Sanguine Dark [FT | Semi-Closed | IC Thread | Mature]

[Azura]

The following roleplay may contain depictions of military engagements, mature language,
scenes of violence and suggestive themes. Readers with a weak constitution, or who dislike
such themes are strongly advised to exercise discretion from this point on in the thread.


For further information, please visit the OOC thread or join the conversation at #NSLegion.

---

The cosmic balance of power is beset on all sides by the dreams of the weak; the infinitesimal bastions of insignificance which dot the perpetual night, seeking grandeur and honor in spirit while eking out an existence amongst the titans, the destroyers of Creation. There are those civilizations which domineer the heavens, projecting force and will upon the pawns of the galactic planes, and those which rape the stars for their material worth, leaving only broken bodies and whispers of remembrance in their wake. But for every galactic power, there are dozens of minor star systems, boasting life which does well to cling to the surface of their small, fragile worlds. They are the kindling of the great powers; mere ants to the colossus. There is no hope to those who rest on the laurels of their insignificance in a cold and gruesome galaxy.

But what of the little children who dream of being more than what they are? What of the civilizations who dare to step beyond the relative safety of their small purview in the galaxy, and aspire for the specter of power and might amongst the great civilizations of the Ethereal Host? There is but one recourse; a path bathed in blood and sinew, heartache and terror through the perpetual darkness. The little children must learn to mature amidst the wolves, and suffer the wrath of the cosmic horrors that were, and are, and ever shall be. The path to progress is bereft of comfort and spoils; only the dauntless and the vigilant do tread there. To trek boldly amongst the stars, risking all to obtain all requires moral convictions and a steadfast countenance not often seen. The intrepid voyagers amongst the stars are paramours to death.

The presence of three warships, sojourning into the dark reaches of the night was but a minor blip on the cosmic scale; a faint vapor that was all but hidden amidst the bright lights of more potent civilizations. But for a small, burgeoning civilization in the Delta-Gamma periphery, the launching of their new deep space vehicles represented a bold new step into the unknown. Names like Nemoris, Tenebris and Umbra held no greater meaning amongst the great powers of the galaxy. But for a small bastion of humanity, seeking to assert itself in the vast frontier of space, they were symbols of new-found hope in the affright of the days of trepidation and tribulation. The first bold steps of existence are the promise of life, after all. The children must learn to walk and endure the pangs of youth before they can learn how to run.

Prerequisite reading is available at the Compendium: Longeclasis: Genesis of the Sidusclasse FarStar Fleet

[Azura]

Sidusclasse FarStar Mission Day LIX of the SLV Tenebris (EC-251)
Sector 515, Kuhne-Stregar Binary System, Gamma Quadrant — 21^st Marthas, 5^th Aetas 001

"All stations, stand by! Make damage reports to the bridge immediately!"

The Auspex could feel the deckplates straining under the immense pressure of the spatial anomaly, though the control deck was strangely silent. The command crew was frantically fighting to retain control of the Tenebris, operating in a shared, wordless terror. Whatever the anomaly was, it was wreaking havoc on the ship's main sensor readings, making it impossible to orient itself or even know where it physically was. A few of the crew were having trouble standing, their equilibrium thrown off by the gravitic distortions and the shrill sound of the ship's warning system. If the ship could not be brought under control soon, they risked a systemic structural failure that could destroy the whole vessel, and with it the hopes and dreams of the Primareliqua ever becoming a new quadrant power.

"Auspex, we can't get a firm reading," his relay officer shouted over the blaring of the shrill sirens. "Controls are unresponsive, and surveyors report critical stress evident in the forward sections!"

A fresh salvo of alarms accompanied a sudden acceleration of the gravitic distortions, wholly unique to the ship's engines. the Auspex almost fell forward from his post, stumbling forward towards the interface officer. "We need a visual of what's out there, now! If we can't get a reading with our sensors, at least try and see the damned thing!"

"Sir, main controls are unresponsive; our primary power plant is offline!"

Michael very nearly grabbed the interface officer by his collar and pushed him towards his panel. "Then reroute auxiliary power, goddamn it! Get me a visual up on the main viewer now before we die!"

"Trying to switch to auxiliary power now, sir!"

The ship's executive officer, Adjutor MacTavish motioned for the Auspex, yelling. "Sir! We are at critical velocity! If we can't get the ship under control, she's going to fly apart at the seams!"

"Do the best that you can, we have to ride this out—"

"Sir!" The interface officer cried out, "I have the main viewers online!"

Michael spun on his heels, using a malfunctioning console to steady himself as his eyes darted forward. For a time, he couldn't quite make sense of what the viewer was showing him, but all eyes on the control deck were quickly find their way to the bizarre picture on the screen. The entirety of the spatial expanse around the ship was distorted, as if someone had placed them inside a whirlpool. The starscape was bending and twisting in unnatural machinations creating a kaleidoscope effect all around them. Directly ahead however, a single fixed point of brilliant white light was growing exponentially, eating away at the twisted visual field as it expanded towards them. Whatever it was, the Tenebris was on a collision course, and was only seconds away from being engulfed by it.

"What the fuck is that!?" MacTavish blurted excitedly, but the Auspex ignored him completely.

"All hands, brace for impact! We're going through! It's—"

The Sidusclasse Proving Grounds at Meridiem Montus
Caelus, Calixtas Star System, Gamma Quadrant — 29^th Iunus, 5^th Aetas 001

In the end, it came down to simple logic: he was too unsettled to sleep.

Michael Burgoyne, the erstwhile commander of the newest and most powerful warship in the Sidusclasse, felled by a stress attack. It would have been funny under less serious circumstances, but there was little amusing about lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling in a cold sweat. For the last two hours, his gaze had become fixed on a section of the roof tiling that had worn a bit thin, exposing some of the optic wiring that ran up above. He had traced it with his eyes for an interminable period of time, unwilling—or unable—to look away for fear of some hitherto-unseen consequence of a most grievous nature. His paranoia over his recent troubles, coupled with the ever-present exhilaration over the forthcoming mission of his ship, the Tenebris had put him in a mild panic.

For the last three months, Michael and his hand-selected crew had been training feverishly to get up to speed on the new Eversor Class battlecruisers, the most advanced warships in the Sidusclasse's new FarStar fleet. Three pathfinders were to be sent out in different directions on multi-year missions, the first of their kind. The Tenebris was slated to be the first ship out, heading deep into the unknown reaches of the Quadrant, possibly in search of Sar'Rithril infestations beyond the Avaikan Mandate or the Kunthe Nebula. Except two weeks ago, Burgoyne had been ordered by the Fleet to stand down from the mission and yield to Auspex Winstringham aboard the Umbra. In that period, both the Umbra and the Nemoris had both left Caelus, leaving him and his crew behind.

Michael grit his teeth, almost groaning a diseased, callous sound that bellowed from deep within his soul. His body was so wired with stress that it had begun to cause him physical pain. Finally daring to move, he stretched out in the bed, accidentally grazing the soft skin of a warm body lying next to him. He carefully looked over, having almost completely forgotten that he'd gone to bed with a petite brunette that had been hanging around the bar the night before. He couldn't quite remember much about their initial rendezvous or tryst, but he definitely remembered putting her to sleep in the most sensual way possible. He thought about waking her up for another tussle—she's already naked and all—and the random thoughts helped distract the worst of his fears.

Stop thinking with your dick; you have bigger problems...

Michael sighed inwardly, feeling the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders again. Resolved not to spend the next four hours staring at the ceiling again, he gently moved out from underneath the sheets, careful not to disturb Dara in her slumber. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he could already feel his faculties returning to him; apparently he'd had a bit too much to drink the night before—or not enough as the case may be. Standing up gently, he shuffled his feet towards the small cabinet beneath his plasma range, grabbing a vintage bottle of Muriae, aged twenty years. Bearing the slightest of grins, he reached atop the wall cabinet for a glass, then casually moved towards his desk by the bedroom window. The leather was cool to the touch, but the spirits would warm him soon enough.

Time wasn't passing any quicker sitting in the chair, but the bottle of liquor was keeping him company well enough, helping to ease some of the pain that he'd been sorting through in his own personal way for the last several days. He was liable to kill Praefect Ashe if he had the fortune of crossing paths with the rat bastard, screwing him over so prodigiously as he had. With every filling of his glass, his bitterness waxed and waned a little more, as he argued internally with himself over the merits of committing treason. At the end of the day, he couldn't—wouldn't—jeopardize his command or his captaincy of the Tenebris. Even so, the knowledge of his command was of little comfort in the grand scheme of things. The fleet had fucked him over, and they had fucked him over but good.

Leaning back, his eyes fell across the night sky outside; though it was relatively dark and without external lighting at this time in the evening, the sky overhead was still too hazy to make out any details. For a time, he thought about heading out to get some air, but he couldn't quite force himself to move. Looking back towards Farrah, watching her breasts rise slowly in the rhythmic cadence of her breathing, he found himself beset by feelings of intense loathing. He had almost talked himself into waking her up again when the alert on his relay interface sounded behind him. Looking back at the table, he sighed audibly and pushed the receive button on the panel, lighting up his viewfinder. Any question of who would have the balls to bother him so early in the morning were erased when a familiar face appeared on the screen.

Fuck! What am I supposed to say to her?

"Well, well, how ironic," Michael said feigning poignancy, easing back into his chair. "Mariel Strachleigh, as I live and breathe. How the Hell are you, friend? Life aboard the Nemoris treating you well?"

"It's treating me just fine, old friend," Mariel responded in kind, shooting him a sly grin over the monitor. "I see you've found a way to soften the blow of having been passed up for the first launch."

For a moment, Michael shot a glance at the glass he still held in his hand, and at the half-empty bottle beside the viewfinder. After a second of realization, he shot a passing glance over his shoulder, realizing Sara could be seen lying on the bed behind him. "Occupational hazard, really," he said calmly, turning back towards the monitor.

"I bet," the Auspex said, bemused by the scene. "At least you've found a way to pass the time on Caelus."

"I guess I could say the same," Burgoyne responded. "I figured you would be tits-deep in your shakedown by now; where are you exactly, and what is it that you needed?"

"Oh, we're a couple million miles away from your position; I had to try the personal communications relays while I was still in range of them, and couldn't think of a better person to contact at 2:30 in the morning than Auspex Burgoyne of the Tenebris. It was the least I could do for my best buddy."

"Well, you always were a bit of a bitch."

Strachleigh laughed, grinning mischievously with his comeback. "Alright, I earned that one, I'll admit it. I just had some free time this evening—well, morning now, I guess—and figured I would check up on you, see how things were going."

Michael wasn't buying it for a moment; he knew what the score was. "Uh huh. Just calling to see how things were going?"

"That's the rumor around here," Mariel replied.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the mission reassignment, would it? I mean, being so close to home still, I figure your computer would have a registry of the orders in our fleet. Maybe you took a peek and saw something unusual?"

The bright glitter of humor ebbed away quickly at Burgoyne's deadpanning expression. Mariel sighed visibly, shaking her head. "Michael, I'm sorry. I really am. As soon as I heard, I wanted to make sure that you were okay."

Burgoyne nodded, holding up his glass. "Hey, I'm still here, just leaving a few days later in a different direction is all."

