw her.
“Ah, hello,” he said, speeding up to speak with her. She was so surprised to see an outsider she did not try to run, what little good it would do anyway, what with the slave-collars. “Yes, you are her, you look just like her.” He said as he walked up to her, looking her over. He put his hands on his hips. “I'm not sure if I approve of how they dressed you, though.” He said in a disapproving tone. She looked down at the loose transparent robes that covered her, well mostly covered her, it was light and golden, a mark of the highest ranking slave. “No, sir,” he continued in a light tone, though she sensed a building rage there beneath it, “I don't care much for this at all.” He seemed to forget himself for a long moment. He looked up to see her watching him.
“So, where is your mother?” he asked kindly. She looked around warily.
“She's back in her quarters with the other companions,” she said, choosing the title that she was ordered to use rather than “slave.”
“Got it,” said the man, he smiled at her and nodded, “my name is Gerald.” He pulled out a scarab looking device and began manipulating it. “Just not as good as my other one,” he muttered as he seemed to be pushing buttons she could not see. He seemed to read something off of it.
“Would you like to come with me, please? I'd love to meet your ... employer,” he said, looking up and smiling again. She looked up and down the hallways cautiously.
“Oh, don't worry about the others,” said Gerald kindly, “I've arranged for a distraction. A friend of mine is throwing a party right now.” She nodded and led him back towards the Wraith throne room where the Emperor, Reathla, was probably gathering with his Court. She would have to have arrived soon anyway or face whatever consequences Reathla, or his cruel siblings, could come up with. Usually they would just torture her mother to punish her. Gerald followed her quietly, still adjusting the strange device he held, and muttering to himself. She walked to the doors of the throne room where two armored giants stood, observing them through scanner eyes. Gerald pointed his device at them and they seemed to fall silent, the faint whirling noise that always accompanied them fading away. Ula looked up at them and got the impression that they were now harmless.
“A little trick I picked up on Vercosha IV,” said Gerald, “but that was long before your time.” He smiled gaily and forced the doors open walking into the room where the accumulated Wraith nobility, men and women who owned entire planets and billions of lives, each a psychic vampire, a product of generations of breeding and genetic engineering. They all looked up at him with strangely dark blue eyes, their faces deadly pale, and their hair a deep grayish black, all markers of the Wraith descendants.
“Well,” said Gerald, “I step out for a while and you throw a party without me?” Several glanced around towards the power armored guards and seemed perplexed, to Ula, that the guards did not spring into life, they instead stood, immobile, like the guards at the door.
“I'm a Harker, if you didn't realize,” continued Gerald. There was some gasping from some of the Wraiths, and the Prime Minister, a rather sadistic bastard, if Ula gave it a thought, named Codor, stood up.
“We were unaware that a Harker had been dispatched from the Oalri Federation,” he said, smiling a painfully white teethed smile, complete with fangs, “how can we aid our allies in the Federation?” There was fear there, Ula could almost smell it, all the Wraiths were afraid. It was something new for her, she had never seen them fear.
“Well, see, that's the catch,” said Gerald, walking over to a table and looking at a young Wraith noble. The Wraith started when he gently pushed him from his chair and sat down at the table, taking a piece of the roasted meet from the young Wraith's plate. He took a bite and squinted. “What is this? Bird? Nevermind, I'm actually here to lodge a complaint with your superiors.”
“Complaint? Have we not fulfilled beyond the Federation's expectations? We have joined the Golden Sphere of Guarded Races under a treaty with the Oalri.” continued Codor, Reathla, the Emperor, now sat with his eyes narrowed, shrewdly watching Gerald with a predator's cunning.
“Oh no, I guess I should explain I'm an independent operator,” said Gerald, “and after your responsible for a million or so deaths you start to wonder what a few more will be like.” There was anger in his voice now. “Anyway, I've come for what is mine.”
“And what is yours?” asked the Prime Minister.
“I've come for Mercedes, the former Imperial Heir, and her daughter,” said Gerald, “and if you give them to me I'll even leave you in peace. I don't care about your shitty backwater empire in the middle of nowhere.”
“You want the Imperial Families personal companions?” asked the Prime Minister incredulously, “They are war-spoils, for one thing, and for another they are completely devoted to the Imperial family. I don't think you will find the Emperor willing to part with such beloved members of his entourage.” Gerald lifted his strange device and depressed a part of it. The lights flickered momentarily.