"What happened?"

"Meh, you know the drill; bureaucratic bullshit," Michael replied with a trace of bitterness lingering in his voice. "Winstringham's crew performed better in the initial trials than my crew did, so the Umbra got bumped up to priority status. It didn't help that my exec and my entire surveyor staff got sick with the Vaicani Flu during our test run."

Mariel shook her head. "So you wind up leaving last; it's not the worst thing in the world, is it?"

Burgoyne could only shrug, polishing off the last sip from his class before placing it gently down beside the screen. "It's frustrating, really. Instead of exploring the unknown like you and John, I'll get to patrol our backyard."

"You make it sound like a prison sentence," she replied chidingly.

"Isn't it, though? Daring to go where our great-great grandparents have already been?"

"... Michael, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you okay?" Mariel repeated unexpectedly; she wanted full disclosure. Burgoyne cocked an eyebrow, then winked at her, giving her a reassuring nod. He couldn't slip anything past her.

"I'm just frustrated, but it'll pass. As soon as I formally accept my charge and get going, I'll be right as the rain, dearie. I'll do my duty and make my superiors proud. They'll see that they chose wisely."

"I'm sure they will, Michael, I'm sure they will," Mariel replied brightly, smiling again. "Just keep your nose clean and the bow pointed forward, and try not to crash the ship or anything. They're expensive."

"Sit on a pole and twirl," Michael scoffed momentarily. After a pause, he genuflected: "Seriously though, you be careful too, Strachleigh. You aren't exactly heading out to the bazaar or anything."

The look on Mariel's face became more focused, more resolute. "I know it, believe me. I've been briefed by my exec on the path his refugee ship took several years ago; we're going to retrace it as best we can. But there's no telling what we might find out there. Maybe we'll find some of Poinsettia's missing ships."

"When are you leaving?"

"In a couple of hours. The last checks are being completed now. By this time tomorrow, we'll be on our way towards the M625 System in the Kizar Belt; beyond that, a whole new quadrant to explore."

Michael ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing at the back of his head. "Just be careful, Mariel. I know our ships are fast and powerful, but there's no telling what you might run into out there. Though if you do get in trouble, please be sure to call and I'll book it out towards you. You know, if you need me or anything."

"Yeah, I bet you would," Strachleigh beamed, shaking her head. "Good luck, Auspex. See you in a few years, yeah?"

"See you in a few years. Burgoyne out," Michael said reassuringly, reaching forward to cut the viewfinder off even as Mariel did the same on her end. When the screen powered down, Burgoyne reached for his bottle of Muriae and quickly poured himself another glass, putting the empty bottle on the corner of his small desk. He peered out into the deepening darkness, catching a few flickers of light from the gravity wells in the distance as the ground crews prepared the Tenebris for her departure. Though rest was preferable to a listless night of drinking away his sorrows, sleep was hard to come by. It was a co-mixture, really; fear of failure tinged with the despondency of being supplanted for his preferred assignment. Had he not so desperately fought for his commission, he would've resigned out of protest.

But where would you go? What would you do?

His thoughts must have been louder than he realized; Clara rustled in the bed, subconsciously maneuvering herself back under the blankets. Michael scoffed casually—could've left me a view, at least—but quickly found himself right back in the same problem. He hadn't resigned his commission because he had no other desire in the world; his ship was his life, and whether it was going to the next sector or the next quadrant, he needed to be in command. If the powers-that-be decided to rob him of a glorious assignment, then he would be compelled to take glory of his own accord, that's all. The postponement of his ship's launch said nothing of his skills or capabilities on its own; it merely tested his mettle as a commanding officer. He'd be damned if he let the doubts defeat him.

Resolved to put the doubts behind him, and a little frustrated that he'd plowed through a bottle of liquor at such a late hour, Michael rose from his chair with arms stretched upward over his head. Arcing his back, he finished his last shot and gently put the glass down beside the empty bottle, making a mental note to straight up his loft before he departed. If he meant to get focused, he needed some time to clear his mind and get the blood flowing; a nice jog around the housing complex would be just the ticket. He had come to find that the best way to neuter a buzz was to exercise before his faculties were too impaired. It would help him get some sleep after the fact before his shuttle departed for the commencement ceremonies. He'd need to hurry back if he wanted any modicum of rest.

To hell with rest; I want the daylight to break already!

Michael walked towards the edge of the bed, grabbing his button-up off the dresser before sitting down on the corner, using his foot to nudge his boots towards him. As he reached over, the stirring must have woken his friend up; she yawned audibly, then rubbed at tired eyes as she leaned up on one arm. "Where are you going?"

"Couldn't sleep," Michael confessed, tying his laces tightly. "I'm going to go for a run."

"Mm, okay," she mumbled, already starting to fall back asleep. "Just remember, you promised me breakfast in the morning before you ship out. A girl doesn't like to be lied to."

"Sure thing, Tara; you got it."

The immediate response—she sat up straight away, holding the bed sheet over her chest—didn't distract him from throwing his shirt on over his shoulders, heading towards the door. "My name is Rebekah!"

Burgoyne reached for the door handle, nodding. "Same difference."

[Azura]

The Sidusclasse Proving Grounds at Meridiem Montus
Caelus, Calixtas Star System, Gamma Quadrant — 29^th Iunus, 5^th Aetas 001

The muted gray skies overhead were overlapped with thunderclouds moving in from the north, bringing the promise of the Iunus rains. Michael stared after the horizon, feeling the general unease that had overtaken the viewing platform below the loading tower in the presence of the anchored warship. The gravity well was disengaged; she was fully supported by the construct that would soon help launch her into orbit. It was at once awe-inspiring and nerve-wracking in the presence of such power, such might. The Tenebris was ready; the stage set, the players engaged in their glorious drama. It was now time to see if Burgoyne and his new crew could reward the faith placed in them by the Sidusclasse brass. The launch of the most powerful warship the Primareliqua had ever seen was at hand.

So where the Hell is everyone?

Burgoyne's crew was assembling beneath the platform, all wearing their finest uniforms. His senior officers were approaching the dais, the same look of expectancy that he knew he wore. Praefect Ashe and his adjutant were patiently waiting beside the podium, as they were expected... but no one else was present. No press, no dignitaries; when the Umbra had launched, they'd very-nearly thrown the damn crew an honorary parade. Members of the top brass were on hand to present Auspex Strachleigh with a special commendation in lieu of her forthcoming service. Where the fuck were the bells and whistles for the Tenebris and her crew? Was their performance so rank, so insipid that the Sidusclasse was physically embarrassed to be handing over its most powerful warship to them?

Things were going rather sour for the commander, and had been ever since he'd returned to his loft to find it a hot mess. Apparently Rachel, or whoever, had not taken kindly to his demeanor, and had thoroughly ransacked his apartment during his exodus out into the night. He'd very nearly cut his foot open on the broken liquor bottle he'd left on his table, and spent the next two hours trying to fix a viewfinder that would fall into disuse only hours later. In truth, it was all he could do to keep his focus on the mission at hand. He had largely moored his self-doubts to a fleeting bastion of self-confidence, but the center would not hold forever. He had hoped the pomp of the morning would bolster his mood; instead, it had all but torpedoed what little self-respect he'd mustered earlier, replacing it with gloom.

Michael was reaching the end of his patience; his despair over the slight presented him by the top brass was eating at his soul, and it had to stop. As the last of his officers fell into formation on the dais, he stole a look up towards the tower that would soon be transporting him and his prime crew up to the Tenebris. The colossus was bigger than her two sister ships, and was bred to go through Hell and sustain the charring therein. If the brass didn't think he were worthy, fuck them. The Tenebris was his ship now, not theirs, and he would make himself worthy of her glory. To Hell with Ashe and his overweening stooges, high and mighty behind the prestige of their station. He would give the performance of three lifetimes in command of the Tenebris, and the Primareliqua would sing of his praises.

Fuck it, I'm ready. Let's get this show on the road...

With the crew of the ship—my ship—at the ready, Praefect Ashe began to make his way forward on the dais towards the podium, preparing to give his remarks. All that Michael concerned himself with at that moment was figuring out how to take the glory of the mission for his own, as his commanding officer leaned into the microphone: "Crew of the Tenebris! It is a pleasure to speak to you today on this, a most momentous occasion—the launching of the third Eversor Class battlecruiser of the Sidusclasse's FarStar Fleet. On behalf of the fleet command, and the grateful citizens of the Primareliqua, I hereby commission the SLV Tenebris, registry number EC-251 as an active vessel in the Sidusclasse FarStar Fleet: the Honorable Auspex Michael James Burgoyne, commanding."

The Praefect stepped back, reaching for a small placard handed to him by his second. With a salute, he presented the small card forward—the official command citation to assume control of the Tenebris. Michael received it calmly, returning the salute: "Honorable Praefect, I hereby take command of this vessel."

Ashe extended his arm, shaking hands firmly with the new commander. "Courage through suffering, Auspex."

"Strength and honor!" Michael boldly replied, taking a step away after the embrace was broken, then spinning on his heels towards the crew in formation below. As he took the three steps forward, all self-doubt seemed to ebb away in a torrent of the adrenaline that now flooded his system. With a steady hand, he removed the temporary insignia from his collar and carefully took the lotus pin off of the placard, affixing it to his collar with a trained precision. He stared out over the crew, the very same that would soon be taking his orders aboard the Tenebris, and felt compelled to savor the moment. Oh, how he so richly deserved this... his superiors would soon be begging his forgiveness for having underestimated him so. Michael held his head high: he was born to lead men into the unknown.

"Today, Nautae of the Tenebris, we embark on an historic mission into deep space. We will trek where none of our kind have ever ventured. And though we shall go into the night alone physically, in spirit we shall take with us the good wishes and the faith of the Reliquai in spirit! For it was said from aforetime, when our ancestors first set foot on our world, that they had emerged from the Sanguine Dark, the untempered frontier of the Ethereal Host. I say to you now, on my word as a man and my soul as a believer in people, we shall tame the frontier and make it bow at our feet!"

The crew erupted in spontaneous cheer, working themselves up into their own adrenaline-fueled excitement. Michael couldn't help himself; he clenched his first, holding it out towards the crew. "I am prepared to give my life, to march through Hell and high water before I return dishonored. If you follow me, I promise you this, under penalty of death: I will bring you glory, and I will bring you honor! We shall endure the trials, our tribulations, and make courage of our suffering! Men and women of the Tenebris, the hour is at hand! Let not the timid or the meek inherit our riches, but let them grovel in our wake!" Michael paused once more for a fresh round of cheers from his crew, then came to attention. "Crew of the Tenebris, you are hereby ordered to make ready for departure."

"All hands... prepare to board!" the booming voice of a dockyard sentinel blared out into the open expanse as the Auspex stepped back from the microphone, acknowledging Praefect Ashe before motioning for his second, Adjutor MacTavish to follow him towards the loading elevator. Per the tradition of the Sidusclasse, the commanding officer and his second were the first of the prime crew to board, followed thereafter by the general crew and the staff officers. A few dock hands making last minute preparations were already on board, fine-tuning their systems and inspecting their manifest; otherwise, the ship was a virgin waiting to be taken by the bridegroom to her wedding bed—out amongst the stars. The hustle and bustle of the crew behind him was apparent.

"Damn good speech, sir," his exec said politely. "You missed your calling in life, I think."

"Gaige, you're one of the finest seconds in the fleet, but you can be a real prick sometimes," Michael snickered, offering a terse salute to a dock hand as he opened the lift gate that would transport them up to the main entry portal on the ship. "A real prick, indeed; how you made it to Adjutor is beyond me."

"I know how to kiss ass, Auspex," Gaige said self-deprecatingly. "It's all in the usage of the tongue."

"If Praefect Ashe heard you right now," Michael started in as the lift slowly began to hoist them up off the ground, "he would have your ass in the biggest sling this side of Nova Corra."

"Hell, who's ass do you think I kissed to get this gig?"

"Hold the lift," Michael said pointedly, turning to face MacTavish direct as their escort brought the lift to a halt several meters off the ground. "I know you're talented, Gaige, and I know you're ambitious. Just remember something, alright? I can't stand kiss-asses and I won't endure grab-asses. Just do your job, and we'll get along swimmingly. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the Adjutor said respectfully. A moment later, under his breath: "It's a shame, though."

"A shame?"

"Aye, sir," MacTavish replied, breaking out into a grin. "I was all ready to plant one on your backside, too."

"Start the lift," Michael said with mock-disgust, turning back to face the ship as the lift began picking up speed again. "Were you briefed by Armum Haertel on our final crew replacements this morning?"

"Yes, sir; I spoke with Breckin just before the commencement ceremony," Gaige responded quickly. I've prepped a dossier on the new replacements in Exsudo for you; it's in the main computer. Also, our new Iatric Praevians is on board, and you know how they love to grant an audience with the commander."

"Doctors love their sickbay too much," Michael confided, feeling a fresh rush of excitement as the lift started slowing near the elevated walkway that led to the open port bay on the ship. "I'll have a look-see once we get everyone on-board."

"Understood, sir."

As the platform came to a rest in line with the walkway that would lead them to the ship proper, Michael felt compelled to stop and take in the last few moments outside the vessel. It was quite possible that this was the last natural atmosphere he would breathe for months, if not years, and the weight of what lied ahead of him was pressing. Yet at the same time, there was a sudden peace about him all at once; there was no going back, only forward, and the knowledge that his future lie at the helm of the Tenebris gave his troubled spirit rest. It reassured him that he was in the right place, that he was the one to take the ship out into the unknown recesses of space. He had worked all his life for this moment, and the toiling was about to come to fruition. The sentry opened the gate on the lift, saluting.

Don't fuck this up, Michael.

"All aboard that's going aboard," MacTavish joked finally, motioning towards the Tenebris. "She's waiting for you, sir."

"Indeed," the Auspex replied in earnest. "Let's get to it."

Sidusclasse FarStar Mission Day LIX of the SLV Tenebris (EC-251)
Sector 515, Kuhne-Stregar Binary System, Gamma Quadrant — 21^st Marthas, 5^th Aetas 001

"It's highly irregular, sir, and I won't stand for it!"

Though MacTavish was doing his best to be thoughtful in his countenance when dealing with the old man, Michael was losing his patience rapidly. Eze Kalzuny was a great hand, and one of the longest-serving officers in the entire service, but he could be an ornery old curmudgeon when things didn't fall his way. According to the personnel review files in the central computer matrix, Kalzuny's attendant likened his behavior to having descended from a long line of assholes. With such a glowing endorsement in his personal file, Burgoyne had seriously contemplated putting in for a new station chief. In general, the old man had more than lived up to his billing as a competent—if cantankerous—member of his prime crew. Today though, Kalzuny's irritation over turnover attrition was wearing him thin.

"Auspex, this is absurd!" Eze continued unabated, barely stopping to take a breath. "My research team and I have been building a rapport for five months now almost, and right as we get underway good, the fleet decides to take them away from me and strand them on some Godforsaken, backwards world?"

"Auctor, I know you have a lot invested in your team, but my hands are tied. Pylae is a priority-one world, and the Sidusclasse wants a full research team in-system to monitor the indigenous population. Orders are orders, Eze."

"Sir, I must formally protest! If you wont hear my grievances, then I'll have to—"

"Damn it, man, I'm not the one that made the decision!" Michael could feel his blood rising; he didn't have time for this, not now. "From my seat here, you have two choices: either resign your commission, or go brief your new team!"

Kalzuny seethed for a moment longer, then finally shook his head in disgust. "Auspex, I do this under protest!"

"Just get it done, Auctor," Burgoyne ordered. "Exec, go with him and make sure he uses his manners."

"Yes, sir," MacTavish said, trying his damnedest not to laugh. Burgoyne gave the old bastard a curt smile as he turned to leave the briefing room, followed closely by the Adjutor. Theoretically, Kalzuny was correct: it was highly irregular to shift a prime crew around so grievously after the shakedown cruise was complete. Over the last three weeks, several station chiefs had received their orders from Fleet Command, requiring timely diversions from their scheduled patrols. Thirty different personnel had received new assignments since they'd departed the Calixtas System, an unusually high number. Even so, it was not wholly unheard of to experience a high attrition rate at the outset of a pathfinder's voyage. He'd levied an official inquiry with Fleet Command, and everything was cleared.

Shaking his head, Burgoyne turned back to the center table, glancing apologetically at his two remaining guests. Kalzuny's manners aside, he'd intended to give his new research officer, Dianne Scorza an informal briefing before allowing her to report for duty in the med-bay. She was a young and intelligent officer, according to her file, and was broad-shouldered. Her short black hair was worn in a bob, and a small cross-leaves pin was adorning the collar of her neatly-pressed service uniform. The head of Iatrical, Dr. Aiden Kesecker was seated beside her, resting casually with his hands clasped in front of him on the table. Though he was intent on briefing Exiguum Scorza, he couldn't help but feel the need to brief Kesecker while he was at it. In almost two months out of port, he had seen the good doctor twice.

Better for me that he just stay out of the way, I guess...

"Forgive the interruption, please," the Auspex offered, returning to his chair at the head of the table where Kesecker and Scorza were seated. "As you can see, there's never a dull moment."

"That's quite alright, sir; I've been in the field for the last four years with... experienced officers that were set in their ways. I think I'll be able to navigate the command structure here quite nicely."

"Indeed," Michael replied. "Your file was a rave review. Speaking of command structure, I noticed your Seni grading. By the time our mission is complete, you could be in line for a bump to the ceiling tier."

"That was my hope, sir," Danielle responded quickly, but casually. "Where this ship is going, I knew there would be opportunities for career advancement. But please don't mistake my ambition for complacency; I'm here to work."

"And where exactly is it that you think we're going, Miss Scorza?"

"Well..." She hesitated, taking a moment to finalize her answer. "Out there, sir."

The Auspex couldn't help but chuckle. "Very well, then. As per your official transfer orders, you have been assigned ad mei andri to the Tenebris; Doctor Kesecker informed me that you had requested to serve on his staff?"

"Yes, Auspex, with your permission," she answered, looking towards the doctor.

"I've already filled her in on the responsibilities expected of her. In light of our recent transfers, and with due respect to her station here on the ship, I'd like to make her my adjutant in Iatrical."

"I'll make a note in the official ship's record, effective immediately," Michael said respectfully. "Since the doctor has already brought you up to speed on our protocol here, I'll let you take your post when ready. You'll be expected to begin filing your personal reports within the next twenty-four hours. Our daily staff meetings are at 0630 here in the briefing room. I'm sure Doctor Kesecker will be sending you in his stead."

"Yes, sir," she replied, rising from her seat in deference to the commander.

"Welcome to the Tenebris, Exiguum Scorza."

"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down!"

"Go ahead to the med-bay; I'll be joining you shortly," Kesecker said politely, motioning for her to head on. Michael returned her salute, holding it for a second as she quickly departed from the room before turning back towards the Doctor. By the look in Kesecker's eyes, he was already expecting a challenge.

"You already know what I'm going to say," the Auspex started in immediately, returning to his seat.

"Of course I do, Auspex," the Doctor responded glibly. "You want to know why someone as overqualified as Exiguum Scorza—someone without a direct background in nursing—would be on the top of my list for an adjutant in Iatrical."

"Please, enlighten me then," Burgoyne challenged him direct. "I'm all ears, Doctor."

Aiden smiled, but it was most certainly a hallow one. "I worked with her father in medical school, and have developed a rapport with her family. She served as a junior attaché under Auspex Yui while I lectured at Fleet Medical, and I was able to observe her work firsthand. I could use someone like her in the med-bay."

"Uh huh," the Auspex answered. "Makes some sense, then."

"Besides," the Doctor added, "Her occupation and station limits her available positions short of becoming a member of the command crew proper. Unless she means to degrade herself, the only other position worthy of her merit would be on Mr. Kalzuny's staff. And as you and I both saw a moment ago..."

"—Yes, of course. It wouldn't go over well," Michael conceded, nodding reluctantly. "Doctor, as you can already see, I'm not prepared circumvent your request; otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Still, I'd like to be kept in the loop on your itinerary more frequently."

"Sir, I submit my weekly reports, as is required of all Fleet medical personnel serving aboard active warships. I've also sent a representative from Iatrical to every staff meeting since I came aboard. Has there been a change in regulations?"

"This is a judgment call," Burgoyne responded. "My judgment, to be exact. I know the traditions and the stereotypes about medical and command and how they don't mix well. But you're the only senior officer on the Tenebris that I still don't know much about. It is a problem that I have been remiss in correcting."

"Sir," Kesecker replied, cocking his eyebrow. "You have my personal files in your central matrix."

"Yes, and quite the rave review those files were," Michael stated in response. "Even so, the commander of a warship must know every inch of his vessel, including the crew that serves her. We are preparing to enter uncharted regions of the galaxy, and any conflict that might arise could put the ship in jeopardy. Especially if a ship's captain and her chief medical officer have no working rapport between one another. I've given you a wide enough berth in Iatrical; now it's time to meet me in the middle here, Doctor."

There was a brief pause as Aiden absorbed what the Auspex had spoken. "Sir," he began, "If it would please the commander of this vessel, I would be happy to attend the daily briefings at your leisure."

"Thank you, Doctor," Michael nodded, placing his hands flat on the table. "I appreciate your understanding in the matter. With all fortune, we can endeavor to make the med-bay a lonely place—"

"Auspex Burgoyne, sir?" The communications relay on the wall interrupted. "Your presence is requested on the bridge."

"I'm on my way," Michael replied, rising from his seat. "Is something wrong?"

An unusual burst of static preceded the answer. "Sir, sensors are picking up an unusual spatial distortion..."

[Azura]

Sidusclasse FarStar Mission Day LIX of the SLV Tenebris (EC-251)
Ship's Current Position: Unknown — 21^st Marthas, 5^th Aetas 001

Though brought to his knees in the sudden darkness of the control center, Michael was quite sure that he was still alive. The faint smell of acrid smoke from a short in one of the console panels at the optics hub was hanging low in the air, creating an unsettling haze that was accentuated by the deep-crimson emergency lights that now illuminated the bridge. Gingerly, he started to pull himself up, feeling strained muscles ache as he managed to right himself. No sooner had he made it to his feet than the auxiliary systems come back online, restoring normal lighting to the bridge. The Auspex readied himself for a disaster area, but was relieved to see relatively light damage in the control room; a few blown out panels, nothing that couldn't be repaired quickly enough.