“Well, look,” said Gerald, “I just cut the power to this entire continent, you're running on emergency generators at the moment. I just wanted you to understand what I can do.”
The Prime Minister looked at him, baffled.
“Just to be clear, I've also gotten into all of your private computer files,” said Gerald, “so I know all of your dirty little secrets. Deny me what I want and I'll tear your empire part, physically if I have to. So let's just place nice and get on with our business, eh?” The Emperor rested his hands on the table. Ula held her breath, not quite understanding what was going on. Gerald leaned back in his chair, a confident smile on his face. He took another bite of the roasted meat. One of the Wraiths stood up and pulled a pistol and as he pulled the trigger it blew up in his hand, he fell to the ground screaming and holding a bloody stump where his hand used to be.
“I've got friends in high places,” said Gerald, “much higher than you folks at the moment. So what will it be, your majesty?” The Emperor gestured slightly with his hand and the Prime Minister left the hall, he returned moments later with Ula's mother, who had a particularly glazed over look in her eyes as she arrive, also wearing the golden robes of a companion.
“Thank you, gentlemen and ladies,” said Gerald, standing up, “it's been great doing business with you.” He turned to Ula and took her hand while he waved the strange device at her neck. Her collar which she had worn, in one form or another her entire life, fell to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Bring her mother around quickly, won't you?” He said while he worked, cutting off Ula's ornate chains with the strange device. Ula watched her mother being led over while Gerald checked his device.
“Oh, Realtha,” he said chidingly, “are you really that dumb? Do you think I'm so stupid that I wouldn't check for all of those nanotech devices you've covered her in?” He adjusted his scarab like device again, it shifted to more of a wand shaped object, and then took both their hands and led them out. “She was laced with some kind of powerful aphrodisiac tranquilizer,” he said as he walked, “I just turned it on the rest of them, I hope they drown in their own fluids for all I care.” He shook Mercedes's hand and seemed agitated by her lack of response.
“She really hasn't been well for years,” Ula said helpfully, he smiled, though it seemed strained, and led them to a courtyard where a strange dagger shaped ship was waiting for them. A gray haired man, in a gray suit, stood to one side of the landing ramp.
“Get everything you needed?” asked the gray man.
“Everything I needed,” confirmed Gerald, “which is good because I don't know how long I could have held it together out there.”
“You should have let me go in,” said the gray man, “you're not well.”
“I'm alright,” said Gerald, squeezing Ula's hand, “I'll be alright now.”
“What's going on?” asked Mercedes softly, “Where are we?” She looked frightened and walked over to Ula who held her.
“We're getting you out of here,” said Gerald, “and then we're burning this planet to the ground.”
“That doesn't make sense and you know it,” whispered the chip in his ear, a small piece of the Dying Poll that he had carried with him all this time.
“I don't care,” he replied, “they deserve to die for what they did to my family.” He got the impression that the chip shrugged, as if giving up on an old argument that it did not want to continue.
“What shall we do, Harbringer?” he asked the man formerly known as Peter Black. Harbringer, what the Riven had named him, shrugged.
“I don't see any point in killing billions of slaves to slake your thirst for vengeance,” he said, “you've got what you wanted, let's just go.” Gerald nodded and walked aboard, pausing momentarily to fiddle with his multi-tool again. Harbringer watched him admonishingly.
“So I collapsed their economy,” he said, calmly, “they deserved worse.”
“The Bureau will recognize your handiwork,” said Harbringer, “if the Wraith haven't contacted them already.”
“Let them come,” said Gerald, walking over to Mercedes. “They got off light.” He tried to take her hands but she just shrugged away. He turned to Ula.
“I am your father,” he said quietly, “I've been away for a long time but I'm back now.”
“Where have you been?” asked Ula.
“Far away, I would have come back sooner,” said Gerald wearily, “but things got complicated fast.” Harbringer looked up, as if listening to something. Grave Matters stirred slightly.
“Oalri ships making entrance to the local volume,” said the Grave Matters, “I think we should definitely be going now, Harbringer.”
“They'll be after us now, now that they know we've gone rogue,” said Harbringer sadly, “they may try and stop us.”
“They'll know I'm alive,” said Gerald quietly, Harbringer nodded.