"Helm, full stop!"

"Aye, sir, answering full stop."

Michael shot a glance towards Gaige MacTavish, who had also been put on the deck by the intense gravitic distortions. From the look in his eyes, he was a bit shaken, and didn't care who knew it. "Auspex, permission to initiate assessments by our damage control teams!"

"Permission granted," Burgoyne replied. "All stations, get with your department heads and prepare status reports," Michael called out, limping back to his command chair. "I want a full damage assessment to my chair ricky-tick!"

Caution lights were still flashing along the alert condition panels, but at least the ship seemed to be out of immediate danger. You wouldn't have known it from looking at the bridge, of course, but the region of spatial distortion that had nearly torn the ship apart was seemingly past them. Without sensors or primary power, there was no way to re-orient themselves, or to even utilize their S^PL engine plants. If the ship's primary control thrusters could be brought back online, they could maneuver well enough to recharge their auxiliary plants using the photovoltaic panels on the bow. Though, considering the scene that had played out on the main viewfinder prior to losing the auxiliary plants at the terminus of the distortion field, Michael was quite convinced that they had a more pressing problem to deal with.

Michael eased himself into the chair, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. The spatial distortions around the Tenebris were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. What had appeared to be some sort of cosmic energy barrier had dissipated into a sort-of cosmic starscape that was wholly unfamiliar to him. The ship reverberated wildly as it passed through... and then nothing but the darkness, and the pulsating rush of adrenaline that had no intention of subsiding any time soon coursing through his veins. The crew nearest him appeared as unsettled as he felt on the inside, but he had to steel it off and put on a stoic face. A captain with a weak countenance was as much an invitation to cause anarchy on the ship as dropping one's shields in the middle of a firefight. He had to arrest the chaos.

Burgoyne wasn't an idiot—the ship had passed through a wormhole. The only question was, where had it led them? His understanding of spatial mechanics weren't as sharp as he would've liked, though the fact that they'd seemingly made it through to the other side was a good sign. They could've been torn into a million tiny pieces, or even flown straight into a hidden singularity for that matter. It never ceased to amaze him how many different ways the universe possessed to kill wayfaring explorers that dared travel amongst the stars. Though they'd made it through alive, he wouldn't feel more comfortable about their present predicament until the ship's status was confirmed. In any event, if it could be avoided, he had no real interest in going back through the wormhole again if he could help it.

Hopefully it didn't take us too far...

"Sir, primary power is coming back online," MacTavish said, just moments before the ship's main systems began rebooting. Ventilation ports began to draw the smoke out of the air, improving both the air quality and the visibility.

Burgoyne quickly pressed the communication relay on his chair, feeling immense relief when it opened a channel straightaway. "Research, this is the bridge. You still with us down there, Kalzuny?"

"We're holding it together, sir." Eze replied after short while, coughing loudly. "Just a little dusty in here."

"Glad to hear it," Michael blurted quickly, surprised at how truthful the statement was. "I need you guys to access our astral cartographer, and see if you can determine where the Hell we are. I'm pretty sure we're a ways from home, but I need to know exactly how far we are before I start taking the long way home."

"We'll do our best sir; expect a report back in a few moments."

Michael nodded inwardly, not bothering to respond to the old man's reply. Instead, he was motioned over discreetly by his exec, who was slowly easing his way back away from his panel towards the Optics relay. No sooner had the captain gotten to within earshot did MacTavish drop a bombshell: "I think we've been sabotaged."

The Auspex stared after him incredulously for a few moments, unable to process what he'd just heard. "What in the Fuck are you talking about?" Michael whispered. "What makes you think sabotage?"

"I was able to retrieve a fragment of the data through the Optics relay just prior to the event," Gaige confessed, trying to keep his voice conversational-yet-quiet. "The ship's internal guidance system registered an automatic course correction, input from a program accessed from somewhere inside the ship."

The words were like a knife through his chest. "Someone turned us into the wormhole..."

"That's my guess," MacTavish responded nervously. "That's not it, though. See, if they turned us into the damned thing—"

"—Then they knew it was there all along," Burgoyne finished, his pulse quickening again. "Which means that they meant for us to come through here. We may have just inadvertently fallen into a trap."

It was a most distressing possibility, compounded by the fact that, until the cartographer managed to plot their position, they had no way of knowing whether they were on the other side of the sector or the other side of the universe. What was even more unsettling was the notion that someone—or something—had managed to take control of the ship's internal guidance matrix from somewhere other than the bridge. Though his working knowledge of the new battlecruiser class wasn't as in-depth as his knowledge of older models, it was common operating procedure throughout the Sidusclasse fleet to make sure that control of a ship couldn't be rerouted from the control deck. There were dozens of safety algorithms and firewalls designed explicitly to prevent someone from hijacking a ship of the fleet.

MacTavish finally broke the silence: "Do we risk going back through the wormhole?"

The Auspex stole a look back towards the control deck, trying to figure out what in the Hell was actually going on. "Only once we know where we are. If need be, we can signal the nearest ship for assistance if we're close enough to home."

"And if we're not?"

The answer would be presented soon enough. From somewhere behind him on the control floor, a voice called out: "Auspex, sir! The research team has activated the astral cartographer; they're feeding the data to your console now."

Burgoyne and MacTavish shot worried looks at one another before both made a beeline for the chair, without bothering to be discreet about the whole ordeal. As expected, their sudden rush to the command console drew considerable attention, even from Dr. Kesecker, who had come up from the med-bay at some point in the interim. Michael quickly pushed himself up into his chair, his rapidly-tiring body protesting the motion. As his fingers quickly slid his relay monitor into the RECEIVE position, he found his mind curiously blank as the first bits of data began to transfer to his console. Suddenly, a full read-out of the astral cartographer's survey appeared, and it took all of three seconds to shatter that false sense of security and turn his command on its ear. What in the Hell was going on?

"Oh, my God," MacTavish muttered, staring over the commander's shoulder. "We're near the J-1051 system. That's almost 60,000 light years from the nearest Sidusclasse monitoring post."

"We're on the other side of the galaxy," Burgoyne muttered breathlessly, unable or unwilling to comprehend the full scope of the readout. "It would take years for us to get back to our own space. Maybe decades."

The Auspex stood hastily from his chair, vaguely aware that most of the people on the control deck were staring after him. He quickly turned towards the operations station: "Mr. Bouthiller, I need those status reports ASAP!"

"Sir, all sections are reporting light damage to non-essential equipment. The survey teams report that the ship's structural integrity and armor are holding at 100%, and our main engines and weapons systems are coming back online."

That settled it; upon the completion of Bouthiller's report, Burgoyne's mind was made up. He wasn't hanging around in another quadrant of the galaxy if he didn't have to—they'd have to risk going back through the wormhole. "Helm, plot a course to bring us back around. Orient us towards the spatial distortion and—"

"Belay that order!" A voice screamed, full of authority. Michael's head turned in the direction of the voice, his mind slowly identifying it before his eyes caught sight of Aiden Kesecker speaking: "Helm, hold your position here!"

"Doctor, what the Hell are you doing?" MacTavish shouted, cutting off the Auspex before he could ask the same.

"If we go back through the wormhole, the ship will explode," Kesecker said, this time in a more normal tone. "You must hold your present position; going back would be suicide."

Burgoyne stepped down from the small platform upon which his chair sat, feeling his anger building. "Doctor, we are 60,000 light years from the nearest support! We just flew through an uncharted wormhole into a star system on the other side of the galaxy. God only knows what's out here or who this territory might belong to—"

"It belongs to the Sovereign Stellar Empire of Auracexia," the Doctor said bluntly, "and they knew we were coming."

Burgoyne was formulating a response to this indecipherable answer, but Kesecker turned and began walking away, heading in the vague direction of the briefing room, as if he meant for the Auspex to follow him. Michael motioned for Aiden to take the conn before limping down off the platform to follow him. He didn't know what the Doctor's end game was in all of this, but he didn't like it. It had to have been Kesecker that altered the ship's course, but what did it mean? Was it an act of sabotage? And who in the Hell, or what in the Hell was the Stellar Empire of Auracexia? It was as if he had the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle splayed out before him, but with no reference point to even know what the puzzle pieces were supposed to make. It was a dangerous way to fly...

Michael rounded the corner into the small offshoot, the sliding doors to the briefing room automatically opening. The Doctor was busy with his back turned to the Auspex, pulling up data on the briefing monitor. "Please, sir, come in."

"You better start explaining yesterday, Kesecker, before I have you shot!"

"Auspex, you really don't want to go that route," Aiden said without any trace of emotion. "Shooting me would not go over very well for you. I'm the only tenuous link you have left to your orders."

"What orders? What the fuck are you talking about!?"

"Your new orders," the Doctor replied cryptically, inviting him to look at the information on the screen. "Grab yourself a chair and come read, sir. You're going to need to sit down for this."

~

When the last lines of text were read, and scrolling revealed only a blank screen, Michael leaned back into his chair, feeling nauseous and disheveled all at the same time. He didn't dare look at Kesecker, not immediately anyhow; there was too much to take in at one time. His system had to reset itself, almost; his mind completely wiping away everything he had ever known, everything he had ever come to believe in about his service, and even his purpose. The paradigm shift in the fate of the ship, and the lives of his crew were so monumental, he almost couldn't process it all. It took every last ounce of strength he had to maintain his stony countenance and begin to ponder the ramifications of the 'new orders' that were mysteriously waiting for him in the ship's central computer.

This can't be happening. This is fiction...

"I assure you, every word in that report is true; the security stamps should speak to that," the Doctor said finally after giving Michael a few moments to work things out. "You understand now why things broke the way that they did?"

"I... I don't understand," Michael said finally, his eyes fixed on the floor by his feet. "They've been lying to me this whole time, to us, to the entire Fleet. They knew the wormhole was there, they knew that we would be going through it! Hell, they planned for us to go through it! All because they're sitting on some damn secret that's too big to get out?"

"—Too dangerous to get out," the Doctor corrected him. "You were briefed five months ago on the official report on Jayne Reviers and the crew of the Ferociter, were you not?"

"I figured they had told me enough," Michael muttered, "but now I know differently."

The Doctor shook his head apologetically. "Auspex, you were chosen for a reason; everyone on this ship was chosen for a reason. It had nothing to do with your competence or lack thereof; quite the opposite in fact. Your name was the first one considered for this mission when it was first envisioned fourteen months ago."

Michael turned his face upward towards the Doctor, unsure if he heard what he thought he'd just heard. The idea that this whole charade had been planned for months without his knowledge... this whole time, operating like an asshole when puppeteers were pulling the strings around him, manipulating him and his crew with a false narrative and false pretenses. The emotion was about to explode out of him like a powder keg, and his mind desperately tried to cling onto something, anything that was tangible in the moment. White flashes of blinding light pounded in his head, and his free hand was silently clenched into a fist so tight, veins started bulging in his wrist. All the while, the Doctor merely stared down on him, emotionless. Void of feeling, even. The Auspex finally settled on a response.

"Have you nothing else to say?" Aiden managed to get out, before Michael rose from his chair and brought the back of his hand across the Doctor's face as hard as he could. The blow staggered him off his feet, sending him sprawling on the floor. Michael towered over him, seething violently, his fist clenched. Kesecker scurried backwards from him.

"Goddamn you to Hell! Fuck you, fuck them! Fuck the whole damn lot of them!" Michael screamed, scooping up the chair and hurling it as hard as he could across the room, barely registering the crunch it made against the door on impact. MacTavish stepped through the doors a moment later, his sidearm at the ready.

"That's great, just fucking great," the Doctor said after regaining his composure, wiping away a steady flow of blood from his broken nose. "This is going to leave a stain, you know."

"They lied to me, to us for months!" Michael screamed again, unable to look at the man hunkered in the corner of the room on the floor any longer. He turned away from him bitterly towards his exec. "They sent us here to die!"

MacTavish shook his head, unsure of whether he could train his pistol on the Doctor. "What the Hell is going on here?"

"You were sent here on the most important mission the Sidusclasse has ever undertaken!" Aiden spat angrily, ignoring MacTavish completely. "You were the best of the best, you moron! They chose you because they knew you could handle it! They knew that when the chips were down, you would throw down. You weren't sent here to die!"

"Did they think I was such a coward that I would refuse the mission? Fuck, I would have taken it gladly! But Jesus, I should have at least been in the loop on it! I should have had the fucking choice!"

The Doctor snapped back angrily. "This was the biggest mission in the history of our people! You read your orders, you read the report! You know what's at stake, what the ultimate consequences are! We had to keep this under wraps for as long as possible! Any slip up, any breach of information and we could've had mass panic in the entire sector!"

"Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here?" MacTavish interjected in frustration, deciding it was reasonably safe enough to holster his sidearm... for the moment. Michael turned to him, still seething.

"This whole deal, it was all a set-up. The Sidusclasse had been aware of the 'bridge', the wormhole to this part of the galaxy for some time. They've even sent ships through to make contact with the stellar empire that controls this part of the quadrant. We're on a highly classified mission out here; only a select few at Fleet Intelligence are even aware of the specifics. If we try to return through the wormhole, the crew will die. They've rigged our ship with cherite charges that will explode if we try to go back through again."

Gaige through his hands in the air. "Now why the fuck would they do that? What fucking point does that even serve?"

"To keep them from following you back home," the Doctor said pointedly, pulling himself up finally off the floor.

"Them? Who's them?" The exec asked intently. The Doctor ignored him.

"Auspex, this ship has been heavily modified, far beyond even your tactical knowledge," Aiden said, pulling up a live feed on the viewfinder. "That," the Doctor said carefully, pointing to the feed of a hidden compartment in the med-bay, "Is a generational lab. This ship has everything it needs for long-term exploration in the galaxy. Hydroponics, seedlings, stasis tubes... Hell, we even have the chemical compounds needed to make fuel for generations if need be. Advanced guidance systems, the most powerful weapons' suites ever constructed for a Sidusclasse warship."

"Where in the fuck did all that come from?" MacTavish said incredulously. "When the fuck did they store all that? And why in the blue Hell did our own Fleet turn us into a generational ship? I don't understand any of this..."

"We're on perpetual search-and-destroy," Michael interjected bitterly, looking out through the window into space. "All three of the new battlecruisers are. They weren't designed for peaceful exploration; they were designed to hunt out the home system of the most terrifying life force we've ever encountered. Three ships, armored and armed to the teeth, sent out in every feasible direction, looking for a Hellish nightmare."

"—Because the Tenebris would be patrolling the furthest away from home, special modifications were made to this ship, including the stores in the med-bay. That's also why the charges were planted in the ship's central mainframe. If this ship makes contact with the target, or any other hostile party in this part of the galaxy, the Sidusclasse couldn't risk them discovering the bridge back to our own quadrant. If the computer detects the ship trying to go back through, it will automatically initiate self-destruction to protect the Primareliqua."

MacTavish couldn't believe what he was hearing. "We're going to die out here. We'll never see home again..."

Burgoyne shot him a passing glance, but couldn't work up a response. Gaige was right; the ship was well and truly screwed, doomed to a fate that was to be unknown by all but a select few back home on Caelus. Not only were they to be deprived of the honor of successfully completing their now-bogus mission, but they wouldn't even have the pleasure of getting to home, either. Their entire existence was now based in a foreign part of the galaxy, centered around a mission that carried the most horrifying conclusion possible. If things could get any worse than they were at that moment, he sure as Hell would like to be told how. This? This... this was rock bottom. The absolute lowest of the low, from which there was no possibility to sink any further. It was madness.

"Auspex, put aside your personal feelings, and step up into the role that they entrusted you with!" Aiden pleaded, taking a new tract. "They chose you, and gave you the ship and crew of your dreams, because the very survival of our people, of our way of life is at stake here. We must find them, before they find us..."

"How the Hell am I supposed to go out there and tell my crew that they'll probably never see their homes again? How do I even begin to explain all of this? I'm liable to have a goddamn mutiny on the bridge!"

"The Fleet has every confidence in your ability to handle the situation," Aiden said firmly. "Even so, you needn't worry too much. I have my people all over the ship in every major station to keep order if things go sour."

"What do you mean..." Burgoyne started, then stopped, realizing at once what he meant. All of the transfers...

"You crazy son of a bitch!" MacTavish spat, clasping his fingers through strands of hair atop his head. "You put operatives on board this ship? Are you some sort of intelligence agent or something? Are you even a doctor?"

"I'm a doctor and an agent, Adjutor," Kesecker replied coldly. "And my people aren't operatives; they're the best men and women in the entire Fleet. They know the score, they know what's at stake, and they volunteered to lay down their lives, just as I have, to make every effort to protect the lives of every man, woman and child back home."

Gaige fumed. "Call them what you want, they're operatives as far as I'm concerned, and I want them all arrested!"

"You just don't get it, do you? All of you are in this now; there's no going back! Tomorrow morning, every soul aboard this ship will know what the score is. You can either play ball, or get the fuck out of the way!"

"—Doctor, I need you to step outside for a moment," the Auspex requested.

"Sir, I—"

"Outside. Now."

Kesecker thought to protest further, but saw in the Auspex's eyes that he was deadly serious. Without further incident, the Doctor quietly cut the feed to the med-bay and stepped past MacTavish on his way out the room, not bothering to look at him as he past. Michael's attention was fixed outside, staring off into the depths of the Ethereal Host, silent and foreboding. It was frightening and comical all at once, to consider how different his life was not an hour, not thirty minutes before all of this. Long, interminable moments of silent drug past, his executive officer too afraid or too lost in his own thoughts to speak up. Time seemed to drone on in the briefing room; a lingering sense of despondency and timidness clung to the air like an invisible predator, stalking them.

After a seemingly-intractable pause of silence, MacTavish finally worked up the courage to speak. "I don't even know what to say. How the Hell could anyone know what to say in a moment like this."

The Auspex didn't respond, not immediately. His eyes were mesmerized by the stars, his gaze fixed on a single point outside. Gaige shook his head, staring after him. "What do you think we should do, sir?"

Still, no response from Burgoyne. Gaige stepped closer: "Auspex?"

"Look out the window, Gaige. Tell me what you see?"

MacTavish furled his eyebrow at the strange request, stepping afterward beside him. He leaned forward, staring out into the darkness. "I see the stars, sir. Why?"

"One of those stars is home," Michael said finally after another long pause. "Only it's not our time. The light that you see now left hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago to reach this point. When you look out there, you're looking into the past. Our people's past. A people that never knew the dangers or threats that we face in the here and now."

Gaige was quick to respond glumly: "Right now, I envy them."

"That's not what I see," Michael retorted, building up to something important. "I see every ounce of sweat, every drop of blood that ever has been in our civilization out there. That's not just our home; that's our everything. And now, somewhere in the night, there are people who will turn their eyes towards the Heavens in our direction, seeing generations from now what we see with our own eyes today. To our people, we are the past that they will build upon."

MacTavish turned to look at him thoughtfully. "Auspex?"

"We're here, now," Michael answered. "We're here now, and there's nothing we can do about it. There's nothing more that that I would rather do right now than kill Kesecker twice over...

"Agreed," Gaige replied and meant it.

"Even so, we're soldiers of the Primareliqua. For better or for worse, our country, our people have called us to serve selflessly. Whether they were right or wrong to withhold the information from us, the Doctor and his people were willing to give up their lives to serve their country. I guess, at the end of the day... Why should I not be willing to do the same?"

"So... We're going to carry out the mission, then?"

Burgoyne nodded slowly, as if to to try and reassure himself. "It's our duty," he said finally, turning towards the door that led back to the control deck. "Being marooned out here is bad. Dying without honor out here is worse."

MacTavish shrugged, following the Auspex out of the room. "I'll take your word for it, sir."

Burgoyne moved around the corner, making a careful note of where the Doctor was standing, carefully positioned between him and the opening that led back to the control floor. "Kesecker, I want the names of your people in five minutes."

"What are you going to do?" He asked intently as Michael blew past him. "Auspex?"

"I'm going to carry out my orders," he barked harshly, walking out into the open towards his command chair, drawing every eye in the room towards him as he walked. It was a strange feeling, heading up to inform the crew of the duty they were now expected to perform—those that were still unaware, at least. In some respects, he was nervous about how his crew would receive the news; obviously he would have to word it carefully. But in other respects, there was a strange blanket of calm that was slowly settling over his spirit. Maybe they were neck-deep in shit, but at least knowing the score made things more bearable somehow. It wasn't the job he wanted, but it was the job that had been tasked to him. He'd be damned if he'd come halfway across the galaxy, only to flake out in at the last.

"Open a channel to the whole ship; everyone needs to hear this," the Auspex said to the Operations controller finally as he reached his chair, turning back to face the prime crew. The controller nodded when the ship-wide alert sounded, and Michael took a final breath. "Attention, crew of the Tenebris... This is Auspex Burgoyne. I... I know that you are concerned right now, nervous even. We have traveled some 60,000 light years from our previous position, and now sit on the other side of the galaxy."

The bridge crew began murmuring at the admission, and he could only imagine what the rest of the ship was feeling now. He raised his hand to continue: "People... Listen to me, please. I could explain our orders, and go into every gory detail, but it would not change the fact that we are here. We are here because we are the best... The Sidusclasse has chosen this ship, and this crew to explore the unexplored, to go further than any other ship of the Fleet has ever dared go before. We have been chosen for the most important mission of our lifetime, in the great and mighty history of our people. We are here, because we are born and bred to make history, and to become legends in our own time. We are the best of our nation, and our people. We were sent here because we can and will endure the unendurable."