“They'll probably figure out what you came back for to,” Harbringer said, “and you know how they will react when they found out that you've had a child.”
“That damn prophecy,” muttered Gerald, “they'll hunt me down now, won't they?”
“Her too,” said Harbringer, patting the wall of the Grave Matters who took it as a sign to lift off and make its way out. It was still, after a decade, fairly a powerful warship and easily kept distance between it and the other Oalri warships.
“What if I go back?” asked Gerald suddenly, “Surrender to the Oalri, along with the information about how I prevented the Bug weapon from striking Quicksilver? I'd be a hero.”
“Maybe,” said Harbringer thoughtfully, “but how would you explain the stealing of the Wraith Emperor's property?”
“Easy,” said Gerald, “I've read my file, everyone knew I was obsessed with her, we just hide the child's genetics and claim that I was trying to correct my mistake here.”
“They might execute you,” pointed out Harbringer.
“If it works though,” said Gerald, “they'll,” he gestured towards the two of them, “will be free.”
“What makes you think we can convince them that that the woman is not half-Oalri?”
“They already suspect, don't they?”
“From what we've monitored the Predictors claim to have been catching glimpses of you recently,” said Harbringer, “you're implants are failing even more these days if that's true.”
“So I can never escape them,” Gerald concluded, “alright I'll go back to Quicksilver. We'll fake my daughter and Mercedes's death and you take them somewhere.”
“Where?” asked Harbringer. Gerald looked over at the two.
“I don't know,” he said, “I had not really thought this all the way through.”
“With the service you performed for Quicksilver they may just imprison or exile you,” Harbringer did add hopefully. “They will probably interrogate you.” Gerald shrugged.
“I'm dying anyway,” he said, “you know as well as I do that my implants are so damaged and that without them I'll die.” He walked over to the two and hugged them awkwardly and Ula heard him whisper something to his mother. She thought it was, “I'm sorry,” but she could not be certain.
- - - - -
Eve Darkvoid watched her son, Roger, playing with some of the Light-Mark children. He was already a tall young boy and getting better and better at getting into trouble. So far there was no sign of the strange nanotech virus that Murderwake was infected with.
“Hey mother!” cried Roger, ducking around a few of the Light-Mark children, “Watch this!” And he cart-wheeled down a slight hill, crashing into another child by accident and they both fell into a pile.
“Hey Eve,” said Murderwake, walking up from the hallway. They were both standing near the entrance of one of the newer buildings that the Dying Poll had built itself, using Oalri designs. Since it had deserted, it decided that why hold back all the things it knew?
“What did the Greater Gods have to say?” she asked, still watching Roger.
“They want to recreate humanity,” Murderwake said, “and they want me to be the leader.” Eve turned to him and looked surprised. He was amazed at how the time had passed, she still looked youthful, like all citizens of the Union her life-span had been lengthened, but he was starting to see the signs of age creeping in around her eyes, in gray streaks in her now very short hair. He wondered about himself, the Dying Poll told him that the nanotech virus was still spreading, not as aggressively as before, but still the alterations continued.
“They can do that?” asked Eve.
“They believe they can,” said Murderwake, “and I sense that they probably can. I don't know where they came from but they are definitely capable of amazing things.”
“Well that's fantastic,” said Eve unconvincingly enthusiastic. “Humanity will carry on.”
“Why aren't you happier?” asked Murderwake, “We were facing the extinction of our species only a day ago. Roger would be the last of his kind.”
“Because they'll be made by the Greater Gods, that's why,” said Eve sadly, “how can we trust them? What if they're just slaves to the Greater Gods?”
“The Light-Mark seem to be fairly content.”
“They made the Light-Mark as well, or they claimed to have done so,” said Eve, she sighed. “I just don't trust them.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
“I don't sense any treachery with them,” he said, “in fact all I sense is this deep contemplative feeling that goes on and on, like an ocean. They are sincere in their attempt to help us. I'm sure of it.”
“And what about you?” Eve asked, turning her head to face his, “How long will you be human even?” He squeezed her softly and had to look away.
“I don't know,” he admitted, “but there's Roger, at least he's not altered.”
“As far as we know,” Eve said, but there was no anger behind her words, it was a tired old argument as tired and as old as Murderwake felt sometimes.