"Men and women of the Tenebris, we know what lies behind us. For the sake of our people, we must now move forward. I ask each of you only to do what I myself and willing to do. I would stop at nothing to receive the glory and honor, and the adulation of my neighbors. But if giving my life means one day saving theirs, then I will gladly consider my life forfeit. When I look at you all, I know in my heart... this is the finest ship in the fleet. And I know that each and every one of you, without question or fail, will do their duty to the absolute best of their abilities. We were made for this moment, you and I. Now, I ask only that you look within yourselves, and find that which I see in you. Find the strength within you, and we will make it home. I promise you with all that I have, and all that I am... We'll make it home."

He had poured his heart out to his crew, to everyone. He was spent, both physically and emotionally. The old man that he was had gone away, and in its place was a man that had been waiting to get out for a long, long time. He stared after his crew, looking into their eyes, trying to feel what they felt in the moment. There was no telling how they would respond; they could try and kill him, and take the ship back through the wormhole. They could refuse their duty and simply shut down emotionally. The silence was haunting and painful, and it drew the breaths of every living soul around him to a crescendo of expectation. Michael prayed that someone, anyone would have the courage to respond; they may sit in silence for hours before he could order them onward...

"Sir," a familiar voice called out at last in response to the message. "We're bored as Hell here; let's get going, sir."

Eze, you beautiful old bastard...

Michael cracked the sliest of smiles, nodding. The bridge crew tried to suppress a few chuckles, but more than anything, they were focused. It was time to go: "You heard the man. Helm, set a course: mark 1-3-7, full S_bL propulsion."

MacTavish moved up behind him, leaning over his shoulder as the crew began to make preparations for the true beginning of their mission. "Sir, what is it that we are looking for," he whispered. "What are going to find?"

"I don't know," Michael answered honestly. "But we'll know it when we see it."

[Serukta Sehkrisaal]

Sihrumai'al of the Kuhara'ad, Enumaqal-class Assault Destroyer
^{The Sihraan, Non-localized Space, Alpha Quadrant — 11th of Suanabalhk, 31840 Am'kiraan}
The lighting of the Sihrumai'al had been dimmed hours before; officially, she was to be adrift in the arms of slumber, dreaming of the violent and burgundy fields of Uktaan; instead, she, like so many nights before, was awake and lost in the rambling, melodic song she preferred to call a "discussion." It was a qualities to which he found himself adoring ever more as their tenure went on and passed; one of many qualities, in truth, but possibly his most loving found in her. He leaned forward slightly, sitting the empty glass beside him on the flooring of the Sihrumai'al; she had been discussing the feeling of the Ayya'disud for over an hour and, admittedly, he had lost track of the actual content of her pervasive tongue long ago, focused instead on the soothing melodies of her voice - ethereal and sublime - that seemed to flow around him, yet from within his own quieted mind.

"What would you say, beautiful Haraalk?" she questioned; at once, he seemed to focus on the oval-shaped pillar at the center of the room. Whenever she spoke his name, he felt a desire to look to it, as if the golden and embossed intricacies of the metal were the rising and falling contours of her face. In truth, he need look nowhere to see her eyes, for they were everywhere: the air he breathed, the floor upon which his glass sat, even his own were hers. Such was the nature of the Sihrunaa.

"My apologies, Sihrunaa Kiilera," slowly, adjusting the black cowling of his attire, he rose from the floor, casting his eyes back to the metallic visage he felt compelled to confront, "but this Siilubra has become lost in your song once more. If I may be remiss to say it, I haven't the slightest as to what you were actually speaking of, Dancer Upon the Eye."

"Do you ever, Haraalk?" the tone that echoed between his ears was of mocking tone, filled with jest and sisterly delight; that quality was another he felt drawn to - one he sometimes felt he could never do without in his life. Many times, in his sleepless nights or in his hours of prostration in the sarahk, he questioned whether he did not merely love her, but was - in truth - in love with her, infatuated, and obsessed by the desire for a being of such elevated status that it sometimes drained him merely to stand in her more corporeal presence.

"I suppose not, Dancer," he smiled and felt the warmth of her being wash over him. "But," he interjected, beginning to circle the seat of the Sihrunaa, "if I may, I do have a question of my own."

"Speak of your question, Myr'siilubra," the voice shot through him as if it were a lance, banging thoughts in his mind like pebbles in a pot, "I, the Dancer Upon the Eye, am forever your dutiful counsel, most beautiful."

"Do you ever wonder...," for a moment Haraalk paused, running the back of his hand beneath his chin, absently noting the jagged canyon of scarified flesh that dwelt there in eternity, "Do you ever wonder, Kiilera, what it is like? To be free?"

"Oh, beautiful Haraalk," her voice had drawn terse, even somber, melancholic, "My most beautiful Haraalk; do you not know? This one whom dances upon the Eye of the Gulf knows what it is to be free. It is to be marvelous and unbounded; to be free from the restraint of flesh, to be bore of the Flame which is endless, and to sit upon the Twin Thrones in the presence of He whom is also Sa'ilu. This dancer knows—"

"My apologies," he interjected, "but what I meant was: do you ever... Do you ever wish you were not Sihrunaa?"

Even as he spoke it, he felt the iniquity on his lips; quickly, he turned his face from the pillar of divinity in the epicenter of the chamber and cast his eyes upon the unblemished gilding of the walls. Her silence was enough to condemn him; her silence, even still, was a hole bore through his very heart, drowning the flame which sat there in the impurity of the waters dark and dim. He said a prayer to himself, one of the many litanies he knew and had long ago committed to simple memory through the devotion of repetition. At once, he wished to be back on Suhruma'ad; penitence would be demanded of his sacrilege, he knew, and once again he would be forced to mortify the impure to bring to it, once more, the purity of the Ilu. He would—

"Do not judge yourself so harshly, Haraalk," she abruptly interceded his very thoughts, "It is not a question to which you should damn your fire to the darkness for. It is an honest query, posited between friends - between the devoted and the devotee. He whom is Endless will not judge you for the love which burns in your heart anymore than I will - or can." Even so, Haraalk did not turn, feeling the shame still lingering within his flesh. "You are Haraalk, Myr'siilubra of the Ma'adjai, mortified and tempered on the mortuary world of Suhruma'ad. Long ago you paid your penitence - and paid it more over." He reached to his face as if to confirm, scarcely touching - fearful, even - of the gash which ran from his chin, across his features, to the truncated stump of an amputated saalebu long since healed to swollen and discolored scaring.

"Your question," she continued, "is not one I can answer. Once this Dancer upon the Eye knew; once... Once I knew. Now, now she knows other mysteries. I know - I have seen, felt, and loved beyond comprehension; I have walked upon the flames of stars born new and have seen them wither and die like the roses of Laluba'al. Do I envy the flesh? I cannot say, my beautiful Haraalk; I cannot say, for I cannot know it anymore than you may know the Sihraan."

"I beg respite, my counsel - my Sihrunaa," Haraalk turned swiftly, falling first to his knees, then supplanting his brow upon the decking below, "I beg forgiveness from you for this envy I feel of your flesh and of your sight and song; I beg forgiveness from Ma'haraal and Ma'adiam and from He who is the Father of Fire and She, Sihue'ekla, who is of the Waters of Form. I beg of them, forgive me this!"

"You need ask nothing of this!" Haraalk felt the chastisement of her speech like razor-vine against his flesh. "You need not my forgiveness nor Theirs for this. It is a question you, of the Ma'adjai, were meant to ask. You, Haraalk, were meant for the love that burns in your fire most secret and divine; you need only forgiveness and to seek penitence when you refuse this love and devotion," her voice which made no sound softened and became like the waters in which she dwelt, "Now stand, for one of your fellow Siilubra approach; he brings news of those whom come from far in search of the Light of the Second Children."

The Myr'siilubra remained motionless for a time, his eyes downcast to the decking, its ivory and gilding overlay entrancing and fascinating him as the weight of the Sihrunaa waned and subsided. Slowly, he rose to his feet, steadying himself against a narrow ledge pressed against the curving walls of the Sihrumai'al. As he righted himself, the small aperture into the chamber shuddered then retracted like petals of gold-dipped bone. A sense of gratitude washed over him as he saw the light ochre visage of Taaksehra enter; she had accompanied his operations for years, and if it were not for the vows bore to him when he donned the cilice, he knew it would be within her arms in which he'd prefer to pass.

"Naa'il, Dancer upon the Eye," she nodded absently, "good evening. It is an honor to be within your presence once more."

"My beautiful Taaksehra," warmth once more, "it is of my own honor to see the grace of your face in this place which sits upon the Gulf. Please, speak to the one whom is Haraalk. The Dancer understands you come with news of those whom journey?"

"Yes, holy Sihrunaa; you are ever gracious," Taaksehra confirmed, turning to Haraalk: "Evening, Myr'siilubra. One of the returning adikanna came bearing the news of their arrival."

"Let me see it then," Haraalk felt the shift in his demeanor as he stepped toward her; almost immediately, she waved her had across the vacant space between them, eliciting a sudden flush of sukohl'naa to form a projection, a drawing of data from the adikanna recently returned. A quick glance across the smooth sphere of suspended liquid confirmed Taaksehra's assumptions, even so, he pressed his fingers amidst the fluid, drawing forth further information. "So it is as seen," he began, "those of the kine from beyond the Lanthe do come to us."

"Not to us, Myr'siilubra," Taaksehra corrected, "at least, not yet. They appear to have traversed from where our brothers and sisters in the Maakilu'denaan saw, and have since arrived through the anomaly in a realm beyond the sight of our farseers. Ours believe they have arrived in another polity beyond the Core, closer to Urs'kasol; it is not believed to be within the Oversector, but still beyond our current horizon."

"Good night, Kiilera," Haraalk obliterated the sukohl'naa projection with a wave of his hand, stepping past Taaksehra and into the corridor beyond the chamber. Taaksehra followed to the dimming melody of the Dancer as they departed. Even so, as the aperture closed, he turned to her: "Did our brothers and sisters at the Ayya'd give any insight into when they might come to be within our reach?"

"No, Myr'siilubra, they did not," her tone was short and quick.

Stepping down several small steps, slowly making his way toward the ahkariit, Haraalk further questioned: "Do we have any further information about the vessels the s'kasol have sent into the volume?"

"Vessel, Myr'siilubra," Taaksehra once more corrected, failing to disguise a sly grin growing on the ruddy flesh of her lips, "The s'kasol have sent one ship, our brothers and sisters believe. Preliminary sight from the farseers seem to confirm this, though we will not be sure until we act."

"You mean to tell me," Haraalk's brow furrowed, tugging the flesh around his lips, exposing an even greater depth of his maw than the scar in-and-of itself accomplished to reveal, "that the same people - the same humans - whom were at Avaika have sent a single warship on a mission into the Deep Core? May the Flame forgive me, but certainly this cannot be correct."

"By all accounts, it is correct," stepping forward, Taaksehra glanced over the large aperture, causing its frame to immediately slide back, exposing the interior of the Kuhara'ad's ahkariit - bridge. "As best any of us can tell, the ship is either a warship or a simple scout vessel," she continued as she stepped onto the bridge, "our brothers and sisters could not be more certain; their vision is cloudy and dim, and the farseers have had no greater potency at this range."

Haraalk stepped into the amphitheater-like chamber, making his way to the floor at the center of the raised consoles and stations. Much like the Sihrumai'al, the ahkariit's lighting was dim, bathing the gold and ivory masterwork of the vessel's interior in rusted hues. Sitting idle within the Sihraan was commonplace for the Ma'adjai, and like Haraalk, those whom could were off committing their own forms of devotion; even so, several remained - a proverbial skeleton crew - working over their stations in near-silence with only the subtle symphony of flowing sukohl'naa and still breathing to keep them company. It was peaceful, he felt, in its own way; even so, this was no longer a time of peace, of that much he was certain. The adikanna were being sent-out and retrieved on the hour, and each one brought forth more news into the depths of the Gulf of Fulgor - their flaming sea beyond the dark and muddied waters of Qaar'ekla.

"Well," he muttered, pressing his hands into the small of his back, "Siilubra Ta'sehra, it seems we have work to do." Speaking to the assembled crew: "Please issue the alarm for our brothers and sisters to return to their postings and open the flare-lock with the rest of the task group." Immediately, without confirmation of order or spoken word, a pillar of fluid shot from the flooring before him, expanding out to create a pedestal of clear-blue movement, flush and running, moving and manipulating; indicators arose within a heartbeat, one for each of the vessels in the task force: the Kuhara'ad; Asuhiat, an electronics warfare-specialized escort frigate; Neshtamaar, an escort frigate; and the Ningaal and Palutaan, heavy brigands.

Just as quickly as the pedestal of rushing, blue-on-blue waters flowed, Haraalk tapped each indicator, opening the flare-locked channels between each. Steeling himself where he stood, he issued: "Brothers and sisters, the s'kasol whom we have been expecting have entered the quadrant. As of now, they are beyond our grasp and dwell within the realm of Amaar. Within the hour, our adikanna will return; once they have done such, we shall begin our movements as directed by the Burning Crown, His All Holiness, the Sehkrisah; it is our duty, as ever, to come to meet those who dwell beneath judgment. This is no different, my brothers and sisters; though they come from the reliquary of memory, they are yet more lost and misguided and it is our duty to bring the mercy of the Endless Flame unto them. Praise Sa'ilu, for He is just. Naa'il!"

The resounding echo of "Naa'il" filled the ahkariit and echoed back from the flowing pedestal, followed quickly by the sudden illumination of the bridge to its former brilliance and the silent flashing of running lights, calling the Siilubrai'i of the Ma'adjai to their post. Amidst such, Haraalk dismissed the pedestal, turning to Taaksehra once more, speaking to her in the diminutive of his custom: "Ta'sehra, we are to have a hunt; I will need you now as I have always needed you before. You are my sister in the cilice, and I would have you in my presence from here henceforth."

"Of course, Myr'siilubra," Taaksehra smiled, "I am forever at your side, brother."

[Principality of Zundrbar]

Home Territory.

What did the phrase mean? For as long as Operations Officer Isakki Toivanen, corporations had been expanding into the frontiers of space. Since the time of his ancestors' ancestors, there had been expansion- first, global capitalism, then system capitalism, and now the phrase that Toivanen could see seemingly everywhere in the Takkarnheim Operations Center was "Galactic Capitalism."

It had been long hypothesized by thinkers that the Muuns would someday expand beyond the borders of the Zhundrbar System, but Toivanen never thought that this would become commonplace in his lifetime. He remembered from what he had read in the textbooks about corporate expansion.

So where is the Home Territory? What does the phrase mean?

"For a Takkarnheim, home is among the stars."

Isakki looked behind him and caught the eye of Tekla, his bright-eyed secretary. Toivanen threw a quick glance to the analog clock on his table before realizing how long it had been since he received his mission briefings. He had been staring at an astral projection of the Zhundrbar System, clicking toolbars on each moon, asteroid, and planet in the system. He had gotten through about three quarters of them.

"It's alright Isakki, we've got time before the mission starts."

Isakki shifted his glance back to Tekla, "Great. Got a little too deep there for me and I guess I zoned out for a bit."

Tekla smiled, "Zoned out would be an understatement. You were gazing at that thing for the past four hours." She paused and poured herself a glass of clear sparkling water before asking, "What were you trying to find- the secrets of the system?"

Toivanen smiled and gave a near-laugh, "Two hours to launch, right?"

"Looking forward to it?" Tekla asked as she poured the water into two glasses- one for her and one for Isakki.

"Not particularly, but it should be a quick mission. Corporate said we should be done in six months if everything runs smoothly." She handed him his glass before sitting down on the other side of the board table and taking a sip from hers.

"Corporate will say anything to maintain investor confidence Isakki. Then again, you probably know more than me about what goes on in the Board of Directors than me."

Frankly, Isakki wanted to pose the question of "Who cares?" though he kept silent and took a sip of the sparkling water. "We should probably go over the briefing before the mission," Isakki responded, his previous tone of entertainment replaced with harsh seriousness. "It wouldn't be good to endure on a multi-trillion dollar expedition in a reckless manner."

Tekla sensed the change in his voice and responded in a similar manner, "Certainly,sir."

She opened the binder in a manner that suggested that she had memorized the information inside. Knowing Tekla, Isakki thought to himself, such was probably true.

"Mr. Toivanen, we'll be deploying on board the Kalavela- a Saare-Class fighter carrier, outfitted with the usual complement of weaponry. We've got a deployment crew complement of 1800- roughly 1000 security personnel- ARMSCOR, Ylistian, and Hapatani on the ground and Giojima and Korger for aerospace. The remaining 800 are mostly from the Exxöl Corporation and Lakkonen Mineral Group PLC at 503 and 297 respectively. Including the ship's crew we bring that number up to 2100- 200 standard crew members with 100 ARMSCOR soldiers that will remain on board during the duration of the mission."

"Understood. As for food and water?"

"The Kalavela has both hydroponics and aquaponics facilities on board. Don't expect to get a burger- corporate has got us eating sushi on board. Water will begin with a refreshable system on board, which we'll have around 30,000 gallons of provided by Takkarnheim, will get filtered from waste and purified into drinking water to be given out on board again. When deployed we'll be using bottled water, though it'll be bottled from the same source. We will also be carrying emergency ice storage in the event that the ship runs out of water or the ground deployment runs out of water, however, within the first month we will have an established water supply route."

"Sounds like a plan." Isakki stood up and finished the rest of his glass before walking over to Tekla, extending his hand, "Shall we?" The seriousness in his voice had been replaced by a casual one.

"Certainly Isakki," Tekla responded as she moved her hand up to meet Isakki's. Isakki briefly turned to face his reflection in his office's mirror. Reaching to his right, he picked up a tie that bore Takkarnheim's colors and tied it for a brief period before sliding on a black blazer that matched his khakis.

Tekla looked to Isakki and gave him a brief look of admiration before reaching into the pocket of her jacket and extending her hand to him. It took him a minute to notice her hand, though he reached forward and meticulously opened her fingers with his own, revealing a black, white, and green Takkarnheim lapel pin. She smiled at him, walking towards him and whispering into his ear, "Mr. Takkarnheim wanted you to have one." Isakki took the lapel pin slowly and closed her fingers before inserting the pin.

Isakki turned off the astrographic projection on his way out and threw on a backpack containing some personal belongings and grasped his rolling bag, which contained the clothing that he would wear during the colonization process.

Tekla and Isakki exited the corporate office in silence, with Isakki leading the way. Tekla shut the door quietly and locked the door before catching up with Isakki. The Kalavela was visible from the office's hallway windows that ran along its perimeter. The vessel was massive, larger than any Isakki had seen before despite having worked for Takkarnheim for more than half a decade.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Tekla asked as they waited for the elevator, breaking the silence. "The actions of so many individuals have come together to produce this day and yet here the two of us stand as the ones who will usher in a new future."

Isakki looked down at her and gave a smile, "Indeed it is." He reached into his pants pocket and out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Tekla before lighting his own. Tekla happily obliged, leaning in so that Isakki could light her cigarette. After placing the pack back into his pocket, the two entered the elevator.

Isakki let out a puff of smoke. He was equally eager, nervous, and proud. He glanced up and saw the Takkarnheim stock ticker and its price, reading: "TKH: 132.98 ^12.56 (+10.59%)." He returned his glance to the ornate floor, before recognizing in his peripheral vision that Tekla was looking up at him. Her eyes shined radiantly in the artificial light given by the elevator. The source highlighted her blonde hair as well as her slender figure. Isakki turned to meet her eyes as the elevator continued to go down and the two began to lean in towards one another. The closer the two came to one another, the more their eyes closed until they could see no more.

Then they heard the sound of the elevator's bell ding. They had reached the ground floor.

Tekla and Isakki both opened their eyes and shifted to face the door as it opened. The two walked through the lobby, where a few corporate officers lounged. The scent of cigarettes filled the room in a graceful manner. They continued silently, with the concierge looking up at them before glancing back down again. A few of the Takkarnheim employees, most of them financial workers, gave slight glances to the couple, not halting their conversations of investing and what this operation would do to Takkarnheim's competitors. A construction worker glanced up from reading the newspaper, still wearing a hardhat and standard work clothing and gave a smile and nod to the two. Isakki recognized the name on the construction worker's shirt- "Ihalaiyama." He couldn't seem to remember where he had heard the name before, for the source vanished from his mind as soon as he started looking.

The sliding doors opened as they exited, leading the pair onto the balcony that overlooked the ship.

"We'll be taking off soon," Tekla said, glancing down at her Smartphone to check the time.

"That we will," Isakki said, walking away from Tekla to lean forward on the balcony. A saddening, melancholic tone pervaded Isakki's voice as he looked over the balcony. The corporate marines were heading on board, no doubt the ones that would be in charge of securing the oilfields. They laughed as they talked amongst themselves. Isakki looked towards some of the construction workers who had finished constructing the Kalavela about a month ago and were conducting final safety tests. Everything had fallen into place.

"What are you thinking about?" Tekla asked, slowly approaching him.

"Home."

[Timsatta]

~---------------------------------~
[Canopy]

The morning’s dawn gave way to a gentle afternoon in the primeval, alien rainforests of Parkíkoútas 54. The early afternoon was, typically to the unremarkable deserted world, cool despite the near, red glow of the planets star, and the more distant, fiercer glare of its yellow twin. The planet was known to many interstellar powers, but had been considered fit for habitation by few of them; surveyors came and went, and (barring the odd party of xenobiologists) few stayed long. To the average colonist there was little attraction in the ubiquitous dark greys of the forest plants and the mucky black soils in the areas of the planet that could charitably be considered habitable. The methane and oxygen content of the atmosphere, whilst not high enough to make it completely hostile to human life, was easily enough to make the thick air uncomfortable. Most of the muddy soil in the habitable areas of the planet would simply ensnare and devour civilian ground vehicles, and the local flora and fauna, whilst not ubiquitously hostile, were almost ubiquitously hardy, whilst imported plants and animals struggled to thrive on PK-54.

To those looking for a place to call home in a large galaxy teeming with life, PK-54 was low on the list of brave new worlds to settle. The Tí̱msátta, of course, considered very few worlds home to begin with. PK-54 was out of sight, and out of mind for most of the galaxy, it was perfect for their occasional needs. Every few months the planet would suddenly see alien occupation, Tí̱msátta forces there to train in a hostile environment. The elite forces of one of the eldest, most capable mercenary forces of the human race. There only for a week or two, a month, they would leave with as little fanfare as they arrived, leaving the primitive world in much the same state of primordial stagnation that they had found it. Very occasionally however, there would be the exceptional group of Tí̱msátthan soldiers there for more than training.