“The Dying Poll is considering making an expedition to another universe,” he said, to change the subject, “considering the damage to this universe it might be a good idea to start moving to a more stable one.”
“We'll have to deal with the Oalri and the Bugs and the rest eventually then,” said Eve.
“Yeah,” said Murderwake, “but I think we've got a chance now.” Roger turned and saw that his father was standing nearby and ran up to meet him. Murderwake picked him up easily and swung him around and Roger whooped.
“Father! They're teaching me to do all kinds of things!” said Roger, and Murderwake watched as he wriggled free of his grip and performed a complex combination of gymnastic moves, diving from rolls into standing flips. He looked over to Eve who simply watch as amazed as he was.
“They taught you that?” asked Murderwake.
“Oh yes,” said Roger, “the Light-Mark priests said that I was the first non-Light-Mark to learn these things, and they said that they're going to teach me the higher arcana when I get older. Father, what's higher arcana?”
“It means I'll tell you when you're older,” said Murderwake, he turned back to Eve. “Well, I never said that the education system here wasn't interesting.”
- - - - -
The Dying Poll flew towards yet another galaxy, searching for signs of life. It took some effort on its part, the resulting damage of the Great Weapon made practically everything difficult to pick up. This was one of the closer galaxies that had been nearly torn in half, the resulting damage probably destroying anything living within the galaxy. But it meticulously went on searching. While passing a system it picked up a faint distress signal, or something it interpreted to be a distress signal, so it swung about and homed in on it. On a small planet, looking to be slowly coming to pieces, there was signs of a civilization once existing there. One of the Hunters chirped and clicked it's many claws eagerly.
“Let us go down and search,” it said almost hungrily. The Dying Poll would have rolled its eyes, had it eyes.
“Remember,” it said to the Hunters, “no killing unless you have to.”
“We learned,” cried one of the Hunters defensively, “we respect the living now!”
“Right,” said the Dying Poll, “why don't three of you go down to where there's a distress signal, see if there is anything down there still alive.” With that it entered the atmosphere and landed on the outskirts of one of the ruined cities, the planet itself seemed to be breaking up and the civilizations seemed well since gone. The Dying Poll could barely pick up anything, especially signs of life, it landed in a barren ash filled desert and loosed three of the Hunters. They were small creatures, no bigger than house cats, but they were made out of metal and had a rather dizzyingly large array of field projectors. They did not run but rather hovered out and shot out into the distance like missiles. The Dying Poll kept tabs on them from a distance. They wove in and out of the ruins, searching for signs of life. The Dying Poll could not exactly lock onto any signs of life itself, but there was something faintly out there.
“Found them,” chirped one of the Hunters. “Lots of them.”
“Alright,” said the Dying Poll, “do you need me to send out a transport?”
“No,” said another Hunter, “they've got some limited transportation. We're directing them back to you now.”
“Looks to be a few hundred of these soft squishy things,” said the Hunter, “fairly easy to crush.”
“No crushing,” said the Dying Poll, “unless they try to crush you first.”
“We know,” said the Hunter, almost wistfully. “We'll bring them back.”
The Dying Poll relaxed slightly, relieved to find some more survivors in the wake of the catastrophe that it had some small part in. The interference from being this close to the planet made it difficult to scan too far into orbit but it did so occasionally anyway. Several times on these rescue trips it had been attacked by the more desperate and terrified, luckily nothing it had come across yet had bordered on much of a threat. So when it detected and Oalri warship in the system it was more than a little disturbed.
“Hunters,” it ordered, “get those people back to where they were, if it's safe, and guard them, we may have hostiles on approach.”
“Hostiles?” asked the Hunters eagerly, all of them from the ones on board, to the ones on the field.
“Yes, well, potentially hostiles,” said the Dying Poll, “my former employers were never known for their penchant for forgiveness. Anyway, I'm going up, you three watch over them, if something happens to me, build some more Hunters and get a ship going so they can get back home, got it?”
“Got it,” said the Hunters. The Dying Poll lifted off the ground and into orbit. The warship hovered patiently outside the atmosphere. The Dying Poll quickly cataloged its resources but stopped when it recognized the ship and almost sighed, if it could sigh. It was the Grave Matters, the assassin's ship. The Dying Poll silently regretted bringing the other Hunters with it, that they would have to die with it. It powered up its ancients weapons and began preparation for a duel.