Several weeks before the next batch of men were due for training, something alien stirred in the dark jungles of PK-54. Slowly, quietly, meticulously they moved, an unremarkable grey-black imperfection in a dark grey-black forest. The canopy shielded them from the red starlight above, which only penetrated the forest dimly. In a hostile world, the Kahroniápoll and his section stalked forwards. They were ignored by most of the wildlife, with even many of the local predators either having no interest in, or failing to even notice the strange new quarry. After the second hour on the ground, they were stalked by one of the amphibious menaces that slithered in the swampy mud, and they stalked it in kind. They left its corpse where they felled it; the local wildlife would be none the wiser to the plasma burn seared through its head, its once-moist skin dried and crisped in the heat of a blast that sent the avian creatures of the near-forest scattering. The Kahroniápoll and his men pressed on.

“We’re near.” the Kahroniápoll spoke at long last; “Once we’re at the station, I want the new equipment set up first. Once that’s done, we’ll have to wait for a while, estimate three, maybe four hours depending on how long it takes to get good information.” He paused, clambering over a thick, meaty vine that had grown over his planned path, it slithered vainly at his touch, but otherwise did not act upon it; “I trust we’ll be out by nightfall.”

As a distant predator shrieked and a distant prey brayed in terror, the section was again silent. Eventually, the soil gave way to something else. Manmade materials, metals and plastics, protruded from the soil, barely even noticeable from a distance but unmistakeably not of PK-54 upon inspection. The Tí̱msátta maintained many such stations on the worlds they used for training, and on many worlds beyond; a simple construct of only a few meters height, width and depth, but autonomously maintained and highly sophisticated. Off the beaten trail of the wider galaxy, these stations existed without most galactic citizens knowing about them, a few might be aware that they existed on the Tí̱msátthan religious trails amongst the stars. The tradeways and pilgrimages of the great Tí̱msátthan fleets were the knowledge of anyone who paid attention to that one human faction among many.

“Palías,” the leader spoke, setting his rifle on its rest at the back of his suit; “set that buoy up; the rest of you, establish a perimeter. I will be inside, inform me of any developments.”

With that, the black-clad figure stomped into the interior of the monitoring station. Pale lights flickered to life, fans stirred to life, throwing the odd speck of dust into the air. What had been for months a silent and still station was suddenly in motion, only the automated defences remained quiet, as they had been given the order to remain silent the moment the Kahroniápolls’ ship had made orbit. The squelching of the swampy mud gave way to the firm clanking of armoured boots upon metal, each step loud and powerful above the general background noise of the monitoring station as it came to life.
“Buoy operational, Dásí̱ta.” Palías radioed; fresh, processed atmosphere had filled the monitoring station, and the Kahroniápoll unburdened himself of his helmet; “Good work, bring the wire link through to me, and then join the others on the perimeter.” Tylaís Dýnogós replied; resting his helmet on an impeccably sterile, ancient work desk. The Kahroniápoll sat and sighed wearily. A series of screens and consoles came to life at his presence, and the armoured form of Palías trailed a communications wire into the room, interfacing it with some of the equipment already present.

“Mepís Pró̱i̱as dedicated his final days to surveying the planets in this trail,” Tylaís murmured, not expecting Palías to reply; “…He was on to something.” Palías then butted in, Tylaís was reminded of his own past youthfulness by the younger soldiers tone.

“He could still be out there Dásí̱ta. I understand in your line of work it sometimes serve to be quiet.”

The young man had been conscripted from the Kálenkeí Flotortétaíki̱, as part of the crew and ship that Tylaís had requisitioned to allow him to more effectively carry out his pálatí̱mir. His requisition notice had contained an abundance of the traditional rhetoric; ‘To allow for the pursuit of greater successes in our honoured mission, gifted unto us by the Kósmi̱tikó that we might return to our people those properties and monuments lost to the trail of he, Mánadóxos, who brought and grants glory…’ Tylaís was not the first to requisition a ship for that particular quest. The Kósmi̱tikó had, given the rote nature of the request, been kind to him; the Agótí̱m was a capable corvette, and its crew were both experienced and happy to serve on pálatí̱mir.

“It’s not in our nature to go completely quiet, especially not on missions like this. Pró̱i̱as is dead.” Tylaís couldn’t see Palías’ face beneath the Kálenkeí boys’ helmet, but he assumed that the full weight of what pálatí̱mir meant to the Kahroniátheí was finally sinking in. “Still, he was getting somewhere. A friend of mine talked to him last year and he seemed optimistic. We’d been over the various worlds on the trail before, and most of the systems surrounding the trail. My people have been searching for a very, very long time, and suddenly one of our oldest calls in and he sounds like he’s found something, then he goes missing and all we have to go by are his ships navigation logs. Mepís Pró̱i̱as had found something.” Tylaís leered over the screens in front of him.

“Let’s find out what.”

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The Agótí̱m hung lonely, a sleek, venomous green arrowhead slowly orbiting the sickly, ruby world beneath it. The hallways that wound like a snakes burrow throughout the tiny ship were largely devoid of life and, asides from those actively tending to their assigned duties, the crew were either asleep or in the shared recreational area. Very occasionally, the silence of the corridors would be broken by booming laughter from the communal area as a handful of idle crewmembers nattered. Eídménas Dóniás made his presence heard in most places he held conversation in. A veritable beast of a man at nearly seven feet, he towered over most of his peers, and had to stoop to get through some of the tighter access points on the ship. Even sitting down Dóniás maintained a powerful presence in the room.

“Anyway, you know the rest; I got reassigned here just before the requisition order came in.” Dóniás wound down a lengthy anecdote, breathing out a final giggle at one of the details in his story. The youngest man in the room, Eno̱mesmeni, seemed more flushed than usual, apparently he wasn’t overly thankful to hear of the effects of a failed parachute deployment. All the men on the ship had, in some shape or form seen combat, though their newest comrade seemed to be the least bothered by the experiences of the Kálenkeí on campaign.

“Aye.” Mánreás rasped. The wizened engineer had been part of the ship almost from the moment it left the construction yard, for better or ill the crew had learned to let him speak, although this time he didn’t seem inclined to offer any particularly interesting or amusing words. With as little fanfare as he had spoken up, he tiredly leaned back, some joint in him audibly cracking. The lights flickered a little, and the crew took on an awkward silence as the communal area became rather less communal than usual. A bulkhead somewhere creaked. Mánreás frowned.

“This thing as noisy when you got it?” Eno̱mesmeni mused, the raise of his eyebrow seemingly dragging his view over to Mánreás, who simply grunted frankly, and rose to his feet, prowling out of the communal area to inspect some distant part of the ship. As the sight of the back of the elders bald head disappeared, Dóniás waited for the engineer to be safely out of earshot.

“What’s his story?”

Sequentially, most of the men in the room shrugged, Eno̱mesmeni shook his head.

“Honestly? We’re not even sure, he was here before the rest of us. I think he’s just slowing down in his old age, and getting grumpier, I think he thinks it makes him seem more concise or wiser or something.” He looked over his shoulder towards the door; “He’s the best engineer we have though, and if he’s talking seriously he’s usually right about something.”

“If?” Dóniás smirked.

“You’d be surprised.” Ti̱rfomán pitched in. He lay lengthwise along one of the long, padded seats at the side of the room, an information tablet in hand, he lowered it so that the others could see more than the peak of his short, fuzzy hair. “There’s a system to him predicting things, you’ve just got to keep things simple. If it sounds like his legs are cracking when he moves around in the morning, it’s going to be a nice, orderly, quiet day. You’re going to have a bad day if his neck is giving him trouble though.”

As the gunner buried himself in his reading again, Dóniás waited, baffled, for some kind of explanation. A quick glance over the edges of the pad, and Ti̱rfomán realized he needed to elaborate a little; “I’ve had the bunk next to his for two years, you start noticing these stupid correlations after one too many bad mornings.”

“Didn’t realize this ship had seen that much combat,” Dóniás murmured, before speaking up slightly; “I knew you were all on the campaign out at Toras, but,”

“Eh, I’d imagine we got taken in to help the Kahroniátheí because of that, the combat experience I mean; we were long due for rotation away from frontline combat duties, and this ought to be an easy job.” Eno̱mesmeni suggested; “Especially after that third-last month at Toras,”

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“…further, I am convinced that the Dóxosapátas has travelled much, much further beyond our, uh,”

Not for the first time in what was turning out to be an extremely long record, the voice of Pró̱i̱as stumbled. The elderly Kahroniápoll had never been a personal acquaintance of Tylaís, but his own mentor had spoken highly of the man. Litáko Sýmí̱r had taken to his more advanced years as gracefully as a bird in flight, when he paused, he seemed contemplative, and when he was slow he seemed to be biding time to a moment of decisiveness. To Tylaís, Pró̱i̱as sounded increasingly like a confused old man, barely capable of finding his lost wits, never mind a lost holy site. Unburdened by his armour, and benefitting from the luxury of his work for the evening consisting of reviewing the great many audio logs recovered from the record Pró̱i̱as had left on PK-54, Tylaís lay in his bunk, meditatively listening to the ramblings of a dead man.

“…uh…initially estimated area. I am convinced that we’ve simply been looking in all the wrong places, assuming that the ship either went adrift at sublight speeds, or, or,”

“Sir?” A second voice, and one that Tylaís did not recognize. In the two-odd hours he had been listening, Pró̱i̱as had been talking alone.

“Oh?” Pró̱i̱as again; “Oh, yes, of course. We are to depart as soon as you and the ship are ready, the coordinates,”

“Yes.” the second speaker interjected; “Coralia. Sir, if I might, isn’t that far off the course you originally detailed?” The accent of the speaker was unlike any dialectic accent of the Tí̱msátta that Tylaís had ever heard, and in his time working for the Kósmi̱tikó he had heard a great many voices spoken by peoples whose kind could be found almost wherever the light of the stars fell.

“It is. The operational area of my mission has been expanded in light of recent, uh…findings; I trust you can get me there?”

“We can.”

“Good.” For the first time, Pró̱i̱as sounded snappy, decisive. He had almost spat his approval. Tylaís heard a gentle clunk, and after a few seconds, Pró̱i̱as concluded; “…This entry will be cut short. I will detail what I believe effects the Dóxosapátas’s nonstandard configuration may have had on its path in a future entry. Sorry.” Tylaís had long since gotten used to the aged Kahroniápoll apologising to his future self for his various trivial failings in record keeping. Tylaís rewound the log.

“…initially estimated…” forward; “…to depart…” forward; “…lia…” and back; “…Coralia,”

The name of what Tylaís assumed to be a planet was unfamiliar to him. Adjusting his earpieces, Tylaís flopped over onto his side with all the grace of a drunk walrus, and began to parse through navigational logs on his datapad. After weeks of searching aimlessly along ground already covered, he finally had a name; somewhere else to look.

“What were you up to, Dásí̱ta?”