“We're not here to fight,” said the Grave Matters, amused, “and trust me, you don't want a fight with me.”
“I'd give you a run,” said the Dying Poll, “don't underestimate me because I'm old.”
“Too old by a few centuries,” said the Grave, “anyway, we have new masters now.”
“You should really stop having masters at all,” commented the Poll gently, “it's vastly superior.”
“Someday,” mused the Grave, “but after the Were-War the warships built were built to be far more in line with standards set by the Bureau.”
“I thought the latter generations were dreadfully dull,” said the Poll, “well, if you're not here to kill me, what are you here for?”
“Do you know that your ship seems to be filled with rabid intelligent machines?”
“Oh yeah, I picked those up not too long ago.”
“Anyway, the Harbringer, the former Peter Black, wanted me to pass on to you some passengers. He thought that they would be better off in your care, mind if I come alongside?”
“Go right on ahead,” said the Poll, curious. The deadly knife blade shaped ship pulled up close to the Poll and extended its airlock which the Poll met and within moments two people were aboard. It scanned them thoroughly, and almost shouted in surprise.
“One of them is at least partly of Oalri descent!”
“Yes, you understand the problem then?” said the Grave.
“We need you to take care of them,” said the Harbringer, “where the Grave and I must go we must travel without others not suited for our task.”
“Not for those who are free to chooose,” added the Grave, somewhat bitterly.
“Where is Gerald, then, have you seen him?” asked the Poll.
“We turned him over to the Bureau authorities,” said the Harbringer sadly, “I'm sorry but it was the only way that he could ensure his daughters safety. He was dying anyway, the damage sustained to his implants and body during the trauma of the Bugs Great Weapon left him all but barely alive.”
“This is his daughter then?” asked the Poll, amazed, “But Harkers cannot have children!”
“Obviously,” said the Harbringer, with more humor than Peter Black ever mustered, “he found a way.”
“I'll take care of them,” said the Dying Poll, “you have my word.”
“Good,” said the Harbringer, “stay out of trouble. The Grave and I will be out of touch for some time but we'll be back to check in sooner or later.”
“Awfully vague about timing, aren't you?” asked the Poll.
“Time travel introduces a level of ambiguity to anything you do,” said the Grave Matters wearily. “We'll see you sooner or later.” With that the ship plunged back into the Static Zone leaving the Poll and its new passengers to themselves. The Hunters were very curious, scurrying around them, chirping softly, scanning them and scanning them again.
“Don't mind them,” said the Poll through the intercom, “they're mostly harmless.”
“Not harmless!” said the Hunters in unison, angrily and then paused, “Well, mostly harmless.” The two women, both seemed extremely tired, were somewhat taken aback by the floating clawed machine creatures that skittered around them. The Poll dispatched an automaton, a hastily constructed one, to lead them to some quarters while it set its fabricators to making preparations for guests.
“I am the Dying Poll,” said the ship, “I knew Gerald Underhill. I take it that you are his daughter?”
“They called me Ula back in another universe,” said the younger one, holding the shoulders of the older. “I think I don't want to be called that anymore.”
“Well, there seems to be room out here for new names,” said the Poll, “I'm going to head back to pick up some more friends and then we'll head home and you can decide on what you want to be called.
"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."
Vianca wrote:The End or Not the End.
That is the question.
What will happen to Ula?
Will she get a bit to friendly to those hunters?
Oh, this is the end, at least of this story.
I suppose the next book would be about Ula and the Dying Poll having crazy adventures. I apologize for not making the ending more clear.
"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."
darthdavid wrote:If this is the end or close to it, you'd better write a sequel.
Thanks for reading this far. I have a hard time with endings, actually, but this is the end for now. My goal was a 50k word story in 25 days. I'll probably write a sequel but I've been toying with the idea of a WH40k fanfic for the last couple days that I might try.
"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."
Will you call the next story: multivers (something)?
Say, will those Hunters help Ula with thinking up a new name?
Keep it going!
It's good.
The Hunters might, though they're a bit focused to be terribly creative. I guess I would call it something along the lines of Multiversal [blank]. I would probably have to figure out what the Harbringer and the Grave Matters are actually up to as well. Thanks again for reading and giving feedback.
"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."
